Their very existence as they are, plainly declares that there is a fault somewhere by somebody.
This poverty plead for itself. It reminded me of the story of a beggar sitting silently by the wayside. A passer-by asked, “Why don’t you beg, man? Why don’t you speak?” “Speak!” said the beggar, “when every rent in my clothes is a mouth that proclaims my wants with more eloquence than I could with my tongue!”
Going from Vanity Fair to this crowd, was like going from heaven to hell, only a short distance apart; the one a picture of the arrogance of the rich, the other the debasement of the poor. I do not like to compare the church parade to heaven, as it was only a show, a mock heaven at best, but there was no hunger there, nor rags, though, no doubt, plenty of lust, vice and crime under those rich clothes. Yet the outward contrast was very great.
Should it not be a subject of serious reflection that after six thousand years of the world’s progress, and nearly two thousand of the teachings of Christianity, a few people in the world should live in exuberant luxury, and the great majority in squalid poverty, the world a hell for millions of poor, in order to create a paradise for the very few rich?
“Famine gnawing at their entrails, and despair feeding at their hearts,
Gropes for its right with horny, callous hands,
And stares around for God with bloodshot eyes.”
“Let us be patient, lads,” said a pious weaver, “surely God Almighty will help us soon.”
“Don’t talk about your goddlemighty,” said one, “there isn’t any, or he wouldn’t let us suffer as we do.”
Why all this poverty and misery? There must be an adequate cause for it, some powerful disorganizing element to produce such a condition of things.