“Aw think yo’ exaggerate, George,” I said. “A little saving o’ manual labour here an’ there’s one thing, th’ displacement o’ human agency altogether’s what yo’ prophesy.”
“Aw’ve no patience wi’ thee, Ben. Tha’ cannot see farther nor thi own nose end. Aw tell yo unless the toilers of England rise and strike for their rights, there’ll soon be neither rights nor toilers. Aw’ve looked into this thing further nor you, an’ aw can see th’ signs o’ th’ times. Th’ tendency’s all one way. There’ll soon be no room for poor men in this country. Its part of a system aw tell yo’. There’s a conspiracy on foot to improve and improve till th’ working man that has nowt but his hands and his craft to feed him and his childer, will be improved off th’ face o’ creation. Aw’ve been reading aw tell you, an’ aw’ve been listening an’ aw’ve been seeing, an’ aw’ve been thinking; an’ what aw’ve read an’ what aw’ve seen has burned into my soul. The natural rights of man are not thowt of in this country, th’ unnatural rights o’ property ha’ swallowed ’em up. It’s all property, property.”
“Nay, George, yo’re riding yo’r high horse again,” I said; but I couldn’t help admiring him, for he spoke well, and his face was all lit up with the glow of intellect and passion.
“It’s God’s truth aw’m speaking, Ben, and pity o’t it ‘tis true, as th’ player says. What is it keeps folk so poor? Bad trade. What is it keeps trade so bad? Th’ wars. Allus wars. For twenty years it’s been war and war to it. What are we fighting for, I ask you?”
“To keep Boney out o’ England,” I said very promptly.
“Nowt o’ th’ sort, Ben—that’s a bogey to frighten babbie’s wi’—Boney axed nowt better nor to be friends wi’ England. Th’ French ha’ more sense nor us. They saw all th’ good things o’ this life were grasped by th’ nobles an’ th’ priests. They saw it were better to be born a beast of the field than a man child. They saw that the people made wealth by their toil; and the seigneurs, that’s lords, and the church enjoyed the wealth they made, only leaving them bare enough to keep body and soul together. Aye, they’re careful enough not to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. That is, sometimes. Time’s they over do it. But a trodden worm will turn, an’ they turned in France. They sent their proud lords and ladies packing.
“To the guillotine,” I interposed.
“Packing, I say, and the fat parsons, faithless shepherds of an abandoned flock, packing with them. Then the people begin to put things to rights.”
“And a pretty mess they made of it,” I put in.
“But all the kings and, emperors in Europe, an’ all th’ landlords an’ all that had got rich by robbery, an’ all th’ bishops and clergy, little an’ big, hangers on o’ th’ aristocrats to a man, took alarm. They thowt their turn would come next, an’ they raised the cry of England in danger. It wasn’t the people of England that wer’ fleyed. Not they. They knew well enough nowt could make them waur off nor they were. Th’ war were a put up job of th’ king and th’ nobles and th’ squires. And who profited by it? The noble and the squire an’ the sleek parson with his tithes. What has made corn as far beyond the poor man’s reach as though a grain of wheat were a ruby or a pearl? The wars, always the wars. And the people, the thousands upon thousands of men and women who have no part nor parcel in this war, save to send their children to die on a gory bed, what voice or what part have they in all this? The part and the part of sheep driven to the slaughter”—