He said: “I have just stood by the coffin of our departed fellow-worker; and I have been permitted by his widow to express to you a thought that came to me while looking on his dead face. As he lies there to-day, so any one of you may lie to-morrow, crushed and killed by the power of capitalism and the tyranny of the courts. But, you know, in the eyes of the capitalist, toil is nothing if it is you who toil, suffering is nothing if it is you who suffer, death is nothing if it is you who die. Why should the workingman have only toil and suffering and death, while his employers may treat themselves to all the soft comforts and luxuries that money can buy, and burden their women with silks and laces and jewels beyond price? It’s wrong, my friends. How many diamonds did John Bradley’s wife ever have? How many silks? How many jewelled ornaments? Was she not as much entitled to them, let me ask you, as the pampered wives of millionaires? Would not her beauty set them off as well? Has not she, by her woman’s work, earned them a thousand times more than have the idle daughters of the rich? Did not John Bradley do his share of the world’s work as well and faithfully as any plutocrat that ever breathed? and was he not therefore entitled to a just reward for his labor—a fair share of the profits of the world’s business? And what did he receive? I’ll tell you what. He received the right to work nine hours a day at paltry wages, in order that his capitalist employer might roll in wealth. He received, before he had reached his prime, a crushed body and a darkened mind. Those responsible for his awful injuries refused him just compensation, and his faithful wife had the privilege of hearing the honorable court declare that the law provides no recompense for the poor. My friends, John Bradley lies there to-day, the victim of capitalist greed. Look on his dead face and ask yourselves how long you, who have the power to change this brutal system of exploitation of the toiler, will suffer yourselves to remain the passive instruments of your own undoing.”
He paused, flung back a lock of his dark hair, and then, like a true Marc Antony, with deprecatory gesture and pleading tone he went on: “Pardon me, my friends! I did not intend, in this solemn hour, to rouse your passions or stir up hatred for your masters. But the contemplation of such a crime as has been committed here leads me into speech that, however unwise it may be, is the true expression of the feeling of my heart. I have but one word more to say. You have observed that there is no religious service here to-day. This is as it should be. It is not fitting that the body of our dead comrade should be committed to the earth under the forms and auspices of a Church controlled by capitalism and made pompous by wealth. Do not misunderstand me. With true piety I have no quarrel. Worship God if you want to; but not the God set up by the plutocrat in his costly temple into which the proletariat may hardly dare to set their feet. I tell you that when this social house of cards that the money kings have built up shall topple—as it will—to its fall, their soulless, bloodless, godless Church will join it in the wreck. That is all, my friends. I beg you to hold these things in your hearts as you fight for liberty, and some glorious morning you shall wake up free.”
With the plaudits of his hearers ringing in his ears, he stepped back into the room where Mary Bradley sat.
“I heard you,” she exclaimed, “and it was well said. I wish I could have said it myself.”
Her commendation was sweeter to him than the crowd’s applause.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he replied. “I had a chance to stir those fellows up, and I took it. I know John would have been willing, and I’m sure you were.”
“I’m willing to have anything done that will tend to bring this capitalistic crowd to their knees.”
“Good! And what are you willing to do yourself?”
“Anything that I can.”