My Lady Tells 'Em Orf. (1921)

From the February 1921 issue of the Socialist Standard

Ingratitude is a most despairing fault. Whenever or wherever it rears its ugly form combat must inevitably be given by those among us of culture, tone, and gentility. Small wonder then, that my good Lady Bathurst should feel so distressed at the alarming evidences of working-class ingratitude around her. So disturbed is she in her contemplation of the dire effects of their ungrateful attitude that the kindly lady has spared a few of her precious moments to rebuke them, gently but firmly, in a letter to the Press.

Let us hope that their ingratitude is not so hopelessly ingrained that they will not feel at least a tinge of gratefulness for the solicitude so potently portrayed in this generous admonition. Hear her !

  Nowhere in the world was so much done for the working class as in England. Privileges and gifts were showered upon them by the Government, by local authorities, and private individuals. Clubs and halls, hospitals and libraries, were maintained for them, but she had noticed of late years these things were accepted as a matter of course ; they were not in the least grateful."—("Daily News," 15.1.21.)

The charm of this rebuke lies in its restraint. Who could have been surprised if her ladyship had adopted a tone more curt? Even violence of expression the circumstances would warrant. Her ladyship's late lamented friend Lord Fisher would doubtless have done greater justice to the theme. It is quite possible the time given to penning this kindly warning to the workers might have encroached on a visit to the opera, or perchance have delayed her in allowing her maid to dress her for a ball. Surely the reasonableness and charity of my lady cannot be lost on those workers she has had to chide, and the spirit of her homily will not go unheeded. Let those workers see to it that in future no such cause for complaint is left to agitate this generous lady. Remember, she and her class never show ingratitude toward you, the workers. True, they never show gratitude either, but where's the need ? You plough their land for them ; you till the soil ; you burrow your way into the bowels of the earth and bring to them minerals for their use and wealth for their aggrandisement. You sweat yourselves and stint yourselves in your mad haste to procure and fashion all that makes their lives an orgy of enjoyment. You starve your minds and bodies and your children's minds and bodies, so that they and theirs may have pleasure and leisure. You shed your blood, you mangle your limbs, you surrender to the tortures of the factory hell your progeny in their service. And yet they need not show you gratitude ! They need not even show you decency.

On, on, fellow workers, will you go in your hopelessness, and idle parasites will lecture you in their mocking tones until— —. Until you learn the simplicity of your emancipation ; until you see the hope that lies in your dormant mighty strength, and, rousing yourselves, you sweep away for ever the subjection of your class. In the consummation of your mission you will have rid your contemporaries of the pest of indolent ladies and their patronising insolence will have been forgotten.

W. H. S.

A Renewed Acquaintanceship. (1915)

From the September 1915 issue of the Socialist Standard

With the cessation of our propaganda meetings the time hitherto spent in that direction may be spent in various ways. Our internal affairs, our Party press, and our "relations" with our comrades in distant climes are sufficient to absorb most of the meagre leisure-time allowed us by our exploiters; but the absense of the stress and hustle of our out-door work presents an occasional opportunity for us to "rest on our oars." If not one of the most instructive, at least one of the most amusing ways of employing ourselves on these occasions is to reflect for a few moments on the types of opponents who have essayed battle with us from time to time.

Our opponents have been, like the younger Mr. Weller's knowledge of London was, extensive and peculiar. We have had the obvious axe-grinding party hack, the honest seeker after truth, the hopeless ignoramus, the mealy-mouthed, unctuous Little Bethelite, the blustering, bucolic Tory blood, and a whole horde of others. All had their interesting points, but there was one individual among them who impressed himself upon the present writer above all others.

He was a short, sparsely built man; his eyes were sad and sombre; he spoke deferentially and at times nervously. The sufferings of the working class he told us, he knew were terrible. Something ought to be done, he thought, to alleviate their lot. He always assured us of his deep sorrow and sympathy, but he used almost to shrivel up with horror at our remedy. How shocking that we should try to stir up strife between the workers and the masters! Could we not see that our revolutionary doctrines would lead to bloodshed? His little sad eyes would partially close and his fragile frame shudder at the thought.

One could hardly help feeling sorry for this poor fellow. He seemed to be continually brooding over the matter. The possibility of bloodshed seemed to obsess him, and at times his wan appearance bespoke hours of anguish and distress. He surely would worry himself into his grave.

In view of the present happenings it is hardly to be wondered at that one's thoughts should wander off to that poor fellow. With millions of the world's manhood flying at one another's throats, Nature's beauteous plains and dells strewn with the dead and dying bodies of our brothers; with nooks and hillocks, the very charm of which beckons us, used to secrete instruments of death and destruction; with the accumulated knowledge of ages of science surrendered to Mars to perfect his method of murder, who could help feeling genuinely sorry for him? One wondered where he would be hiding himself, that is, if he had survived the shock.

*    *    *

I passed a recruiting station to-day. A voice with a suspicion of familiarity reached my ears and I glanced at the speaker. There he was, our hater of bloodshed, appealing for recruits. His eyes, open wider than ever seemed possible before, were almost bright. One missed his listless carriage; his tone was no longer deferential it could be very nearly be described as defiant. And this is what he said: "I wish I was young enough to take my place in the firing line and help to exterminate those filthy Huns." Blimey! It was a funny experience for me.

W. H. S.