*THE
WORKER*
Brisbane,
February 9, 1895.
Lucinda
Sharpe on the Other Fellow.
Of
course, the squatter as a squatter is selfishness solid, shaken down
as though there was a tax on measure and not on weight. He can't well
be anything else much, seeing that as a squatter he wouldn't give the
flip of a whip for anything that doesn't help him to an easier time
and more cash. He gets as much as he can out of his fellow man, the
shearer, just as he gets as much as he can out of his fellow man, the
wool-buyer, and he wouldn't have much place in this three-star
civilisation of ours if he didn't. In all of which, don't you know,
he is such a distinctly different kind of man from the noble shearer
and rouseabout, that is from we'uns, for we are all the salt of the
earth with all the savour right there in it. We wouldn't be
squatters, if we had a chance, would we now? Honestly, would we be
squatters if we could any individual one of us? And what sort of
squatters would we make if we were?
*
* *
It
has often slid into my mind, passing by the Queen's Statue when an
enthusiastic unemployed agitation was in full swing and when the
via's of righteous wrath are being emptied out on
“Proputty-proputty-proputty.” that it would be uncommonly
interesting to have a few millions to try a little experiment.
Suppose – for it doesn’t cost a copper to suppose anything that
doesn't refer to the Queen and the rest of the royal family! - that
one could hire Jimmy Tyson or Sydney Burdekin or Monte Christo or any
other sufficiently creditable personage, for if the party to the
front wasn't reported to be wallowing in filthy lucre the little
experiment would likely result like the famous offering of sovereigns
for farthings on London Bridge, to stand up and announce in an
auctioneer voice that anybody who felt at all inclined could get a
few hundred thousand on the solitary condition that that he spent it
as the wicked rich man does. Dear WORKER, you should be experienced
in the possibilities of the enthusiastic reformer – how many do you
think would take such an offer or rather how many do you think would
refuse? Would there be as many righteous ones as didn't happen to be
about to give Sodom another chance? If not, what on earth are we all
calling the squatter names for? Seems to me he's only doing what we'd
do if we got a good square chance. Doesn't it now?
*
* *
If
you will promise not to turn State's evidence and bring my out-door
life to a full stop, I will confide in you that I don't get very
indignant when I hear of a shed going up in smoke. I can't even admit
that I look upon the scattering of dynamite as the unpardonable sin
when I'm safely roading about it somewhere else and not near when it
goes off. But, oh, if it doesn't make me indignant to hear of, it
does make me a bit sad to think of. For what need can there be to cut
our own throats in this way unless it is that we are altogether
hopeless and feel like the starving widow who smothered her five
children and then went after after them Physical dynamiting is a
little thing to be indignant about when the whole civilised world is
morally blowing itself to little tiny bits. And how can one get
indignant at the smoke of a shearing shed when every shearing shed in
Australia couldn't produce as much smoke as that which steams up to
heaven every day from the human holocaust of this single city of
Sydney. Only when we think of it, dear WORKER, what good does it do?
Perhaps it may help win a skirmish but, indeed, we ourselves lose for
ourselves the campaign. Most of us want to be “rich” and so the
sin of riches presses on the well-fed fellow sinner who shrugs his
shoulders at Socialism over sparking champagne.
*
* *
I
mind going by train one time and the train put up overnight at a
wayside station for all the world like a stage coach, because you
see, a shearers' strike was on and there was a dim, misty kind of
notion floating about in the railway brains. I suppose corporations
even when governmental have some brains, though they haven't got
either bodies or souls that in such exciting times railway trains
were something like fashionable damsels, and shouldn't be out alone
after dark. Well, we put up for the night, and, of course, we went to
the hotel for supper, and at the table there was quite a discussion
about the noble shearer and his chivalrous ways. Leastway, it would
have been a discussion only they all agreed so well quite
remarkably, and they didn't call him “noble” although they spoke
feelingly enough to tempt one to think that the language would have
been plain had womenfolk not been about. And when I say “womenfolk,”
of course I don't mean the hotel women, for my impression is and I'm
very sorry and truly apologies if I'm out, that neither squatter nor
shearer consider it necessary to be delicate in their English when
it's only the waitress or the barmaid who's about. I mean women who
were paying for their meal and had the appearance of being used to
seeing “gentlemen” with their Sunday manners on.
*
* *
“It's
a pity we can't hang the scoundrels,” said one.
“If
the Government only did it's duty Jack Ketch would have something to
do,” said another, cordially.
“But
the Government is afraid, my dear sir: it's simply terrorised by
these lazy agitators, who do nothing but live on the game and rob
hard-working men of their earnings,” commented a third.
“That's
it,” said a fourth, “most of these unionists are compelled –
absolutely compelled – to join these strikes. They want to work,
but these unprincipled scoundrels won't let them.” And so it went
on. “Scoundrels,” “villains,” “thieves,” “loafers,”
and such words were flying about as thick as mud. One well –
dressed individual remarked, with tears in his voice, that the
pastoral industry was being ruined and that unless these unions were
put down he didn't know what the country would come to.
“Are
these strikers as bad as that!” I felt obliged to ask him,
disregarding the strict rules of etiquette in the excitement of the
occasion.
“My
dear madam,” he replied, quite gratefully, for every possessor of a
notion likes to meet a new chum and make a convert. “My dear madam,
they are simply atrocious.”
“You
know, a good many, I suppose,” I asked confidentially.
“Know
them,” he said, “to my cost I know too many of the villains.”
“Then
please,” I murmured, “please be so kind as to tell me how they
look, because I am a stranger in the bush and I'd like to keep out of
harm's way.”
“How
they look?” Repeated the squatter, with a mystified wrinkle of his
forehead.
“How
they look? I really don't understand.”
“Oh,
you know,” I said.” “A man who drinks has a red nose and watery
eyes, and a man who steals has a wandering look about the eyes and is
always peeping over his shoulder to see that a policeman isn't round,
and another sort of bad man has thick lips and a kind of leer that
makes one want to take a horsewhip to him. You know what I mean! If
the unionist man is such a scoundrel he must have a scoundrelly look,
and I'd like to know it when I see it so that I can keep on the other
side of the street and send for a policeman if he knocks at the
door.”
“Really
– ah – I – I – that is-” stammered my friend the squatter,
who didn't know what to say. But a rather good - looking young man,
on the other side of the table, who hadn't had much to say, began to
laugh, and interrupted; “Don't say a word more, Smith. It is a
little joke. You'll be committing us all in another minute. Pardon
me, “he went on, turning to me, smiling, “but you are on the
other side?”
“which
other side?” I asked, laughing a little myself, for it was rather
funny to be found out so suddenly in that way.
“The
unionist, of course,” he answered. “In these Socialistic days we
are all more or less sentimental” - magnificently ignoring the rest
of the company with his “all” - “ and I was a Fabian myself not
so long ago. But when one comes to see practical life one is forced
to alter one's theories considerably, I assure you.”
“I,
too,” I said.
“You,
too.” he repeated, puzzled. “I beg your pardon, but from what I
heard you say I should think you held Fabian theories yet.”
“I
don't know about Fabian theories,” I answered. “But if it is
holding Fabian theories to hope that the unions will win I think I
must have the complaint badly.”
You
should have seen the squatters look. It was quite cheering to be able
to shake the red rag in the very middle of the pasture, and besides I
couldn't quite forget the “scoundrel” part, although it was silly
to think of it. For after all, dear WORKER, calling names doesn't
count on either side. My young man stirred up his cup and returned to
the charge nobly, for the eyes of his caste were upon him.
“But
you have no conception of the real position of affairs, nor of the
methods of the unions in this country,” he protested courteously.
“No?”
I queried. “How's that?”
“Because
nobody can who simply sees it from the outside. The sole object of
the union is to obtain everything by any possible or impossible
means.”
“Well,
of course,” I remarked, “surely when you were a Fabian you didn't
imagine there was any other object.” At which some of the other
chuckled and my young man blushed a little, because, you see, though
men don't often seem to get ashamed of the sins of their youth they
soon learn to be surprisingly bashful about the virtues.
“But
the squatter must live,” he replied, for he was a manly young
fellow and answered what I meant, ignoring the jar I gave him in a
way that made me feel not quite comfortable. “Of course,” I
admitted, repentantly.
“Only,
you see, others want to live as well. I don't want to have a debate,
only you began it. And it seems to me to call names is a foolish
thing and should be left to us women, you know, who don't know
anything much about anything. I know some squatters and some shearers
and some of the shearers are good men and some are bad, as bad as
they make them, and so are the squatters. But as far as unionism goes
it's good, and I hope my boy when he becomes a man will be as good a
unionist as his father.”
“But
what can we do ?” he demanded, evidently puzzled still more. It is
strange how getting out of the every day rut of things does upset
people's mental balance for the moment. “Are we going to act like
Christians or to burn each other like heathens?”
He'd
put his foot in, and I was bound to leave on the spot.
“I
have known enough Christians to say how they'd act,” I remarked,
setting up.
But
I read a little story once of a young squatter who'd been a Fabian
probably and didn't see how it would work out, and he went off to
consult a carpenter man who was supposed to know all about it, though
a great many said he was an idle agitator, and finally the police did
get hold of him. The young squatter asked what was the Christian way
to act, and the carpenter seemed to think it very simple. You may
have read the story so I won't bother you with the rest. Only I don't
think that particular squatter would have had much occasion to be
afraid of his shed getting burnt or his sheep mixed up if he had
taken the carpenter's advice.”
He
didn't speak but looked grave. The other who could hear sat silent
too. It is another very funny thing that it is highly respectable to
look as solemn as an owl at biblical quotations, even if you don't
care a rap for the moral.
“But
then, “I added, as I turned to march off, “the carpenter would
probably have altered his opinion if he'd had any practical
experience. We'll go on acting like Christians and not take any
notice of his foolish fancies.”
*
* *
That's
it, isn't it? I'm going on with the subject and not with the story
now, please to remember. They talk “Christian,” when it suits,
but when it comes to the genuine article up goes the cross, every
time. But us! Oh, you know, we're different. We're the salt of the
earth, as I remarked before.
*
* *
Only,
dear WORKER between ourselves, talking in real earnest and not
scratching each other's backs to prove to each other how really three
star we are, what do you think? Are we so very different? What
percentage would refuse the little offer I was supporting? And those
who wouldn't refuse! Where does the difference between them and the
squatter come in?
It's
all very well for us to call the squatter, and the shipowner, and the
bank shareholder, and all the rest of the “capitalists” hard
names; but what about the shearer and the stoker and bank clerk, the
overworked and underpaid and too utterly put upon “slaves,” as we
say, who would be just the same if they only had the chance to slip
into the green pastures of the elect? We may call names till our back
hair comes out. We can do that as well as the other fellows, and
often do if I know anything about the weary world. But calling names
is just like barking at the moon, and I never saw a dog get fat on
that yet, and I'm considerably over my teens.
*
* *
Naturally,
that we're not up to vary much doesn't make the other fellow any
better, but I'm pretty sure that it makes things what they are. It's
a selfish and a shameful thing that one set of men should
glutton
and guzzle while millions of their fellow creatures are poking about
for a crust and going naked and hungry besides the heaps of clothes
and mountains of tucker that their hard work made. But isn't it even
more selfish and shameful that those who've had practical experience
in hard upedness should be ready to rush a chance to glutton and
guzzle on their own account? Things as they are are so abominable
that one shivers sometimes at the very thought of the “system” in
which men and women and little children are being boiled down like
worthless cattle for any poor scrap of fat there may happen to be on
their bones. But what is it keeps the boiling down? Isn't it the
hateful selfishness and cowardice in everyone, the beast like desire
to get better off no matter at whose expense? Unionism is a holy
thing to me, a sacred thing, a cause to die for if need be, just
because it sets itself somewhat against this horrible desire, and
because the real good unionist cares as much on some lines for his
mates as he does for himself. But how far does unionism go, do you
think? How far can it go so long as it doesn't go the whole way?
*
* *
He
that hath looked upon riches to lust after it hath already committed
the sin of riches in heart. That is the teaching of the Carpenter.
And if we only envy the squatter and the shipowner and all the other
owners and are willing to step straight into their shoes and have “a
good time” in them, well – we are scabs at heart, and scabs of
the heaviest sort. And things will never be better while we're of
that way of thinking. They can't be better. We must get ahead of
ourselves or we may make up our minds to come down flop. There are
some who will say we are down about as flop as we can go, but you can
take it from me that as long as there's life there's a worse flop
possible for anybody who is looking for it. And we have still life
left, you know, a property of more value than the biggest cheque ever
yet cashed in a breaking bank, though some don't seem to set much
store on it, and if we fool it away in calling other people names,
and in trying to persuade ourselves that we're clean potatoes chucked
out for the goats to pick up what can we expect? If you can stand so
much sermonising I'll have a word to say some other time about the
sin of riches. Meantime, I'll ask you not to be offended at this
column or so of plain speaking from your old friend.
LUCINDA SHARPE.
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