*THE
WORKER*
Brisbane,
February 16, 1895.
Interview
with the Hon. A. H. Barlow.
A
Dream.
The
WORKER man, as a WORKER man, would have absolutely no chance of
interviewing Andrew.
“Charity”
Barlow has an intense hatred of this paper, which readers will
recollect he once referred to in the following terms; “The WORKER!
Lord save us! The WORKER! - a lying scandalous print!” But as a
public man the great parliamentary bore and Chinese weapon of warfare
(who until Dalrymple sat upon him talked more and said less than any
other in Parliament) had to be caricatured in some fashion, so the
WORKER scribe walked into a chemist's shop, purchased a sleeping
draught which he swallowed, and then laid himself down on a grassy
slope in the Brisbane Botanic Gardens, where, unmolested by the
keepers, he dreamed the following nightmare.
__________
Arraying
himself in a black walking coat, stand up collar, white tie, and
other garb, one of the WORKER staff introduced himself at Mr.
Barlow's palatial residence, Ipswich, as a reporter engaged on the
Christian Messenger, anxious
to have a quiet chat with the Minister for Lands.
Door was never thrown open quicker than that of Mr.
Barlow's private study when the introduction had been made. Mr.
Barlow was most anxious to at all times receive a representative of a
newspaper doing “the good work” so ably and earnestly. “Come
in, P-l-e-a-s-e!” said Andrew, with the modulation of one
accustomed to taking up collections.
* * *
Passing
right into Mr. Barlow's study the scribe was astonished to observe a
stack of Bibles in one corner and a heap tracts in another. Stowed
away under a writing desk were the Congregational hymn-book, the
Wesleyan ditto, the Presbyterian ditto, the Baptist ditto, the
Salvation Army ditto, and several prayer books belonging to these and
other denominations. A quantity of parliamentary records, volumes of
Hansard, &c., also
ornamented the apartment.
Wishing to get to business right away the reporter said,
“I ----”
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Barlow, “ before you say any
more I should be glad if you would allow me to open these proceedings
with prayer.”
It's a long time since the scribe said his prayers, but
observing the Bibles and worn appearance of the knees of Mr. Barlow's
breeches, he meekly submitted while Mr. Barlow held forth for 20
minutes.
Barlow then noticing the scribe's nodding head and
sleepy look desisted.
* * *
“Well, now, what can I do for you?” asked Barlow,
graciously.
“This. You have observed two interviews – one with
Mr. Tozer and the other with Mr. Byrnes – in the WORKER -------”
“Stop! Stop! I implore you to stop!” called, or
rather shrieked, the Minister for Lands, his iron gray hair standing
like bristles and his eyes starting out of their sockets. “ Don't
disgrace my sacred study by the mere mention of that wretched,
miserable, scurrilous newspaper. Stop! I say! Not another word.”
waiting until the irate and hysterical gentleman had
somewhat calmed down, the reporter said:
“I'm very sorry, Mr. Barlow. If allowed to continue, I
intended to say that we thought it necessary in the interests of one
who is so well and favourably known as yourself that you should have
an opportunity of replying through the Christian Messenger to
the unkind remarks of both Mr. Tozer and Mr. Byrnes who said you were
a humbug.”
“ Whatever those two ridiculous upstarts chose to say
about Andrew Henry Barlow does not concern me,” said the Minister
for Lands. “I am what I am, and I thank God that I am not like
either of those two.” “I am sure we all hold you in high esteem,”
ventured the scribe.
* * *
“Have I not worked my way up from the lowest rung of
the ladder? Was I not the humblest and the meekest boy at school? Did
I ever tell a lie? Did I ever rob an orchard? Have I not been a
member of every church in Ipswich? Have I not been always thrifty and
saving? Have I not, even when in receipt of a good salary as bank
manager, in my spare moments made saddles and bridles and sold them
at a good price? Have I not even patched my own boots in my leisure
hours?
“Don't talk to me, sir, of Tozer and Byrnes. Let them
work and slave and economise and save as I have done; then they will
have the right to express an opinion on one who has lived the life I
have.” “Yes we hear you have been very frugal, Mr. Barlow,”
said the reporter.
“Why, prior to my securing my present portfolio I was
in the habit of making my ten of a penny bun. Would you believe that?
Now, of course, that I receive £1000
a year besides my bank pension I have my supper at the Parliamentary
refreshment bar and wash it down with porter.”
“Oh! You are not a
teetotaller, then, Mr. Barlow,” said the reporter., “though you
take a prominent part in the W.C.T.U., one has to do a lot of things
for electioneering purposes. By the bye, will you have a glass of
wine?”
* * *
“What is your
opinion of the Labour Party, Mr. Barlow?” asked the WORKER man.
“Some of them are good fellows, but others, such as Glassey and
Reid, are a lot of d------- the Lord forgive me! - scoundrels who
live on agitation. That fellow Reid, who called me Barrabas, I would
give anything to see out of the House, and praise God we'll have him
out next time if we can create dissension amongst the Toowong workers
or get un-entitled names off the roll.”
“I don't object to
the term Labour,” continued Barlow. “I once posed as a Labour man
myself. In fact I attended the Melbourne Trades Hall once as a labour
delegate. I resolved to stick to the other side, fortunately; for the
Labour cause hasn't swept the polls as I thought it would. You see it
pays to keep in with the rich. The Labour agitator has too hard a
time for me. Where would I get £1000
a year working for the Labour movement?”
* * *
“It was a close
shave, though,” said Barlow, musing. “I was very near left in the
lurch at both the late Ipswich elections. I tried to arrange with old
M'Farlane to throw the other man over, and with the other man to
throw over old M'Farlane, but neither of them would agree; then I was
lucky enough to get underground engineer B to pack the meeting and
drop the other man. This was at the election of 1888. At the last
election I tried to drop M'Farlane, but it was no use. He was
returned. However, I forgive him. He's dead now.”
Rambling on,
apparently oblivious of the presence of a second person, Barlow said:
“I think I can win Ipswich easily next time. With this new
political association, the contingent vote correctly counted, and the
funds at our disposal, we should not only return A.H. Barlow but also
another man in Wilkinson's place. I am sure I don't know what the
railway men forsook me for. Have I not done all I could for them?
Attended their meetings? Endeavoured to find out their grievances?
Thankless brutes. I have even crawled to them as I crawl to Nelson.”
Then Barlow ceased
talking and continued to gaze into space and sip his wine.
* * *
“How are the
Co-operative Communities getting on, Mr. Barlow? Asked the WORKER.
“How do you think they are getting on?”
replied Barlow. “We
don't intend that they should succeed. Why if they succeed in putting
co-operation into practise in that way we shall have the Socialists
demanding an extension of the principle to every department of
industry. Our plan is to try to discredit the experiment, and mark my
words we shall. See the land we give them.”
“It was strange
that your private circulars should get out, Mr. Barlow.”
“Strange!”
replied Barlow. Not strange when there are spies in my department.
But I have had new locks put on all the drawers and doors and I
warrant you nothing will get out in the future.”
* * *
“Have you ever
read my lectures on Political Economy?” asked Barlow after a pause.
“No,” said the
scribe.
“These are some I
intended to deliver to the working classes before I completely
severed my connection with the Labour causes,” added Barlow, taking
down a manuscript journal from a bookshelf, and in doing so knocking
down a well-thumbed volume of Boccacio.
“Is not that the
Decameron?” quickly asked the reporter, with raised eyebrows.
“Er – yes! it
is,” said Barlow, somewhat confused. Then recovering himself, and
picking up the volume, said, “This is a volume which should be in
every gentleman's library. Boccacio was one of the revivers of
classical learning in Italy and the father of Italian prose in its
purer state. The Decameron consists of one hundred tales, ten of
which are supposed to be told in the afternoons of ten successive
days by a party of three young men and seven young women. The stories
chiefly consist of love intrigues. But let me read you one:
“You must
understand that at Paris dwelt a certain gentleman, a Florentine, who
being a little reduced, was forced to go into trade, by which means
he acquired a great deal of wealth. He had only one son, named
Ludovico, who, having regard to the nobility of his father, more than
to anything of business, was, instead of being brought up in a
warehouse, sent with some other young noblemen into the service of
the King of France, where he acquired all the accomplishments that
belong to a fine gentleman. And being one day in company with certain
knights who were just returned from the Holy Land, and talking of
beauties in England, France and other countries, one of them
declared, that in all parts of the world, of all the women that ever
he saw he never met with any to come up to Beatrice, the wife of
Egano de Galluzi, of Bologna; to which his companions who had been
with him there, agreed ----”
“Do not, I pray,
proceed, Mr. Barlow, with a disappointed smile. “There's no real
harm in the stories. 'Evil be to him who evil thinks.'
'To the pure all
things are pure,' &c. However, don't go just yet. In accordance
with my usual practice we shall, if you have no objection, close this
meeting with a short prayer.”
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