England -- Fiction; Socialism -- Fiction; Socialists -- Fiction
Mr. Kitshaw is the man! Now we shall have broad grins. Mr. Kitshaw
enjoys a reputation for mimicry; he takes off music-hall singers in the
bar-parlour of a Saturday night. Observe, he rises, hems, pulls down
his waistcoat; there is bubbling laughter. Mr. Kitshaw brings back the
debate to its original subject; he talks of the Land. He is a little
haphazard at first, but presently hits the mark in a fancy picture of
a country still in the hands of aborigines, as yet unannexed by the
capitalist nations, knowing not the meaning of the verb ‘exploit.’
‘Imagine such a happy land, my friends; a land, I say, which nobody
hasn’t ever thought of “developing the resources” of,--that’s the
proper phrase, I believe. There are the people, with clothing enough for
comfort and--ahem!--good manners, but, mark you, no more. No manufacture
of luxurious skirts and hulsters and togs o’ that kind by the exploited
classes. No, for no exploited classes don’t exist! All are equal, my
friends. Up an’ down the fields they goes, all day long, arm-in-arm,
Jack and Jerry, aye, and Liza an’ Sairey Ann; for they have equality of
the sexes, mind you! Up an’ down the fields, I say, in a devil-may-care
sort of way, with their sweethearts and their wives. No factory smoke,
dear no! There’s the rivers, with tropical plants a-shading the banks,
O my! There they goes up an’ down in their boats, devil-may-care,
a-strumming on the banjo,’--he imitated such action,--‘and a-singing
their nigger minstrelsy with light ‘earts. Why? ‘Cause they ain’t got
no work to get up to at ‘arf-past five next morning. Their time’s their
own! _That’s_ the condition of an unexploited country, my friends!’
Mr. Kitshaw had put everyone in vast good humour. You might wonder that
his sweetly idyllic picture did not stir bitterness by contrast; it were
to credit the English workman with too much imagination. Resonance
of applause rewarded the sparkling rhetorician. A few of the audience
availed themselves of the noise to withdraw, for the clock showed that
it was close upon ten, and public-houses shut their doors early on
Sunday.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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