Monsieur Judas: A Paradox — David Hume — John Shaqi
Monsieur Judas: A Paradox
David Hume · en
The inhabitants were a race of Cyclops. Rough, swarthy men of
herculean build, scant of speech and of courtesy, worn-looking women,
with vinegary faces peering sharply at every one from under the shawls
they wore on their tousled heads, and tribes of squalling brats, with
just enough clothes for decency, grimy with the smoky, sooty
atmosphere, looking like legions of small devils as they played in the
barren streets, piercing the deafening clamour with their shrill,
unchildlike voices. A manufacturing town, inhabited by humanity with
no idea of beauty, with no desire beyond an increase of weekly wage,
or an extra drink at the public-house. Humanity with a hard, unlovely
religion expounded in hideous little chapels by fervid preachers of
severe principles. A glorious triumph of our highest civilisation,
this matter-of-fact city, with its creed of work, work, work, and its
eyes constantly on the sordid things of this earth, and never raised
to the blue sky of heaven. A glorious triumph indeed--for the
capitalists.
When it rained--which it did frequently--Ironfields was sloppy, and
when Ironfields was sloppy it was detestable; for the rain coming down
through the smoky cloud that constantly lowered over the town, made
everything, if possible, more grimy than before. But Ironfields was
quite content; it was a name of note in commercial circles, and its
products went forth to the four quarters of the world, bringing back
in exchange plenty of money, of which a great deal found its way into
the pockets of the master, and very little into those of the man.
The country around was not pretty. Nature, with that black, ugly,
clamorous city constantly before her eyes, lost heart in her work, and
did not attempt to place beauties before the eyes of people who did
not know anything about beauty, and would have thought it a very
useless thing if they had. So the fields lying round Ironfields were
only a shade better than the city itself, for the shadow of smoke lay
over everything, and where sunshine is not, cheerfulness is wanting.