Transcribed from the 1887 Office of "The Commonweal" edition by David
Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk





THE TABLES TURNED;
or,
Nupkins Awakened


[Title page: title.jpg]

   A Socialist Interlude
   BY
   WILLIAM MORRIS
   AUTHOR OF 'THE EARTHLY PARADISE.'

_As for the first time played at the Hall of the Socialist League on
Saturday October 15, 1887_

LONDON:
OFFICE OF "THE COMMONWEAL"
13 FARRINGDON ROAD, E.C.
1887

_All Rights Reserved_.




ORIGINAL CAST.


_DRAMATIS PERSONAE--PART I_.

Mr. La-di-da (_found guilty of swindling_) . . . H. BARTLETT.

Mr. Justice Nupkins . . . W. BLUNDELL.

Mr. Hungary, Q.C. (_Counsel for the Prosecution_) . . . W. H. UTLEY.

Sergeant Sticktoit (_Witness for Prosecution_) . . . JAMES ALLMAN.

Constable Potlegoff (_Witness for Prosecution_) . . . H. B. TARLETON.

Constable Strongithoath (_Witness for Prosecution_) . . . J. FLOCKTON.

Mary Pinch (_a labourer's wife, accused of theft_) . . . MAY MORRIS.

Foreman of Jury . . . T. CANTWELL.

Jack Freeman (_a Socialist, accused of conspiracy, sedition, and
obstruction of the highway_) . . . H. H. SPARLING.

Archbishop of Canterbury (_Witness for Defence_) . . . W. MORRIS.

Lord Tennyson (_Witness for Defence_) . . . A. BROOKES.

Professor Tyndall (_Witness for Defence_) . . . H. BARTLETT.

William Joyce (_a Socialist Ensign_) . . .  H. A. BARKER.

Usher . . . J. LANE.

Clerk of the Court . . . J. TURNER.

Jurymen, Interrupters, Revolutionists, etc., etc.

* * * * *

_DRAMATIS PERSONAE.--PART II_.

Citizen Nupkins (_late Justice_)  . . . W. BLUNDELL,

Mary Pinch . . . MAY MORRIS.

William Joyce (_late Socialist Ensign_) . . . H. A. BARKER.

Jack Freeman . . . H. H. SPARLING.

1st Neighbour . . . H. B. TARLETON.

2nd Neighbour . . . J. LANE.

3rd Neighbour . . . H. GRAHAM.

Robert Pinch, and other Neighbours, Men and Women.




PART I.


SCENE.--_A Court of Justice_.

USHER, CLERK OF THE COURT, MR. HUNGARY, Q.C., _and others_.  MR. LA-DI-
DA, _the prisoner, not in the dock, but seated in a chair before it_.
[_Enter_ MR. JUSTICE NUPKINS.

_Usher_.  Silence!--silence!

_Mr. Justice Nupkins_.  Prisoner at the bar, you have been found guilty
by a jury, after a very long and careful consideration of your remarkable
and strange case, of a very serious offence; an offence which squeamish
moralists are apt to call robbing the widow and orphan; a cant phrase
also, with which I hesitate to soil my lips, designates this offence as
swindling.  You will permit me to remark that the very fact that such
nauseous and improper words can be used about the conduct of a
_gentleman_ shows how far you have been led astray from the path traced
out for the feet of a respectable member of society.  Mr. La-di-da, if
you were less self-restrained, less respectful, less refined, less of a
gentleman, in short, I might point out to you with more or less severity
the disastrous consequences of your conduct; but I cannot doubt, from the
manner in which you have borne yourself during the whole of this trial,
that you are fully impressed with the seriousness of the occasion.  I
shall say no more then, but perform the painful duty which devolves on me
of passing sentence on you.  I am compelled in doing so to award you a
term of imprisonment; but I shall take care that you shall not be
degraded by contamination with thieves and rioters, and other coarse
persons, or share the diet and treatment which is no punishment to
persons used to hard living: that would be to inflict a punishment on you
not intended by the law, and would cast a stain on your character not
easily wiped away.  I wish you to return to that society of which you
have up to this untoward event formed an ornament without any such stain.
You will, therefore, be imprisoned as a first-class misdemeanant for the
space of one calendar month; and I trust that during the retirement thus
enforced upon you, which to a person of your resources should not be very
irksome, you will reflect on the rashness, the incaution, the
impropriety, in one word, of your conduct, and that you will never be
discovered again appropriating to your personal use money which has been
entrusted to your care by your friends and relatives.

_Mr. La-di-da_.  I thank you, my lord, for your kindness and
consideration.  May I be allowed to ask you to add to your kindness by
permitting me to return to my home and make some necessary arrangements
before submitting myself to the well-merited chastisement which my
imprudence has brought upon me?

_Mr. J. N_.  Certainly.  I repeat I do not wish to make your sentence any
heavier by forcing a hard construction upon it.  I give you a week to
make all arrangements necessary for your peace of mind and your bodily
comfort.

_Mr. L_.  I thank your lordship.  [_Exit_.

[_The case of_ MARY PINCH _called_.]

_Mr. Hungary, Q.C_.  I am for the prosecution, my lord, instructed by the
Secretary of State for the Home Department.  (JUDGE _bites his pen and
nods_.)  My lord, and gentlemen of the Jury, although this case may seem
to some ill-judging persons a trivial one, I think you will be able to
see before it is over that it is really important in its bearing on the
welfare of society, the welfare of the public; that is, of the
respectable public,--of the respectable public, gentlemen.  For in these
days, when the spirit of discontent is so widespread, all illegal actions
have, so to say, a political bearing, my lord, and all illegal actions
are wicked, gentlemen of the Jury, since they tend towards the insecurity
of society, or in other words, are definitely aimed at the very basis of
all morality and religion.  Therefore, my lord, I have received
instructions from the Home Secretary to prosecute this woman, who, as I
shall be able to prove to you, gentlemen of the Jury, by the testimony of
three witnesses occupying responsible official positions, has been guilty
of a breach at once of the laws of the country and the dictates of
morality, and has thereby seriously inconvenienced a very respectable
tradesman, nay (_looking at his brief_) three respectable tradesmen.  I
shall be able to show, gentlemen, that this woman has stolen three loaves
of bread: (_impressively_) not one, gentlemen, but three.

_A Voice_.  She's got three children, you palavering blackguard!

[_Confusion_.

_Mr. Justice N_. (_who has made an elaborate show of composing himself to
slumber since the counsel began, here wakes up and cries out_) Arrest
that man, officer; I will commit him, and give him the heaviest
punishment that the law allows of.

[_The_ USHER _dives among the audience amidst great confusion, but comes
back empty-handed_.

_J. N_.  A most dangerous disturbance!  A most dangerous disturbance!

_Mr. H_.  Gentlemen of the Jury, in confirmation of my remarks on the
spirit that is abroad, I call your attention to the riot which has just
taken place, endangering, I doubt not, the life of his lordship, and your
own lives, gentlemen, so valuable to--to--to--in short, to yourselves.
Need I point out to you at any length, then, the danger of allowing
criminals, offenders against the sacred rights of property, to go at
large?  This incident speaks for me, and I have now nothing to do but let
the witnesses speak for themselves.  Gentlemen of the Jury, I do not ask
you to convict on insufficient evidence; but I _do_ ask you not to be
swayed by any false sentiment bearing reference to the so-called
smallness of the offence, or the poverty of the offender.  The law is
made for the poor as well as for the rich, for the rich as well as for
the poor.  The poor man has no more right to shelter himself behind his
poverty, than the rich man behind his riches.  In short, gentlemen of the
Jury, what I ask you in all confidence to do, is to do justice and fear
not.--I call Sergeant Sticktoit.

[SERGEANT STICKTOIT _sworn_.

_Mr. H_.  Well, sergeant, you saw this woman steal the loaves?

_Sticktoit_.  Yes, sir.

_Mr. H_.  All of them?

_St_.  Yes, all.

_Mr. H_.  From different shops, or from one?

_St_.  From three different shops.

_Mr. H_.  Yes, just so.  (_Aside_: Then why the devil did he say from one
shop when his evidence was taken before?)  (_To_ ST.)  You were an eye-
witness of that?  You noticed her take all three loaves?

_St_. (_Aside_: He wants me to say from three different shops; I'm sure I
don't know why.  Anyhow, I'll say it--and swear it.)  (_To the Court_)
Yes, I was an eye-witness of the deed; (_pompously_) I followed her, and
then I took her.

_Mr. H_.  Yes, then you took her.  Please tell the Court how.

_St_. (_Aside_: Let's see, what did we agree was the likeliest way?)  (_To
Court_) I saw her take the first loaf and hide it in her shawl; and then
the second one; and the second one tumbled down into the mud; and she
picked it up again and wiped it with her shawl; and then she took the
third; and when she tried to put that with the two others they all three
tumbled down; and as she stooped down to pick them up it seemed the best
time to take her, as the two constables had come up; so I took her.

_Mr. N_.  Yes; you took her.

_St_.  And she cried.

_Mr. H_.  Ah, she cried.  Well, sergeant, that will do; you may go.
(_Aside_: The sooner he goes the better.  Wouldn't I like to have the
cross-examining of him if he was called on the other side!)  Constable
Potlegoff.

[POTLEGOFF _sworn_.

_Mr. H_.  Well, constable, did you see the woman take the loaves?

_Potlegoff_.  Yes, sir.

_Mr. H_.  How did she take them?

_Pot_.  Off the counter, sir.

_Mr. H_.  Did she go into the shop to take them?

_Pot_.  Yes, sir.  (_Aside_: I thought I was to say into three shops.)

_Mr. H_.  One after another?

_Pot_.  Yes, out of one shop one after another.  (_Aside_: Now it's
right, I hope.)

_Mr. H_. (_Aside_: Confound him, he's contradicting the other!)  (_To_
POT.)  Yes, just so; one after the other.  And did you see the second
loaf tumble down?

_Pot_.  Yes, sir.

_Mr. H_.  When was that?

_Pot_.  As she took it off the counter.

_Mr. H_.  Yes, _after_ she took it off the counter, in the street?

_Pot_.  No, sir.  (_Catching the_ SERGEANT'S _eye_.)  I mean yes, sir,
and she wiped the mud off them; the sergeant saw her--and I saw her.

_A Voice_.  Off IT, you liar! 'twas the second loaf, the single loaf, the
other liar said!

[_Confusion.  The judge wakes up and splutters, and tries to say
something; the_ USHER _goes through the audience, but finds no one_;
HUNGARY _spreads out his hands to the Jury, appealingly_.

_Mr. H_.  Yes, so it was in the street that you saw the loaves fall down?

_Pot_.  Yes, sir; it was in the street that I saw it tumble down.

_A Voice_.  You mean _them_, you fool!  You haven't got the story right
yet!

[_Confusion again.  The_ JUDGE _sits up and stares like a man awaked from
a nightmare, then calls out_ Officer!  Officer! _very loud.  The_ USHER
_goes his errand again, and comes back bootless_.

_Mr. H_. (_very blandly_).  It was in the street that you saw the three
loaves fall down?

_Pot_.  Yes, it was in the street that I saw the loaf fall down.

_Mr. H_.  Yes, in the street; just so, in the street.  You may go
(_Aside_: for a damned fool!).  Constable Strongithoath.

[CONSTABLE STRONGITHOATH _sworn_,

_Mr. H_.  Constable, did you see this robbery?

_Strong_.  I saw it.

_Mr. H_.  Tell us what you saw.

_Strong_, (_very slowly and stolidly, and as if repeating a lesson_).  I
saw her steal them all--all--all from one shop--from three shops--I
followed her--I took her.  When she took it up--she let it drop--in the
shop--and wiped the street mud off it.  Then she dropped them all three
in the shop--and came out--and I took her--with the help--of the two
constables--and she cried.

_Mr. H_.  You may go (_Aside_: for a new-caught joskin and a fool!).  I
won't ask him any questions.

_J. N_. (_waking up, and languid_).  Do you call any other witnesses, Mr.
Hungary?

_Mr. H_.  No, my lord.  (_Aside_: Not if I know it, considering the
quality of the evidence.  Not that it much matters; the Judge is going to
get a conviction; the Jury will do as he tells them--always do.)  (_To
the Court_): My lord and gentlemen of the Jury, that's my case.

_J. N_.  Well, my good woman, what have you to say to this?

_Mary Pinch_.  Say to it!  What's the use of _saying_ anything to it?  I'd
_do_ to it, if I could.

_J. N_.  Woman! what do you mean?  Violence will not do here.  Have you
witnesses to call?

_M. P_.  Witnesses! how can I call witnesses to swear that I didn't steal
the loaves?

_J. N_.  Well, do you wish to question the witnesses?  You have a right
to.

_M. P_.  Much good that would be!  Would you listen to me if I did?  I
didn't steal the loaves; but I wanted them, I can tell you that.  But
it's all one; you are going to have it so, and I might as well have
stolen a diamond necklace for all the justice I shall get here.  What's
the odds?  It's of a piece with the rest of my life for the last three
years.  My husband was a handsome young countryman once, God help us!  He
could live on ten shillings a-week before he married me; let alone that
he could pick up things here and there.  Rabbits and hares some of them,
as why should he not?  And I could earn a little too; it was not so bad
there.  And then and for long the place was a pretty place, the little
grey cottage among the trees, if the cupboard hadn't been so bare; one
can't live on flowers and nightingale's songs.  Then the children came
brisk, and the wages came slack; and the farmer got the new
reaping-machine, and my binding came to an end; and topping turnips for a
few days in the foggy November mornings don't bring you in much, even
when you havn't just had a baby.  And the skim milk was long ago gone,
and the leasing, and the sack of tail-wheat, and the cheap cheeses almost
for nothing, and the hedge-clippings, and it was just the bare ten
shillings a-week.  So at last, when we had heard enough of eighteen
shillings a-week up in London, and we scarce knew what London meant,
though we knew well enough what ten shillings a-week in the country
meant, we said we'd go to London and try it there; and it had been a good
harvest, quickly saved, which made it bad for us poor folk, as there was
the less for us to do; and winter was creeping in on us.  So up to London
we came; for says Robert: "They'll let us starve here, for aught I can
see: they'll do naught for us; let us do something for ourselves."  So up
we came; and when all's said, we had better have lain down and died in
the grey cottage clean and empty.  I dream of it yet at whiles: clean,
but no longer empty; the crockery on the dresser, the flitch hanging from
the rafters, the pot on the fire, the smell of new bread about; and the
children fat and ruddy tumbling about in the sun; and my lad coming in at
the door stooping his head a little; for our door is low, and he was a
tall handsome chap in those days.--But what's the use of talking?  I've
said enough: I didn't steal the loaves--and if I had a done, where was
the harm?

_J. N_.  Enough, woman?  Yes, and far more than enough.  You are an
undefended prisoner.  You have not the advantage of counsel, or I would
not have allowed you to go on so long.  You would have done yourself more
good by trying to refute the very serious accusation brought against you,
than by rambling into a long statement of your wrongs against society.  We
all have our troubles to bear, and you must bear your share of them
without offending against the laws of your country--the equal laws that
are made for rich and poor alike.

_A Voice_.  _You_ can bear _her_ troubles well enough, can't you, old fat
guts?

_J. N_. (_scarcely articulate with rage_).  Officer! officer! arrest that
man, or I will arrest you!

[USHER _again makes a vain attempt to get hold of some one_.

_J. N_. (_puffing and blowing with offended dignity_).  Woman, woman,
have you anything more to say?

_M. P_.  Not a word.  Do what you will with me.  I don't care.

_J. N_. (_impressively_).  Gentlemen of Jury, simple as this case seems,
it is a most important one under the present condition of discontent
which afflicts this country, and of which we have had such grievous
manifestations in this Court to-day.  This is not a common theft,
gentlemen--if indeed a theft has been committed--it is a revolutionary
theft, based on the claim on the part of those who happen unfortunately
to be starving, to help themselves at the expense of their more
fortunate, and probably--I may say certainly--more meritorious
countrymen.  I do not indeed go so far as to say that this woman is in
collusion with those ferocious ruffians who have made these sacred
precincts of justice ring with their ribald and threatening scoff's.  But
the persistence of these riotous interruptions, and the ease with which
their perpetrators have evaded arrest, have produced a strange impression
in my mind.  (_Very impressively_.)  However, gentlemen, that impression
I do not ask you to share; on the contrary, I warn you against it, just
as I warn you against being moved by the false sentiment uttered by this
woman, tinged as it was by the most revolutionary--nay, the most
bloodthirsty feeling.  Dismiss all these non-essentials from your minds,
gentlemen, and consider the evidence only; and show this mistaken woman
the true majesty of English Law by acquitting her--if you are not
satisfied with the abundant, clear, and obviously unbiassed evidence, put
before you with that terseness and simplicity of diction which
distinguishes our noble civil force.  The case is so free from intricacy,
gentlemen, that I need not call your attention to any of the details of
that evidence.  You must either accept it as a whole and bring in a
verdict of guilty, or your verdict must be one which would be tantamount
to accusing the sergeant and constables of wilful and corrupt perjury;
and I may add, wanton perjury; as there could be no possible reason for
these officers departing from the strict line of truth.  Gentlemen I
leave you to your deliberations.

_Foreman of Jury_.  My lord, we have already made up our minds.  Your
lordship need not leave the Court: we find the woman guilty.

_J. N_. (_gravely nodding his head_).  It now remains for me to give
sentence.  Prisoner at the bar, you have been convicted by a jury of your
countrymen--

_A Voice_.  That's a lie!  You convicted her: you were judge and jury
both.

_J. N_. (_in a fury_).  Officer, you are a disgrace to your coat!  Arrest
that man, I say.  I would have had the Court cleared long ago, but that I
hoped that you would have arrested the ruffian if I gave him a chance of
repeating his--his crime.

[_The_ USHER _makes his usual promenade_.

_J. N_.  You have been convicted by a jury of your countrymen of stealing
three loaves of bread; and I do not see how in the face of the evidence
they could have come to any other verdict.  Convicted of such a serious
offence, this is not the time and place to reproach you with other
misconduct; and yet I could almost regret that it is not possible to put
you once more in the dock, and try you for conspiracy and incitement to
riot; as in my own mind I have no doubt that you are in collusion with
the ruffianly revolutionists, who, judging from their accent, are
foreigners of a low type, and who, while this case has been proceeding,
have been stimulating their bloodstained souls to further horrors by the
most indecent verbal violence.  And I must here take the opportunity of
remarking that such occurrences could not now be occurring, but for the
ill-judged leniency of even a Tory Government in permitting that pest of
society the unrespectable foreigner to congregate in this metropolis.

_A Voice_.  What do they do with you, you blooming old idiot, when you
goes abroad and waddles through the Loover?

_J. N_.  Another of them! another of those scarcely articulate
foreigners!  This is a most dangerous plot!  Officer, arrest everybody
present except the officials.  I will make an example of everybody: I
will commit them all.

_Mr. H_. (_leaning over to_ JUDGE).  I don't see how it can be done, my
lord.  Let it alone: there's a Socialist prisoner coming next; you can
make him pay for all.

_J. N_.  Oh! there is, is there?  All right--all right.  I'll go and get
a bit of lunch (_offering to rise_).

_Clerk_.  Beg pardon, my lord, but you haven't sentenced the prisoner.

_J. N_.  Oh, ah!  Yes.  Oh, eighteen months' hard labour.

_M. P_.  Six months for each loaf that I didn't steal!  Well, God help
the poor in a free country!  Won't you save all further trouble by
hanging me, my lord?  Or if you won't hang me, at least hang my children:
they'll live to be a nuisance to you else.

_J. N_.  Remove the woman.  Call the next case.  (_Aside_: And look
sharp: I want to get away.)

[_Case of_ JOHN _or_ JACK FREEMAN _called_.]

_Mr. H_.  I am for the prosecution, my lord.

_J. N_.  Is the prisoner defended?

_Jack Freeman_.  Not I.

_J. N_.  Hold your tongue, sir!  I did not ask you.  Now, brother
Hungary.

_Mr. H_.  Once more, my lord and gentlemen of the Jury, I rise to address
you; and, gentlemen, I must congratulate you on having the honour of
assisting on two State trials on one day; for again I am instructed by
the Secretary of State for the Home Department to prosecute the prisoner.
He is charged with sedition and incitement to riot and murder, and also
with obstructing the Queen's Highway.  I shall bring forward overwhelming
evidence to prove the latter offence--which is, indeed, the easiest of
all offences to be proved, since the wisdom of the law has ordained that
it can be committed without obstructing anything or anybody.  As for the
other, and what we may excusably consider the more serious offence, the
evidence will, I feel sure, leave no doubt in your minds concerning the
guilt of the prisoner.  I must now give you a few facts in explanation of
this case.  You may not know, gentlemen of the Jury, that in the midst of
the profound peace which this glorious empire now enjoys; in spite of the
liberty which is the proud possession of every Briton, whatever his rank
or fortune; in spite of the eager competition and steadily and swiftly
rising wages for the services of the workmen of all grades, so that such
a thing as want of employment is unheard of amongst us; in spite of the
fact that the sick, the infirm, the old, the unfortunate, are well
clothed and generously fed and housed in noble buildings, miscalled, I am
free to confess, _work_houses, since the affectionate assiduity of our
noble Poor Law takes every care that if the inmates are of no use to
themselves they shall at least be of no use to any one else,--in spite of
all these and many kindred blessings of civilisation, there are, as you
may not know, a set of wicked persons in the country, mostly, it is true,
belonging to that class of non-respectable foreigners of whom my lord
spoke with such feeling, taste, and judgment, who are plotting, rather
with insolent effrontery than crawling secrecy, to overturn the sacred
edifice of property, the foundation of our hearths, our homes, and our
altars.  Gentlemen of the Jury, it might be thought that such madmen
might well be left to themselves, that no one would listen to their
ravings, and that the glorious machinery of Justice need no more be used
against them than a crusader's glittering battle-axe need be brought
forward to exterminate the nocturnal pest of our couches.  This indeed
has been, I must say unfortunately, the view taken by our rulers till
quite recently.  But times have changed, gentlemen; for need I tell you,
who in your character of shrewd and successful men of business understand
human nature so well, that in this imperfect world we must not reckon on
the wisdom, the good sense of those around us.  Therefore you will
scarcely be surprised to hear that these monstrous, wicked, and
disreputable doctrines are becoming popular; that murder and rapine are
eagerly looked forward to under such names as Socialism, revolution, co-
operation, profit-sharing, and the like; and that the leaders of the sect
are dangerous to the last degree.  Such a leader you now see before you.
Now I must tell you that these Socialist or Co-operationist incendiaries
are banded together into three principal societies, and that the prisoner
at the bar belongs to one if not two of these, and is striving, hitherto
in vain, for admittance into the third and most dangerous.  The
Federationist League and the International Federation, to one or both of
which this man belongs, are dangerous and malevolent associations; but
they do not apply so strict a test of membership as the third body, the
Fabian Democratic Parliamentary League, which exacts from every applicant
a proof of some special deed of ferocity before admission, the most
guilty of their champions veiling their crimes under the specious
pretexts of vegetarianism, the scientific investigation of supernatural
phenomena, vulgarly called ghost-catching, political economy, and other
occult and dull studies.  But though not yet admitted a neophyte of this
body, the prisoner has taken one necessary step towards initiation, in
learning the special language spoken at all the meetings of these
incendiaries: for this body differs from the other two in using a sort of
cant language or thieves' Latin, so as to prevent their deliberations
from becoming known outside their unholy brotherhood.  Examples of this
will be given you by the witnesses, which I will ask you to note
carefully as indications of the dangerous and widespread nature of the
conspiracy.  I call Constable Potlegoff.

[CONSTABLE POTLEGOFF _sworn_.

_Mr. H_.  Have you seen the prisoner before?

_Pot_.  Yes.

_Mr. H_.  Where?

_Pot_.  At Beadon Road, Hammersmith.

_Mr. H_.  What was he doing there?

_Pot_.  He was standing on a stool surrounded by a dense crowd.

_Mr. H_.  What else?

_Pot_.  He was speaking to them in a loud tone of voice.

_Mr. H_.  You say it was a dense crowd: how dense?  Would it have been
easy for any one to pass through the crowd?

_Pot_.  It would have been impossible.  I could not have got anywhere
near him without using my truncheon--which I have a right to do.

_Mr. H_.  Is Beadon Road a frequented thoroughfare?

_Pot_.  Very much so, especially on a Sunday morning.

_Mr. H_.  Could you hear what he said?

_Pot_.  I could and I did.  I made notes of what he said.

_Mr. H_.  Can you repeat anything he said?

_Pot_.  I can.  He urged the crowd to disembowel all the inhabitants of
London.  (_Sensation_.)

_Mr. H_.  Can you remember the exact words he used?

_Pot_.  I can.  He said, "Those of this capital should have no bowels.
You workers must see to having this done."

_J. N_.  Stop a little; it is important that I should get an accurate
note of this (_writing_).  Those who live in this metropolis must have
their bowels drawn out--is that right?

_Pot_.  This capital, he said, my lord.

_J. N_. (_writing_).  This capital.  Well, well, well!  I cannot guess
why the prisoner should be so infuriated against this metropolis.  Go on,
Mr. Hungary.

_Mr. H_. (_to witness_).  Can you remember any other words he said?

_Pot_.  Yes; later on he said, "I hope to see the last Londoner hung in
the guts of the last member of Parliament."

_J. N_.  Londoner, eh?

_Pot_.  Yes, my lord; that is, he meant Londoner.

_J. N_.  You mustn't say what he meant, you must say what you heard him
say.

_Pot_.  Capital, my lord.

_J. N_.  I see; (_writing_).  The last dweller in the metropolis.

_Pot_.  Capital, my lord.

_J. N_.  Yes, exactly; that's just what I've written--this metropolis.

_Pot_.  He said capital, my lord.

_Mr. H_.  Capital, the witness says, my lord.

_J. N_.  Well, doesn't that mean the same thing?  I tell you I've got it
down accurately.

_J. F_. (_who has been looking from one to the other with an amused_
_smile, now says as if he were thinking aloud_:) Well, I _am_ damned!
what a set of fools!

_J. N_.  What is that you said, sir?  Have you no sense of decency, sir?
Are you pleading, or are you not pleading?  I have a great mind to have
you removed.

_J. F_. (_laughing_).  Oh, by all means remove me!  I didn't ask to be
here.  Only look here, I could set you right in three minutes if you only
let me.

_J. N_.  Do you want to ask the witness anything?  If not, sir, hold your
tongue, sir.  No, sir; don't speak, sir.  I can see that you are
meditating bullying me; let me advise you, sir, not to try it.

_Mr. H_. (_to_ POT.)  Was that the only occasion on which you heard him
speaking?

_Pot_.  No; I have heard him speaking in Hyde Park and saying much the
same thing, and calling Mr. Justice Nupkins a damned old fool!

_J. N_. (_writing_).  "A damned old fool!"  Anything else?

_Pot_.  A blasted old cheat!

_J. N_. (_writing_).  "A blasted old cheat!"  (_Cheerfully_) Go on.

_Pot_.  Another time he was talking in a public-house with two men whom I
understood to be members of the Fabian League.  He was having words with
them, and one of them said, "Ah, but you forget the rent of ability"; and
he said, "Damn the rent of ability, I will smash their rents of
abilities."

_Mr. H_.  Did you know what that meant?

_Pot_.  No; not then.

_Mr. H_.  But you do now?

_Pot_.  Yes; for I got into conversation with one of them, who told me
that it meant the brain, the skull.

_J. N_. (_writing_).  "The rent of ability is a cant phrase in use among
these people signifying the head."

_Mr. H_.  Well?

_Pot_.  Well, then they laughed and said, Well, as far as he is
concerned, smash it when you can catch it.

_Mr. H_.  Did you gather whose head it was that they were speaking of?

_Pot_.  Yes; his lordship's.

_Mr. H_. (_impressively and plaintively_).  And _why_?

_Pot_.  Because they said he had jugged their comrades like a damned old
smoutch!

_J. N_.  _Jugged_?

_Pot_.  Put them in prison, my lord.

_J. N_. (_Aside_: That Norwich affair.)  Wait!  I must write my self down
a smoutch--smoutch? no doubt a foreign word.

_Mr. H_.  What else have you heard the prisoner say.

_Pot_.  I have heard him threaten to make her Majesty the Queen take in
washing.

_J. N_.  Plain washing?

_Pot_.  Yes, my lord.

_J. N_.  Not fancy work?

_Pot_.  No, my lord.

_A Juryman_.  Have you heard him suggest any means of doing all this?

_Pot_.  Yes, sir; for I have attended meetings of his association in
disguise, when they were plotting means of exciting the populace.

_Mr. H_.  In which he took part?

_Pot_.  In which he took part.

_Mr. H_.  You heard him arranging with others for a rising of the lower
orders?

_Pot_.  Yes, sir; and on the occasion, when I met him in the public
house, I got into conversation with him, and he told me that his society
numbered upwards of two millions.  (J. F. _grins_.)

_The Juryman_ (_anxiously_).  Armed?

_Pot_.  He said there were arms in readiness for them.

_Mr. H_.  Did you find out where?

_Pot_.  Yes; at the premises of the Federationist League, 13 Farringdon
Road.

_Mr. H_.  Did you search for them there?

_Pot_.  Yes.

_Mr. H_.  Did you find them?

_Pot_.  No; we found nothing but printing-stock and some very shabby
furniture, and the office-boy, and three compositors.

_Mr. H_.  Did you arrest them?

_Pot_.  No; we thought it better not to do so.

_Mr. H_.  Did they oppose your search?

_Pot_.  No.

_Mr. H_.  What did they do?

_Pot_.  Well, they took grinders at me and said, "Sold!"

_Mr. H_.  Meaning, doubtless, that they had had an inkling of your search
and had sold the arms?

_Pot_.  So we gathered.

_J. N_. (_writing_).  "They did not find the arms because they had been
sold."

_Mr. H_.  Well, Constable, that will do.

_J. N_.  Prisoner, do you wish to ask the Constable any questions?

_J. F_.  Well, I don't know.  I strongly suspect that you have made up
your mind which way the jury shall make up their minds, so it isn't much
use.  However, I will ask him three questions.  Constable Potlegoff, at
how many do you estimate the dense crowd at Beadon Road, when I
obstructed?

_Pot_.  Upwards of a thousand.

_J. F_.  H'm; a good meeting!  How many were present at that meeting of
the Socialist League where we were plotting to make the Queen take in
washing?

_Pot_.  Upwards of two hundred.

_J. F_.  Lastly, when I told you in the public-house that we were two
millions strong, were you drunk or sober?

_Pot_.  Sober.

_J. F_.  H'm!  It's a matter of opinion perhaps as to when a man _is_
drunk.  Was I sober?

_Pot_.  No; drunk.

_J. F_.  H'm!  So I should think.  That'll do, Mr. Potlegoff; I won't
muddle your "Rent-of-Ability" any more.  Good bye.

[SERGEANT STICKTOIT _called_.

_Mr. H_.  Have you heard the prisoner speaking?

_St_.  Yes.

_Mr. H_.  Where?

_St_.  At Beadon Road amongst other places: that's where I took him.

_Mr. H_.  What was he doing?

_St_.  Standing on a stool, speaking

_Mr. H_.  Yes; speaking: to how many people?

_St_.  About a thousand.

_Mr. H_.  Could you get near him?

_St_.  Nowhere near.

_Mr. H_.  Well, can you tell me what he was saying?

_St_.  Well, he said that all the rich people and all the shopkeepers
(_glancing at the Jury_) should be disemboweled and flayed alive, and
that all arrangements had been made for doing it, if only the workingmen
would combine.  He then went into details as to where various detachments
were to meet in order to take the Bank of England and capture the Queen.
He also threatened to smash Mr. Justice Nupkins' "Rent-of-Ability," by
which I understood him to mean his skull.

_J. N_.  His--my brains, you mean!

_St_.  No, my lord; for he said that you--that he--hadn't any brains.

_Mr. H_.  Did you find any documents or papers on him when he was
arrested?

_St_.  Yes; he had a bundle of papers with him.

_Mr. H_.  Like this? (_showing a number of_ "_Commonweal_")

_St_.  Yes.

_J. F_. (_Aside_: Two quires that I couldn't sell, damn it!)

_Mr. H_.  We put this paper in, my lord.  Your lordship will notice the
vileness of the incendiarism contained in it.  I specially draw your
attention to this article by one Bax, who as you will see, is familiar
with the use of dynamite to a fearful extent.  (J. N. _reads, muttering_
"_Curse of Civilisation_.")  Gentlemen of the Jury that is our case.

_J. N_. (_looking up from_ "_Commonweal_").  Prisoner at the bar, what
have you to say?  Do you call witnesses?

_J. F_.  Yes, I call witnesses, but I haven't much to say.  I am accused
of obstruction, but I shan't argue that point, as I know that I should do
myself no good by proving that I had not obstructed.  I am accused of
being a Socialist and a revolutionist.  Well, if you, my lord, and you,
gentlemen of the Jury, and the classes to which you belong, knew what
Socialism means--and I fear you take some pains not to--you would also
know what the condition of things is now, and how necessary revolution
is.  So if it is a crime to be a Socialist and a revolutionist, I have
committed that crime; but the charge against me is that I am a criminal
fool, which I am not.  And my witnesses will show you, gentlemen of the
Jury, that the evidence brought against me is a mass of lies of the
silliest concoction.  That is, they will show it you if you are sensible
men and understand your position as jurymen, which I almost fear you do
not.  Well, it will not be the first time that the judge has usurped the
function of the jury, and I would go to prison cheerfully enough if I
could hope it would be the last.

[_He pauses as if to listen.  Confused noises and the sound of the_
"_Marseillaise_" _a long way off_.  (_Aside_: What is it, I wonder?--No;
it's nothing.)

_J. N_.  Prisoner, what is the matter with you?  You seem to be
intoxicated; and indeed I hope you are, for nothing else could excuse the
brutality of your language.

_J. F_.  Oh, don't put yourself out, my lord.  You've got the whip-hand
of me, you know.  I thought I heard an echo; that's all.  Well, I will
say no more, but call the Archbishop of Canterbury.

[_Enter the_ ARCHBISHOP, _who is received with much reverence and
attention.  He is sworn_.

_J. F_.  Your Grace, were you present at the meeting at Beadon Road where
I was arrested?

_Arch_.  Yes--yes, I _was_ there.  Strange to say, it was on a Sunday
morning.  I needed some little refreshment from the toils of
ecclesiastical office.  So I took a cab, I admit under the pretext of
paying a visit to my brother of London; and having heard the fame of
these Socialist meetings, I betook me to one of them for my instruction
and profit: for I hold that in these days even those that are highest in
the Church should interest themselves in social matters.

_J. F_.  Well, my lord, were you pleased with what you saw and heard?

_Arch_.  I confess, sir, that I was disappointed.

_J. F_.  Why, my lord?

_Arch_.  Because of the extreme paucity of the audience.

_J. F_.  Were there a thousand persons present?

_Arch_. (_severely_).  I must ask you not to jest with me in the sacredly
respectable precincts of a Court of Justice.  To the best of my
remembrance, there were present at the commencement of your discourse but
three persons exclusive of yourself.  That fact is impressed on my mind
from the rude and coarse words which you said when you mounted your stool
or rostrum to the friend who accompanied you and had under his arm a
bundle of a very reprehensible and ribald print called the _Commonweal_,
one of which he, I may say, forced me to purchase.

_J. F_.  Well, what did I say?

_Arch_.  You said, "I say, Bill! damned hard lines to have to speak to a
lamp-post, a kid, and an old buffer"--by the latter vulgarity indicating
myself, as I understand.

_J. F_.  Yes, my lord, so it is.  Now let me ask you, if that matters, is
Beadon Road a thronged thoroughfare?

_Arch_.  On the contrary; at least on the morning on which I was there,
there was a kind of Sabbath rest about it, scarcely broken by the
harangue of yourself, sir.

_J. F_.  You heard what I said, my lord?

_Arch_.  I did, and was much shocked at it.

_J. F_.  Well, did I say anything about bowels?

_Arch_.  I regret to say that you did.

_J. F_.  Do you remember the words I used?

_Arch_.  Only too well.  You said, but at great length, and with much
embroidery of language more than questionable, that capital had no bowels
for the worker, nor owners of capital either; and that since no one else
would be kind to them, the workers must be kind to themselves and take
the matter into their own hands.

_J. N_. (_making notes_).  Owners of _the capital_; workman must take the
matter--take the matter--into their own hands.

_J. F_.  Well, I have no more questions to ask your Grace.

_Mr. H_.  With many excuses, your Grace, _I_ will ask you a question.

_Arch_.  Certainly, Mr Hungary.

_Mr. H_.  You say that the audience was very small; that was at first;
but did it not increase as time went on?

_Arch_.  Yes; an itinerant vendor of ices drew up his stall there, and
two policemen--these gentlemen--strolled in, and some ten or more others
stood round us before the orator had finished.

_Mr. H_. (_Aside_: H'm! old beggar will be so very specific.  Let's try
him as to the sedition.)  (_To_ ARCH.)  My lord, you said that you were
shocked at what the prisoner said: what was the nature of his discourse?

_Arch_.  I regret to have to say that it was a mass of the most frightful
incendiarism, delivered with an occasional air of jocularity and dry
humour that made my flesh creep.  Amidst the persistent attacks on
property he did not spare other sacred things.  He even made an attack on
my position, stating (wrongly) the amount of my moderate stipend.  Indeed,
I think he recognised me, although I was partially disguised.

_J. F_. (_Aside_: True for you, old Benson, or else how could I have
subpoenaed you?)

_Mr. H_.  I thank your Grace: that will do.

_J. F_.  I now call Lord Tennyson.

[LORD TENNYSON _sworn_.

_J. F_.  My lord, have you been present, in disguise, at a meeting of the
Socialist League in 13 Farringdon Road?

_Lord T_.  What's that to you?  What do you want to know for?  Yes, I
have, if it comes to that.

_J. F_.  Who brought you there?

_Lord T_.  A policeman: one Potlegoff.  I thought he was a Russian by his
name, but it seems he is an Englishman--and a liar.  He said it would be
exciting: so I went.

_J. F_.  And was it exciting?

_Lord T_.  NO: it was _dull_.

_J. F_.  How many were present?

_Lord T_.  Seventeen: I counted them, because I hadn't got anything else
to do.

_J. F_.  Did they plot anything dreadful?

_Lord T_.  Not that I could hear.  They sat and smoked; and one fool was
in the chair, and another fool read letters; and then they worried till I
was sick of it as to where such and such fools should go to spout folly
the next week; and now and then an old bald-headed fool and a stumpy
little fool in blue made jokes, at which they laughed a good deal; but I
couldn't understand the jokes--and I came away.

_J. F_.  Thank you, my lord.

_Mr. H_.  My lord Tennyson, I wish to ask you a question.  You say that
you couldn't understand their jokes: but could you understand them when
they were in earnest?

_Lord T_.  No, I couldn't: I can't say I tried.  I don't want to
understand Socialism: it doesn't belong to my time.  [_Exit_.

_J. F_.  I call Professor Tyndall.

[PROFESSOR TYNDALL _sworn_.

_J. F_.  Professor Tyndall, have you seen me before?

_Pro. T_.  Yes; I have seen you in a public-house, where I went to
collect the opinions of the lower orders against Mr. Gladstone.

_J. F_.  Who was I with?

_Pro. T_.  You were with a man whom I was told was a policeman in plain
clothes, and with some others that I assume to have been friends of
yours, as you winked at them and you and they were laughing together as
you talked to the policeman.

_J. F_.  Do you see the policeman in Court?

_Pro. T_.  Yes; there he is.

_J. F_.  Was he drunk or sober?

_Pro. T_.  What, now?

_J. F_.  No--then.

_Pro. T_. (_with decision_).  Drunk.

_J. F_.  Was I drunk?

_Pro. T_.  What, now?

_J. F_.  No--then; though you may tell me whether I'm drunk or not now,
if you like, and define drunkenness scientifically.

_Pro. T_.  Well, you were so, so.

_J. F_.  Thank you, Professor.

_Mr. H_.  One question, Professor Tyndall.  Did you hear what the
prisoner was saying to the policeman--who, by the way, was, I suspect,
only shamming drunkenness?

_J. F_. (_Aside_: He could carry a good deal, then.)

_Pro. T_.  Yes, I heard him.  He was boasting of the extent and power of
the Socialist organisation.

_Mr. H_.  And did you believe it? did it surprise you?

_Pro. T_.  It did not in the least surprise me: it seemed to me the
natural consequences of Gladstone's Home Rule Bill.  As to believing it,
I knew he was jesting; but I thought that his jesting concealed very
serious earnest.  He seemed to me a determined, cunning, and most
dangerous person.

_Mr. H_.  I thank you, professor.  [_Exit_ PRO. T.

_J. N_.  Prisoner, do you want to re-examine the witnesses?  What's that
noise outside?  They ought to be arrested.

["_Marseillaise_" _again without, and tumult nearer_.  FREEMAN _listens
intently, without heeding the_ JUDGE.

_J. N_.  Prisoner, why don't you answer?  Your insolence won't serve you
here, I can tell you.

_J. F_.  I was listening, Judge; I thought I heard that echo again.

_J. N_.  Echo again!  What does the fellow mean?  It's my belief you're
drunk, sir: that you have stimulated your courage by liquor.

_A Voice_.  Look out for _your_ courage, old cockywax; you may have
something to try it presently!

_J. N_.  Officer, arrest that pernicious foreigner.

[USHER _promenades once more_.

_J. N_. (_Aside_: I don't like it: I'm afraid there is something going to
happen.)  (_To Court_) Mr. Hungary.

_Mr. H_.  My lord and gentlemen of the Jury, the prisoner's mingled
levity and bitterness leaves me little to answer to.  I can only say,
gentlemen of the Jury, that I am convinced that you will do your duty.  As
to the evidence, I need make no lengthened comments on it, because I am
sure his lordship will save me the trouble.  (_Aside_: Trust him!)  It is
his habit--his laudable habit--to lead juries through the intricacies
which beset unprofessional minds in dealing with evidence.  For the rest,
there is little need to point out the weight of the irrefragible
testimony of the sergeant and constable,--men trained to bring forward
those portions of the facts which come under their notice which _are_
weighty.  I will not insult you, my lord, by pointing out to intelligent
gentlemen in your presence how the evidence of the distinguished and
illustrious personages so vexatiously called by the prisoner, so far from
shaking the official evidence, really confirms it.  (_Aside_: I wonder
what all that row is about?  I wish I were out of this and at home.)
Gentlemen of the Jury, I repeat that I expect you to do your duty and
defend yourselves from the bloodthirsty designs of the dangerous
revolutionist now before you.  (_Aside_: Well, now I'm off, and the
sooner the better; there's a row on somewhere.)  [_Exit_.

_J. N_.  Gentlemen of the Jury, I need not expatiate to you on the
importance of the case before you.  There are two charges brought against
the prisoner, but one so transcends the other in importance--nay, I may
say swallows it up--that I imagine your attention will be almost wholly
fixed on that--the charge of conspiring and inciting to riot.  Besides,
on the lesser charge the evidence is so simple and crystal-clear that I
need but allude to it.  I will only remark on the law of the case, that
committing an obstruction is a peculiar offence, since it is committed by
everyone who, being in a public thoroughfare, does not walk briskly
through the streets from his starting-place to his goal.  There is no
need to show that some other person is hindered by him in his loitering,
since obviously that _might_ be the case; and besides, his loitering
might hinder another from forming in his mind a legitimate wish to be
there, and so might do him a very special and peculiar injury.  In fact,
gentlemen, it has been doubted whether this grave offence of obstruction
is not always being committed by everybody, as a corollary to the well-
known axiom in physics that two bodies cannot occupy the same space at
one and the same time.  So much, gentlemen, for the lesser accusation.  As
to the far more serious one, I scarcely know in what words to impress
upon you the gravity of the accusation.  The crime is an attack on the
public safety, gentlemen; if it has been committed, gentlemen--if it has
been committed.  On that point you are bound by your oaths to decide
according to the evidence; and I must tell you that the learned counsel
was in error when he told you that I should direct your views as to that
evidence.  It is for you to say whether you believe that the witnesses
were speaking what was consonant with truth.  But I am bound to point out
to you that whereas the evidence for the prosecution was clear, definite,
and consecutive, that for the defence had no such pretensions.  Indeed,
gentlemen, I am at a loss to discover why the prisoner put those
illustrious and respectable personages to so much trouble and
inconvenience merely to confirm in a remarkable way the evidence of the
sergeant and the constable.  His Grace the Archbishop said that there
were but three persons present when the prisoner _began_ speaking; but he
has told us very clearly that before the end of the discourse there were
ten, or more.  You must look at those latter words, _or more_, as a key
to reconcile the apparent discrepancy between his Grace's evidence and
that of constable Potlegoff.  This, however, is a matter of little
importance, after what I have told you about the law in the case of
obstruction.  His Grace's clear remembrance of the horrible language of
the prisoner, and the shuddering disgust that it produced on him, is a
very different matter.  Although his remembrance of the _ipsissima verba_
does not quite tally with that of the constable, it is clear that both
the Archbishop and the policeman have noted the real significance of what
was said: The owners of this capital, said the prisoner--

_J. F_.  I said nothing of the kind.

_J. N_.  Yes you did, sir.  Those were the very words you said: I have
got it down in my notes of his Grace's evidence.  What is the use of your
denying it, when your own witness gives evidence of it?  Hold your
tongue, sir.--And the workingmen, says the prisoner, must take the matter
into their own hands.  Take it into _their own hands_, gentlemen, and
take _the matter_ into their hands.  What matter are they to take into
their hands?  Are we justified in thinking that the prisoner was speaking
metaphorically?  Gentlemen, I must tell you that the maxim that in
weighing evidence you need not go beyond the most direct explanation
guides us here; forbids us to think that the prisoner was speaking
metaphorically, and compels us to suppose that the _matter_ which is to
be in the _hands_ of the workmen, their very _hands_, gentlemen, is--what?
Why, (_in an awe-struck whisper_) the bowels of the owners of the
capital, that is of this metropolis--London!  Nor, gentlemen, are the
means whereby those respectable persons, the owners of house property in
London, to be disembowelled left doubtful: the raising of armed men by
the million, concealed weapons, and an organisation capable of
frustrating the search for them.  Nay, an article in the paper which
impudently calls itself (_reading the_ "_Commonweal_") the official
journal of the Socialist League, written by one Bax, who ought to be
standing in the same dock with the prisoner--an article in which he
attacks the sacredness of civilisation--is murky with the word dynamic or
dynamite.  And you must not forget, gentlemen, that the prisoner accepts
his responsibility for all these words and deeds.  With the utmost
effrontery having pleaded "Not Guilty," he says, "I am a Socialist and a
Revolutionist"!--Thus much, gentlemen, my duty compels me to lay before
you as to the legal character of the evidence.  But you must clearly
understand that it rests with you and not with me to decide as to whether
the evidence shows this man to be guilty.  It is you, gentlemen of the
Jury, who are responsible for the verdict, whatever it may be; and I must
be permitted to add that letting this man loose upon society will be a
very heavy responsibility for you to accept.

[_The Jury consult: the noise outside increases_.

_J. F_. (_Aside_; Hilloa! what _is_ going on?  I begin to think there's a
row up!)

_Foreman of the Jury_.  My lord, we are agreed upon our verdict.

_J. N_.  Do you find the prisoner at the bar "Guilty" or "Not Guilty"?

_F. of J_.  Guilty, my lord.

_J. F_.  Just _so_.

_J. N_.  Prisoner at the bar, you have been fairly tried and found guilty
by a jury of your fellow-countrymen of two most serious offences--crimes,
I should say.  If I had not to pronounce sentence upon one whose
conscience is seared and case-hardened to an unexampled degree, I might
have some words to say to you.  (_Aside_: And also if I didn't want to
get out of this as quick as I can; for I'm sure there is some row going
on.)  As it is, I will add no words to my sentence.  (_Aside_: I wish I
were _off_, but let's give it him hot and heavy!)  I sentence you to six
years' penal servitude and to pay a fine of 100 pounds.

_J. F_.  Well, its pretty much what I expected of _you_.  As to the 100
pounds, don't you wish you may get it; and as to the six years--

[_Great noise_; "_Marseillaise_" _sung quite close_; _hammering on the
doors_.

_J. F_.  Hark! what's that?

_J. N_. (_in a quavering voice_).  Remove the prisoner!

[_Enter a_ SOCIALIST ensign _with a red flag in his hand_.

_S. E_.  Remove the prisoner!  Yes, that's just what I've come to do, my
lord.  The Tables are Turned now!

_J. N_. (_rising and prepared to go_).  Arrest that man!

_S. E_.  Yes, do--if you can.

_J. F_.  What does it all mean, Bill?

_S. E_.  The very beginning of it, Jack.  It seems we have not been
sanguine enough.  The Revolution we were all looking forward to had been
going on all along, and now the last act has begun.  The reactionists are
fighting, and pretty badly too, for the soldiers are beginning to
remember that they too belong to the "lower classes"--the lower
classes--hurrah!  You must come along at once, Freeman; we shall want you
in our quarter.  Don't waste another minute with these fools.

_J. N_. (_screaming_).  Help, help!  Murder, murder!

_S. E_.  Murder!--murder a louse!  Who's hurting you, old gentleman?
Don't make such a noise.  We'll try and make some use of you when we have
time, but we must bustle now.  Come on, Jack.  Stop a bit, though;
where's the Clerk of the Court?  Oh, there!  Clerk, we shall want this
Court-house almost directly to use for a free market for this district.
There have been too many people starving and half-starving this long
time; and the first thing that we've got to see to is that every one has
enough to eat, drink, and wear, and a proper roof over his head.

_J. N_.  Murder! thieves! fire!

_S. E_.  There, there!  Don't make such a row, old fellow!  Get out of
this, and bellow in the fields with the horned cattle, if you must
bellow.  Perhaps they'll want Courts of Justice now, as we don't.  And as
for you, good fellows, all give a cheer for the Social Revolution which
has Turned the Tables; and so--to work--to work!

[JUDGE _screams and faints, and Curtain falls_.




PART II.


SCENE.--_The Fields near a Country Village; a Copse close by.  Time--After
the Revolution_.

[_Enter_ CITIZEN (_late_ JUSTICE) NUPKINS.  _He looks cautiously about to
right and left, then sits down on the ground_.]

_C. N_.  Now I think I may safely take a little rest: all is quiet here.
Yet there are houses in the distance, and wherever there are houses now,
there are enemies of law and order.  Well, at least, here is a good thick
copse for me to hide in in case anybody comes.  What am I to do?  I shall
be hunted down at last.  It's true that those last people gave me a good
belly-full, and asked me no questions; but they looked at me very hard.
One of these times they will bring me before a magistrate, and then it
will be all over with me.  I shall be charged as a rogue and a vagabond,
and made to give an account of myself; and then they will find out who I
am, and then I shall be hanged--I shall be hanged--I, Justice Nupkins!
Ah, the happy days when _I_ used to sentence people to be hanged!  How
easy life was then, and now how hard!  [_Hides his face in his hands and
weeps_.

[_Enter_ MARY PINCH, _prettily dressed_.]

_M. P_.  How pleasant it is this morning!  These hot late summer
mornings, when the first pears are ripening, and the wheat is nearly
ready for cutting, and the river is low and weedy, remind me most of the
times when I was a little freckle-faced child, when I was happy in spite
of everything, though it was hard lines enough sometimes.  Well, well, I
can think of those times with pleasure now; it's like living the best of
the early days over again, now we are so happy, and the children like to
grow up straight and comely, and not having their poor little faces all
creased into anxious lines.  Yes, I am my old self come to life again;
it's all like a pretty picture of the past days.  They were brave men.
and good fellows who helped to bring it about: I feel almost like saying
my prayers to them.  And yet there were people--yes, and poor people
too--who couldn't bear the idea of it.  I wonder what they think of it
now.  I wish, sometimes, I could make people understand how I felt when
they came to me in prison, where all things were so miserable that,
heaven be praised! I can't remember its misery now, and they brought
Robert to me, and he hugged me and kissed me, and said, when he stood
away from me a little, "Come, Mary, we are going home, and we're going to
be happy; for the rich people are gone, and there's no more starving or
stealing."  And I didn't know what he meant, but I saw such a look in his
eyes and in the eyes of those who were with him, that my feet seemed
scarcely on the ground; as if I were going to fly.  And how tired out I
was with happiness before the day was done!  Just to think that my last-
born child will not know what to be poor meant; and nobody will ever be
able to make him understand it.  [NUPKINS _groans_.]  Hilloa!  What's the
matter?  Why, there's a man ill or in trouble; an oldish man, too.  Poor
old fellow!  Citizen, what's the matter?  How can I help you?

_C. N_. (_jumping up with a howl_).  Ah, they are upon me!  That dreadful
word "citizen"!  (_Looks at_ M. P. _and staggers back_).  Oh, Lord! is
it?  Yes, it _is_--the woman that I sentenced on that horrible morning,
the last morning I adorned the judicial bench.

_M. P_.  What _is_ the matter?  And how badly you're dressed; and you
seem afraid.  What _can_ you be afraid of?  If I am not afraid of the
cows, I am sure you needn't be--with your great thick stick, too.  (_She
looks at him and laughs, and says aside_, Why to be sure, if it isn't
that silly, spiteful old man that sentenced me on the last of the bad
days before we all got so happy together!)  (_To_ N.)  Why, Mr.
Nupkins--citizen--I remember you; you are an old acquaintance: I'll go
and call my husband.

_C. N_.  Oh, no! no! don't! _please_ don't!--(_Aside_: There, there, I'm
done for--can I run away?--No use--perhaps I might soften her.  I used to
be called eloquent--by the penny-a-liners.  I've made a jury cry--I
think--let me try it.  Gentlemen of the Jury, remember the sad change in
my client's position! remember.--Oh, I'm going mad, I think--she
remembers me)  (_Kneels before her_) Oh, woman, woman, spare me!  Let me
crawl into the copse and die quietly there!

_M. P_.  Spare you, citizen?  Well, I could have spared you once, well
enough, and so could many another poor devil have done.  But as to dying
in the copse, no, I really can't let you do that.  You must come home to
our house, and we'll see what can be done with you.  It's our old house,
but really nice enough, now; all that pretty picture of plenty that I
told you about on that day when you were so hard upon me has come to
pass, and more.

_C. N_.  Oh, no!  I can't come!

_M. P_.  Oh, yes; you can get as far as that, and we'll give you
something to eat and drink, and then you'll be stronger.  It will really
please me, if you'll come; I'm like a child with a new toy, these days,
and want to show new-comers all that's going on.  Come along, and I'll
show you the pretty new hall they are building for our parish; it's such
a pleasure to stand and watch the lads at work there, as merry as grigs.
Hark! you may hear their trowels clinking from here.  And, Mr. Nupkins,
you mustn't think I stole those loaves; I really didn't.

_C. N_.  Oh, dear me!  Oh, dear me!  She wants to get me away and murder
me!  I won't go.

_M. P_.  How _can_ you talk such nonsense?  Why, on earth, should I
murder you?

_C. N_. (_sobbing_).  Judicially, judicially!

_M. P_.  How silly you are!  I really don't know what you mean.  Well, if
you won't come with me, I'm off; but you know where to go when you want
your dinner.  But if you still owe me a grudge, which would be very silly
of you, any of the people in the houses yonder will give you your food.
[_Exit_.

_C. N_.  There!  She's going to fetch some ferocious revolutionaries to
make an end of me.  It's no use trying to stop her now.  I will flee in
another direction; perhaps I shan't always meet people I've sentenced.

[_As he is going he runs up against_ WILLIAM JOYCE, _once_ SOCIALIST
ENSIGN, _entering from the other side_.

_William Joyce_.  Hilloa, citizen! look out! (_looking at him_)  But I
say, what's the matter with you?  You are queerly rigged.  Why, I haven't
seen a man in such a condition for many a long day.  You're like an
ancient ruin, a dream of past times.  No, really I don't mean to hurt
your feelings.  Can I do anything to help you?

[C. N. _covers his face with his hands and moans_.

_W. J_.  Hilloa!  Why, I'm blessed if it isn't the old bird who was on
the bench that morning, sentencing comrade Jack!  What's _he_ been doing,
I wonder?  I say, don't you remember me, citizen?  I'm the character who
came in with the red flag that morning when you were playing the last of
your queer games up yonder.  Cheer up, man! we'll find something for you
to do, though you have been so badly educated.

_C. N_.  Spare me, I entreat you!  Don't let it be known who I am, pray
don't, or I shall certainly be hanged.  Don't hang me; give me hard
labour for life, but don't hang me!  Yes, I confess I was Judge Nupkins;
but don't give me up!  I'll be your servant, your slave all my life; only
don't bring me before a magistrate.  They are so unfair, and so hard!

_W. J_.  Well, what do you think of a judge, old fellow?

_C. N_.  That's nearly as bad, but not quite; because sometimes there's a
cantankerous blackguard on the jury who won't convict, and insists on
letting a man off.  But, please, pray think better of it, and let it be a
private matter, if you must needs punish me.  I won't bring an action
against you, whatever you do.  Don't make it a judicial matter!  Look
here, I'll sign a bond to be your servant for ever without wages if you
will but feed me.  I suffer so from not having my meals regularly.  If
you only knew how bad it is to be hungry and not to be sure of getting a
meal.

_W. J_.  Yes, Nupkins; but you see, I _do_ know only too well--but that's
all gone by.  Yet, if you had only known that some time ago, or let's
say, guessed at it, it might have been the better for you now.

_C. N_. (_aside_; Oh, how jeering and hard he looks!)  Oh, spare me, and
don't send me to the workhouse!  You've no idea how they bully people
there.  I didn't mean to be a bad or hard man; I didn't indeed.

_W. J_.  Well, I must say if you meant to be anything else, you botched
the job!  But I suppose, in fact, you didn't mean anything at all.--So
much the worse for you.  (_Aside_: I must do a little cat and mouse with
him).

_C. N_.  Oh, spare me, spare me!  I'll work so hard for you.  Keep it
dark as to who I am.  It will be such an advantage you're having me all
to yourself.

_W. J_.  Would it, indeed?  Well, I doubt that.

_C. N_.  Oh, I think so.  I really am a good lawyer.

_W. J_.  H'm, that would be rather less useful than a dead jackass--unless
one came to the conclusion of making cat's meat of you.

_C. N_. (_aside_, Oh, I'm sick at heart at his hinted threats).  Mr.
Socialist, don't you see I could put you up to all sorts of dodges by
which you could get hold of odds and ends of property--as I suppose you
have some sort of property still--and the titles of the land must be very
shaky just after a revolution?  I tell you I could put you up to things
which would make you a person of great importance; as good as what a lord
used to be.

_W. J_. (_aside_, Oh, you old blackguard!  What's bred in the bone won't
come out of the flesh.  I really must frighten the old coward a little;
besides, the council _has_ got to settle what's to be done with him, or
the old idiot will put us to shame by dying on our hands of fright and
stupidity.)  (_To_ N.)  Nupkins, I really don't know what to do with you
as a slave; I'm afraid that you would corrupt the morals of my children;
that you would set them quarrelling and tell them lies.  There's nothing
for it but you must come before the Council of our Commune: they'll meet
presently under yonder tree this fine day.

_C. N_.  No, no, don't!  Pray let me go and drag out the remainder of a
miserable existence without being brought before a magistrate and sent to
prison!  You don't know what a dreadful thing it is.

_W. J_.  You're wrong again, Nupkins.  I know all about it.  The stupid
red tape that hinders the Court from getting at the truth; the
impossibility of making your stupid judge understand the real state of
the case, because he is not thinking of you and your life as a man, but
of a set of rules drawn up to allow men to make money of other people's
misfortunes; and then to prison with you; and your miserable helplessness
in the narrow cell, and the feeling as if you must be stifled; and not
even a pencil to write with, or knife to whittle with, or even a pocket
to put anything in.  I don't say anything about the starvation diet,
because other people besides prisoners were starved or half-starved.  Oh,
Nupkins, Nupkins! it's a pity you couldn't have thought of all this
before.

_C. N_. (_aside_: Oh, what terrible revenge is he devising for me?) (_to_
W. J.)  Sir, sir, let me slip away before the Court meets.  (_Aside_: A
pretty Court, out in the open-air!  Much they'll know about law!)

_W. J_.  Citizen Nupkins, don't you stir from here!  You'll see another
old acquaintance presently--Jack Freeman, whom you were sending off to
six years of it when the red flag came in that day.--And in good time
here he is.

[_Enter_ JACK FREEMAN, _sauntering in dressed in a blouse, smoking, a
billycock on his head, and his hands in his pockets_.

_W. J_.  There's your judge, Citizen Nupkins!  No, Jack, you needn't take
your hands out of your pockets to shake hands with me; I know your ways
and your manners.  But look here! (_pointing to_ NUPKINS).

_J. F_.  Why, what next?  There's no mistaking him, it's my old
acquaintance Mr. Justice Nupkins.  Why you seem down on your luck,
neighbour.  What can I do to help you?

[NUPKINS _moans_.

_W. J_. (_winking at_ FREEMAN).  You've got to try him, Jack.

_J. F_.  Why, what has he been doing?  (_Aside_, I say, old fellow, what
game are you up to now?)

_W. J_.  Doing? why nothing.  That's just it; something must be done with
him.  He must come before the council: but I'm afraid he's not of much
use to anyone.  (_Aside_, I say, Jack, he is a mere jelly of fear: thinks
that we are going to kill him and eat him, I believe.  I must carry it on
a little longer; don't spoil all my fun.)

_J. F_. (_Aside_, _to_ W. J.)  Well, certainly he deserves it, but take
care that he doesn't die of fear on your hands, Bill.  (_Aloud_) Well,
the council will meet in a minute or two, and then we will take his case.

_C. N_. (_to_ J. F.)  Oh, sir, sir, spare me and don't judge me!  I'll be
servant to you all my life!

_W. J_.  Why Nupkins, what's this?  You promised to be a servant to _me_!

_J. F_.  Citizen Nupkins, I really must say thank-you for nothing.  What
the deuce could I do with a servant?  Now don't you trouble yourself; the
council will see to your affairs.  And in good time here come the
neighbours.

[_Enter the Neighbours_, ROBERT PINCH, MART PINCH, _and others_.

_W. J_.  Now for it, Nupkins!  Bear your own troubles as well as you used
to bear other peoples', and then you'll do very well.

JACK FREEMAN _takes his seat on the ground under the tree, the others
standing and sitting about him_: WILLIAM JOYCE _makes a show of guarding_
NUPKINS, _at which the neighbours look rather astonished; but he nods and
winks to them, and they see there is some joke toward and say nothing_.

_J. F_.  Well, neighbours, what's the business to-day?

_1st Neighbour_.  I have to report that three loads of that oak for the
hall-roof have come to hand; it's well-seasoned good timber, so there
need be no hitch in the building now.

_2nd Neighbour_.  Well, chairman, we sent off the wool to the
north-country communes last week, and they are quite satisfied with it.
Their cloth has come to hand rather better than worse than the old
sample.

_3rd Neighbour_.  I have to report that the new wheel at the silk mill is
going now, and makes a very great improvement.  It gives us quite enough
power even when the water is small; so we shan't want a steam-engine
after all.

_J. F_.  When do we begin wheat harvest?

_3rd Neighbour_.  Next Thursday in the ten-acre; the crop is heavy and
the weather looks quite settled; so we shall have a jolly time of it.

_J. F_.  Well, I'm glad I know in good time; for I never like to miss
seeing the first row of reapers going into the corn.  Is there anything
else?

_W. J_.  Well, there's one troublesome business, chairman (_looks_ _at_
C. N., _who trembles and moans_).  There's that dog we caught, that
thief, that useless beast.  What is to be done with him?

_C. N_. (_Aside_, That's me! that's me!  To think that a justice should
be spoken of in such language!  What am I to do?  What am I to do?)

_2nd Neighbour_.  Well, chairman, I think we must shoot him.  Once a
thief always a thief, you see, with that kind of brute.  I'm sorry,
because he has been so badly brought up; and though he is an ugly dog, he
is big and burly; but I must say that I think it must be done, and as
soon as possible.  He'll be after the girls if we don't do it at once!

_C. N_. (_Aside_: What! have they got hold of that story, then?)

_J. F_.  Well, neighbours, what's to be said? anybody against it?  Is
this unpleasant business agreed to?

_All_.  Agreed, agreed.

_J. F_.  Well, then, let the dog be shot.  Bill, it's your turn for an
ugly job this time: you must do it.

_W. J_.  Well, if it must be, it must.  I'll go and get a gun in a
minute.

_C. N_.  Oh, God! to think of their disposing of a fellow-man's life with
so little ceremony!  And probably they will go and eat their dinners
afterwards and think nothing of it.  (_Throwing himself on his knees
before_ JACK FREEMAN.)  Oh, your Socialist worship!  Oh, citizen my lord!
spare me, spare me!  Send me to prison, load me with chains, but spare my
life!

_J. F_.  Why, what ails the man?  Chains! we don't use chains for that
sort of thing.  They're good to fasten up boats with, and for carts, and
such like; so why should we waste them by ornamenting you with them?  And
as to prison, we can't send you to prison, because we haven't got one.
How could we have one? who would be the jailer?  No, no; we can't be
bothered with you in prison.  You must learn to behave decently.

_C. N_.  What! have you no punishment but death, then?  O! what am I to
do? what am I to do?

_1st Neighbour_.  Do?  Why, behave decently.

_C. N_.  But how can I behave decently when I'm dead?  (_Moans_.)

_2nd Neighbour_.  But, neighbour, you must die some time or another, you
know.  Make the most of your time while you are alive.

_C. N_.  Have you the heart to say such things to a man whom you are
going to shoot in a few minutes?  How horrible!  Oh, look here! if you
haven't got a prison, build one for me! or make one out of a cellar, and
lock me up in it; but don't shoot me--don't!

_W. J_.  Well, old acquaintance, to want a prison all to your own cheek!
This is individualism, with a vengeance!  It beats Auberon Herbert.  But
who is going to shoot you?

_C. N_.  Why, you.  He said shoot the dog (_weeping_).

_W. J_.  Well, citizen, I must say that either your estimate of yourself
is modest, or your conscience is bad, that you must take that title to
yourself!  No; it _is_ a bad business, but not so bad as that.  It's not
you that we're going to shoot, but a poor devil of a dog--a real dog,
with a tail, you know--who has taken to killing sheep.  And I'm sorry to
say that social ethics have given me the job of shooting him.  But come,
now, you shall do it for me: you used to be a great upholder of capital
punishment.

_C. N_.  But what are you going to do with me, then?  How are you going
to punish me?

_J. F_.  Punish you? how can we punish you? who do you think is going to
do such work as that!  People punish others because they like to; and we
don't like to.  Once more, learn to live decently.

_G. N_.  But how _am_ I to live?

_J. F_.  You must work a little.

_C. N_.  But what at, since you object to lawyers?

_J. F_.  Look round you, friend, at the fields all yellowing for
harvest,--we will find you work to do.

_C. N_. (_Aside_: Ah, I see.  This means hard labour for life, after all.
Well, I must submit.  Unhappy Nupkins!  _To_ FREEMAN)  But who is to
employ me?  You will have to find me a master; and perhaps he won't like
to employ me.

_J. F_.  My friend, we no more have masters than we have prisons: the
first make the second.  You must employ yourself: and you must also
employ something else.

_C. N_.  What?  I don't understand.

_J. F_.  Mother Earth, and the traditions and devices of all the
generations of men whom she has nourished.  All that is for you, Nupkins,
if you only knew it.

_C. N_.  I still do not comprehend your apologue.

_J. F_.  No?  Well, we must put aside abstractions and get to the
concrete.  What's this, citizen? (_showing a spade_.)

_C. N_.  That is an instrument for effodiation.

_J. F_.  Otherwise called a spade.  Well, to use your old jargon,
citizen, the sentence of this court is that you do take this instrument
of effodiation, commonly called a spade, and that you do effodiate your
livelihood therewith; in other words, that you do dig potatoes and other
roots and worts during the pleasure of this court.  And, to drop jargon,
since you are so badly educated our friend Robert Pinch--Mary's
husband--will show you how to do it.  Is that agreed to, neighbours?

_All_.  Agreed, agreed.

_W. J_. (_rather surlily_).  I don't think he will get on well.  Now he
knows we are not going to serve him out, he is beginning to look sour on
us for being happy.  You see, he will be trying some of his old lawyers'
tricks again.

_J. F_.  Well, Bill, it won't much matter.  He can't hurt us; so we will
hope the best for him.

_M. P_.  Should we hurt his feelings by being a little merry in his
presence now?

_J. F_.  Well, I think we may risk it.  Let those of you who are not too
lazy to dance, as I am, do so to the tune that sprang up at the dawn of
freedom in the days of our great-grandfathers.

[_They dance round_ CITIZEN NUPKINS, _singing the following words to the
tune of the_ "_Carmagnole_":

   _What's this that the days and the days have done_?
   _Man's lordship over man hath gone_.

   _How fares it, then, with high and low_?
   _Equal on earth, they thrive and grow_.

            _Bright is the sun for everyone_;
            _Dance we, dance we the Carmagnole_.

   _How deal ye, then, with pleasure and pain_?
   _Alike we share and bear the twain_.

   _And what's the craft whereby ye live_?
   _Earth and man's work to all men give_.

   _How crown ye excellence of worth_?
   _With leave to serve all men on earth_.

   _What gain that lordship's past and done_?
   _World's wealth for all and every one_.

[FREEMAN _and_ NUPKINS _come to the front_.

* * * * *

_J. F_.  Well, Nupkins, you see you have got the better of us damned
Socialists after all.  For in times past you used to bully us and send us
to prison and hang us, and we had to put up with it; and now you and
yours are no longer masters, there _are_ no masters, and there is nobody
to bully you.  How do you like it, old fellow? (_clapping him on the
shoulder_.)

_C. N_. (_bursting into tears_).  A world without lawyers!--oh, dear! oh,
dear!  To think that I should have to dig potatoes and see everybody
happy!

_J. F_.  Well, Nupkins, you must bear it.  And for my part, I can't be
very sorry that you feel it so keenly.  When scoundrels lament that they
can no longer be scoundrels for lack of opportunity, it is certain that
THE TABLES ARE TURNED.

THE END.

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