The present time is a most hazardous one. Good men and women, of all stations in society, recognize that the existing social conditions are most unjust and likely to suffer a serious crash in the not far distant future. Naturally enough the thinkers of the age, are trying, through the channels of pleasing fiction, to present a solution of the knotty social problem which confronts us; but, in the present writer's opinion, although their efforts have been an inestimable boon to humanity, they have all, with perhaps one exception, fallen short of the desired goal. “Looking Backward” is too impracticable, and too authoritarian to be desirable even if it were practicable; as the clever Writer of “Looking Further Forward” has well shown; “Caesar's Column,” although a masterpiece of destructive reasoning, is unsatisfactory to those who would see society build itself anew; “News from Nowhere” is too exclusively sentimental; while the hosts of minor works are not characterized by any ideas of special value in the solution of the problem. Even “Freeland,” the able work of Dr. Hertzka which towers above all the others in profundity of thought and correct economic insight, is based upon a scheme of such colossal magnitude as to somewhat detract from its immediate utility, and furthermore it relies for its execution upon the means of the wealthy. In the present work the writer endeavors to show how the oppressed classes can work out their own emancipation without reliance upon the uncertain assistance of the wealthy.

​

THE MELBOURNE RIOTS; And How Harry Holdfast and His Friends Emancipated the Workers.



I.

“Harry, if you take my advice you'll not go to that meeting.”

“But I don't intend to take your advice, John. I know what I'm about. And I know that my presence will have an important effect in deciding the fate of those unfortunate wretches, who are almost driven mad with hunger and oppression. What with those crafty capitalistic wire-pullers aggravating them to deeds of rashness and riot on the one side, and the equally unprincipled tactics and dangerous utterances of those favour-seeking demagogues on the other, they are in the greatest danger that they could possibly be. They might as well be at the mercy of wild beasts in a jungle. I have strong misgivings that some serious calamity will befall them to-night.”

“A very good reason why you should stay at home, instead of getting into trouble over other people.”

But Harry Holdfast was determined. No argument or appeal could possibly affect him—unless, indeed, to intensify his determination—and without taking any notice of his brother's retort, he immediately left the house, and made his way to town where the “monster indignation labor meeting” was advertised to be held.

Harry was a popular character amongst the working people of Melbourne, because he was not only an eloquent labor agitator, but he had a happy method of putting himself on friendly terms with his hearers by appealing to the better natures of friend and foe alike. Of course, he had his enemies, as every one has had who has tried to make the world better than he found it; but they were not many, and he gave them little opportunity of pointing the finger of slander against him, the worst that they could say of him being that he was an “agitator.” But as he was proud of the title, that did not trouble him.

But there were other things that did trouble Harry, and troubled him deeply.

There was a terrible state of destitution amongst thousands of the working classes, not only in Melbourne, but throughout the whole colony of Victoria; in fact, the “depression,” as it was called, had become common throughout the whole civilized world. Men were out of employment in all directions. Work had ceased to be scarce, and had become totally unobtainable for great numbers of them. The ranks of the ​unemployed were growing greater and greater from week to week. Charitable societies were organizing in every big centre of population, but they were powerless to effect any material change in the state of affairs; all the wealth they dispensed in six months could not keep those already out of employment supplied with the necessaries of life for a single day. The Government had been compelled to start various relief works, but they only employed, a very few, and only succeeded in swelling the already heavy burden of taxation. Economy was sought by retrenchment in the civil service, hundreds of public servants being dispensed with, but this only helped to throw more men into the growing ranks of the unemployed and left the solution of the difficulty as far off as ever. The labor party who after many years of untiring struggle had got a very numerous representation in the legislature, were powerless to tear down the strong vested interests arrayed against them as they had hoped to do, and were as ignorant of the ultimate causes of the terrible depression which was threatening to break up society as they were divided in opinion as to the wisest expedients to tide over the present difficulties; as to a radical and permanent cure, they did not dare to entertain the thought of it.

The streets of Melbourne were thronged with men in vain search of employment; there were a few of the genuine genus “loafer” amongst them, but the great mass were strong; steady, worthy fellows, anxious and willing to work, but with no work that they might put their hands to. It was estimated that they numbered no less than 50,000 persons. And yet it was pointed out that, by the statistics of Hayter's “Year Book,” the Colony was wealthier than it had ever been before; in fact, it had become in proportion to its size, one of the wealthiest countries in the world. But despite this fact, the very employers themselves were beginning to share the fate of the wretched workers; bankruptcies were, increasing daily, shop after shop was closing its shutters, merchants were reducing their imports and farmers ceasing to send their products to market for want of buyers. Some of the largest firms in the city, which had always been felt to be as stable as the Government itself, found themselves compelled to suspend operations, and in many cases to give up their entire estate, thus throwing thousands out to starve.

The climax was reached when, on the day before out story opens, the gigantic firm of Goldschmidt, Beere and Co. had dismissed their entire staff at the shortest notice, and men, women and children were rendered workless, homeless and without prospect of food before them.

II.

It was not long before Harry reached the spot where the Monster Indignation Labor Meeting was being held. There were already a large number present and fresh visitors continued to arrive until the meeting had assumed larger dimensions than any other that had ever been held in Melbourne, and it yet wanted several minutes to the time when the proceedings were to commence. It was with some difficulty that Harry ​managed to elbow his way through the crowd to the lorry which was in readiness for the speakers of the evening to “orate” from; but at last, amidst loud cheering, he-mounted the “platform” along with the others. The sight was one calculated to cheer the heart of any enthusiast who longed to see the workers strive for a higher social level than the one they now occupied. The lorry stood some fifty yards from the footpath, in the centre of a large block of land where several immense stores had stood only a few months before. On both sides and behind, were thousands of working men, many of whom had their wives and children with them; and away in front, stretching right across Flinders Street, until traffic was well-nigh impeded, the immense ocean of proletaires stretched forth in its rugged grandeur. Harry felt strange sensation pass over him as he beheld this extraordinary sight. Here and there were policemen mixing up in the crowd and preserving “order,” while down the street were a few dozen mounted troopers. But these were; such a mere handful, compared with the great mass of working people present, that they attracted little attention. On the lorry were about twenty other men besides Harry, and a remarkable assortment of physiognomies they presented. One big fellow, with firm set limbs, rather dark complexion and heavy frowning brow, was perhaps the most noticeable of all; but alongside him was a remarkable little fellow, fussing about and gesticulating to those about him, and acting as though he fancied himself the host of those present. This strange personage caught one's eye at a glance—his peculiar attire, somewhat resembling that of the French peasantry, his small limbs, his big bullet head out of all proportion to the rest of the body, and his bull-like neck, all showed him to he a man of unusual characteristics, and did not favorably impress a spectator upon first seeing him; but when one looked closer into his face, and saw the cunning, piercing little eyes, the big, sharply-cut and thin-lipped mouth, and the strained effort at a permanent smile, which, like Harte's Heathen Chinee, was “child-like and bland” to a degree, the interest in this little individual became intense, and made one almost forget the presence of the Herculean agitator beside him. On the precise moment that the Post Office clock in Elizabeth Street chimed seven o'clock, the big man arose to his feet to address the meeting. Loud applause and ringing hurras greeted him from thousands of throats. When the deafening noise had subsided he addressed them as follows:—“Comrades, in the war of labor against the tyranny of capital (loud applause), it is with pleasure that I can't express that I open this mighty meeting, a meeting which I hope and believe will never be forgotten in the history of human progress (hear, hear, and bravo), a meeting that is not summoned like its predecessors to talk, and talk, and never do more than talking, but a meeting that is resolved to strike the final blow at the monster of capitalism which is devouring us (vociferous applause). We are here to-night, friends, not to ask our rights—we have done that too long already—we are here to take our stand as men and women, and to enter into a fight to the death for a world which has been stolen from us and which awaits us under our very feet” (tremendous cheering and hooraying interrupted the speaker, who ​presently proceeded), We are here, I say, to fight the greatest fight in all history, not to repeat the little petty contest between a few thousand English and Russian warriors, or to lead the hired butchers of Germany to cut the throats of the hired butchers of France; we are not here to massacre Afghans, Egyptians, Zulus, or Maories; we are not here to perpetuate the senseless feuds between nations and nations, between creeds and castes, or between race and color; but we are here to affirm the unity of all humanity, to assert that in the future the world shall only know one race, one people, one country, without creeds or colors to disunite them; and we are here to assert the dominion of the people and the final subjugation of the race of luxurious vampires who have held them in bondage since the dawn of civilization (loud applause). We are here to protest against the fiendish inhumanity of the Goldschmidt Beere and Co's (hisses and groaning), and to avenge ourselves upon their kind the whole world over. Permit me, comrades, to call upon the first speaker, Samuel Sharples.”

An intelligent-looking young fellow here arose, and after the applause following the oration of the last speaker had subsided, he spoke, with considerable emotion, as follows:—

“Friends, you have heard what our worthy chairman, Tom Treadway, has said, and I am afraid any words of mine will sound very dull after his fiery eloquence (cries of “No”, “no”), but I should be ashamed of myself if I did not do all in my power to help the cause of labor in this awful period of distress and death. Why do we have all these troubles year after year? Have we not a government to protect us, and to look after our welfare? True, they don't do so; but that, I am afraid, is our own fault (cries of “No,” and interruption). Well, friends, I think it is so. We put bad men to rule over us, and then wonder why they rob us and compel us to be idle; we should send men to represent us who would know our interests and look after them. We want the land of the people thrown open to the use of the people (hear, hear); we want all the capital and machinery to be in the hands of the State instead of in the hands of private parasites; we want to tax the absentee and the land-grabber instead of taxing the poorly-paid laborer; we want—” Here someone interjected “We're tired of wanting,” and a restless chain of interruption made itself gradually felt over the meeting, entirely drowning the voice of the speaker, who was compelled to resume his seat on the lorry.

Treadway then announced that Harry Holdfast would next address the meeting.

Harry was up in a moment. His familiar face was greeted with the most enthusiastic applause. “Friends,” said he, “and foes, if any are present, we are met as the chairman has said, to open the greatest war the world has ever seen (hear, hear), but are we to come out victors or vanquished? (“Victors” was echoed from some thousand throats). Let us hope so. The great Shakespeare has said, ‘Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but being in't, bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee,’ and I feel that we are now in such a quarrel; long have we feared to enter it—for centuries have we and our forefathers groaned beneath injustice and ​oppression, but we can wait no longer; the blight of capital is fast crushing us out of existence, our wives and children are dying in front of us because we cannot, we dare not win the bread with which to sustain their lives. We have not courted the quarrel; we are in the thick of the fight; capital has its knee upon our throat and is fast strangling the breath from our bodies. Shall we longer endure it? (loud cries of “No”) No, friends, let us bear our quarrel; and let us bear it like true men and women, that those who oppose may admire our courage and determination, and fear our strength, our numbers, and our undying resolve to be free (enthusiastic applause). But how are we to be free? Shall we wait for freedom with our arms folded? Shall we follow the advice of friend Sharples and ask our wealthy oppressors to tax themselves instead of us? (cries “No”) Shall we ask them to free the land when they all exist by keeping it from us, and making us work upon it for their profit because they call it theirs? No, comrades, we are truly told that ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ and we need never hope to be free while we wait for others to set us free; we must free ourselves (applause). The actions of Goldschmidt, Beere &. Co (loud groans) I was about to say that the action of that firm in dismissing their hands, cruel as it is in its effects; upon us, was inevitable under the conditions in which we all live. They dared not do otherwise. You or I in their place must have done the same (cries of “No, no,” and interruption). You disbelieve me friends, but I can assure you it is as I say. Had they not closed yesterday, in a few weeks at most their creditors would have compelled them to close, for their stores are glutted with the goods which we have made, and we, the workers, who should be their principal customers, as we embrace the greater part of the population, have no money to purchase our requirements of them and thus to provide them the revenue with which they pay their own debts (hear, hear). No, friends, we have entered on the labor war, but let us fight to win. Let us get the tools with which we work into the hands of us who use them, instead of letting them bring the revenue to those who work not to create it—I refer to the capitalists. We must learn—and learn immediately—how to co-operate together so as to secure the products of our labor for ourselves, to peacefully acquire possession of the lands which legal robbery has despoiled us of, and to become independent of the speculative individual who under pretext of lending us the requisite machinery with which to work for our own benefit, dips his hand deep into our pockets, depriving us of nearly all we have produced, and makes us the wretched slave of his accursed gold.”

The chairman next called upon Felix Slymer, the remarkable little bullet-headed agitator who sat next to him, and whom we have already briefly described. The applause that greeted this intimation was simply astounding. If the other speakers were popular, Slymer was more than popular—he was their very idol.

Gently rising to his feet, he softly stroked together his delicate and flabby little hands, apparent strangers to toil from their appearance, and slowly bowing before before them he delivered himself deliberately and in a markedly simulating manner of the following:—“Mr. Chairman, fellow ​Proletaires, Ladies and Gentlemen,—It is with the greatest pleasure that I note the unusual warm with which you greet my appearance. I feel it keenly. It gives me confidence. It tells me that you repose in me the confidence I have in you. I trust I shall be worthy of your esteem (Hear, hear, and cries of “You are worthy,” &c.). Well friends, I again thank you for your kind opinion of me; and I must now tell you what I think, and what I feel, and what I intend to do in the present desperate crisis. That it is desperate you all know as well as I do. Absolute slavery is not worse than it. This wage-slavery we are suffering under our bourgeoisie system of cut-throat competition is worse than death itself. But what are we to do? I agree with friend Sharples that we want worthy men to represent us (a cry, “We want you there”). Thanks, friend, but I am afraid I am not so worthy: I only wish I were. But when do we get proper representation? Never. All we get is representation of the squatters, the bankers, the swindling syndicates, the Jewish sweaters, the land sharks, and all who represent the vested interests of the time. Our present governments are rotten—rotten to the core; we need hope for nothing from them. But can we hope for anything from those co-operative ‘castles in the air’ that our individualistic friend, Holdfast, is recommending us? No; they're the panacea of the capitalist, a bone that the bourgeoisie throws out of his mansion window to keep the starving dog of labor quiet. If it were not an insult, I would almost think that Holdfast is in the hands of the capitalists, and is employed by them to draw co-operation as a red herring across our trail to take us off the scent. No, friends, we mustn't be deceived by these bogus remedies. We must strike the tree at its root. We must meet like with like. The present government is in armed force against the people. Soft words and co-operative stores can't resist jails and bullets. We must meet force with force. (Here a group of gruff-voiced followers of Slymer grunted assent, and the great part of the meeting applauded). Yes, we must arm ourselves; we must train our unemployed and drill them as soldiers that they may fight the hired soldiers of the capitalists and defend the homes of the laborers against the deadly fire of the paid murderers in the employ of our bureaucratic government. We must teach them how to make explosives, and to use them; (applause, dissent, and serious interruptions now kept increasing and the speaker's voice was only heard at intervals)—we must drive them into——” (rest of sentence lost in the uproar)——“capitalistic hounds must be swept into ——,” “dynamite and other——” “capture and hang or burn the ——,” these, and a similar lot of detached phrases were heard above the uproar, which had now become terrific; but nothing could be distinctly understood that the speaker was uttering.

Suddenly the police moved forward, and ordered the lorry and its occupants to disperse before further trouble was caused by their inflammatory utterances. A great rush ensued. The din was terrific. Large crowds of soldiers were seen hurriedly marching up St. Kilda Road headed by torches, and mounted police were gathering in immense numbers in all directions. The driver of the lorry, fearing danger, instantly turned his horses heads, and endeavoured to make for the street, which he gained ​after considerable delay and difficulty. No sooner had he reached Russell Street than he turned up to escape the crowd; but they followed him. The scene now became one of wild confusion, and it was with difficulty that the powerful horses managed to draw their burdens up the steep hill owing to the surging mass pressing and swaying so heavily against it, many being thrown down and trampled to death by one another, and numbers falling under the wheels of the lorry. Upon arriving at the corner of Collins Street further progress became absolutely impossible. The crowd had now increased by thousands, and rumours were all over the city bringing fresh throngs to the scene. No horse, or no body of horses, could possibly force its way through the immense wall of humanity that came surging up from Bourke Street. One would think that all Victoria had come to witness the indescribable scene.

Seeing that they could make no further retreat the occupants of the lorry held council together as to what they should do under the extraordinary circumstances. The general feeling was to quietly leave the wagon, one at a time, and silently disperse to their homes; but Felix Slymer would not hear of such a thing. He charged them with cowardice, and said that those who were so anxious to fight capital were trying to flee at the first sniff of danger. This rebuke was too much, and they decided to remain.

Taking in the state of affairs, and noticing the perplexity of the labor leaders, Slymer instantly brought himself “in evidence” before the crowd. Hastily rising to his legs, he once more addressed the masses of people who thronged the streets, urging them to resist this “unwarranted breach of discipline on the part of the officials” as he called it, and inciting them to deeds of violence to redress this wrong; he called, in the name of justice, upon those who had been “spoliated” by the capitalists to take their revenge and “loot the shops of the Collins Street aristocracy.” Instantly a rush was made down the street, shutters were torn down, windows smashed with the broken shutters, and the jewellers' and other shops were burst open. A cry was raised “To the banks!” and large numbers rushed for these time-honored representatives of vested interests, but they were too firmly constructed to be burst open, and the crowds returned to the shops of the “small-fry” capitalists. The police and the troopers were powerless to stop the furious onslaught of the people, although they mercilessly beat them with their batons and their swords until wounded and dying rioters were lying about in all directions.

While all this was going on, the lorry remained in its old place, and the great mass of the crowd stayed around it, and hopelessly hemmed it in, while Slymer continued his oration calling on the people to resist force with force. Suddenly Slymer disappeared, and it was thought he had been violently kidnapped by an agent of the capitalists. Harry, noticing his disappearance, hastened to fill his place, and stepping forward on the lorry he cried out “Friends, be calm. There is some treachery here. Let us disperse.” But he spoke too late.

All at once, the mayor of the city appeared, armed with a sheet of paper which turned out to be the Riot Act, and he appeared to read from ​it, although no one, not even himself, could hear a word of it, and no sooner had he done than a general rush was made by the police and a number of civilians upon the occupants of the lorry. Men were fighting each other indiscriminately. Women and children were screaming and fainting, and the horses plunging about wildly and trampling many many poor wretches to death. All of a sudden a series of terrific explosions occurred, shaking the earth like an earthquake and causing the steeple of one of the neighbouring churches to fall on the heads of a number of unfortunate victims beneath. Instantly there was a stoppage of the firing and fighting. All seemed to think that the world had come to its long-expected end, and gazed awe-stricken at each other in the sickly glare of the few torches that still continued to be held aloft. Recovering their presence of mind, and taking advantage of the temporary astonishment of the crowd, the police rushed for the occupants of the lorry, and after serious fighting, with the assistance of the soldiery, they captured eleven of them and, with considerable difficulty, marched them off in custody to the watchhouse where they were securely lodged.

The effect was marvellous. All the fighting ceased instantly. The crowd, having lost their leaders, seemed to have lost their hopes. Their frantic fury gave place to anxious fear. Slowly the streets commenced to assume their former appearance, the throng dispersed, the torches ceased to lend their ghastly glare to the ghastly scene; and although thousands continued to hang about the streets during the whole of the night, the greater part wended their way to their homes to brood in silence over the terrible drama they had been the unexpected witnesses of.

“It's late now, and Harry not yet home, I fear my worst suspicions are realized, mother,” said John Holdfast that night.

“Oh, don’t fear,” said the old lady, “Harry is certainly a rash young fellow, and a foolish chap to bother about other people's troubles when he always gets constant work himself, but he's not likely to get into any serious trouble. He's too temperate and cool-headed for that.”

But Harry lay in the cell along with his comrades, waiting to he tried on a charge of murder.

III.

It was a beautiful spring morning that followed the events depicted in the last chapter. The sky was clear, the air fresh and bracing, the sun delightfully warm without being oppressive. In fact, everything seemed cheerful and contented, except man. Even he, poor wretched mortal, was more or less influenced by the invigorating weather, and was in a better mood than he might otherwise have been. For the worst man amongst us is not wholly insensible to good surrounding influences, whatever theorists may say to the contrary.

It was on this cheerful morning that a young man might be seen walking, or rather slinking along some of the smaller streets of the city, availing himself of the many little rights-of-way and semi-private ​thoroughfares, as though to escape observation, until he reached a certain little cottage in the western end of Little Lonsdale Street, where he suddenly halted, and anxiously looked round him, as though fearful of being observed. Evidently seeing no one about, he pulled a little note book from his pocket, looked at the number on the door, as though to make sure that it tallied with the one in the book, and then gently stepped forward and knocked at the door. Presently a somewhat elderly man opened it, and without a word passing between them the visitor entered and the door was instantly closed behind him.

“Well, Slymer,” said the host, as soon as his visitor was seated, “did you do as I instructed you?”

“Yes,” was the curt reply.

Felix Slymer, without further ceremony, pulled out some papers from his pocket and handed them to his friend, who very carefully perused them, while the little eyes of his visitor were busily employed in taking in a very exhaustive view of the apartment in which he was waiting.

Presently the elderly man folded up the papers, placed them carefully in his pocket, and turning to Slymer, said:

“That will do, Slymer; you have faithfully performed your mission, and here is your reward.”

Slymer's eyes glistened, as his flabby hands clutched the ten bright sovereigns that were handed to him; but there was not that expression of glee that one would expect to see exhibited by one of so humble an appearance upon receipt of such a relatively large sum. Having carefully deposited the money in a secret pocket in the inner lining of his vest—he considered it unbecoming or inexpedient for one in his position to be seen using a purse—he was about to withdraw, when the other suddenly called him over to him.

“Felix,” said he, “I wish to ask you something before you go.”

“What's the matter now, Grindall,” was the reply, “I am not going to open my mouth for nothing.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself on that score, my friend, I am not going to ask you for ‘professional’ information just now. But I am a little uneasy about a paragraph I read in The Daily Weathercock this morning, and I thought you might enlighten me a little on the matter. Here, read it for yourself.”

Taking up the newspaper as directed, Slymer instantly read the following:—

TERRIFIC RIOT IN THE CITY.

Suspicious Agencies at Work.

In another part of this issue we give full and startling particulars of the extraordinary tumult which occurred in the city last evening. The labor party, intoxicated with recent legislative victories and eager for the plunder which they have so long threatened in dark and mysterious hints, burst out in full fury last night, upon the occasion of a “monster indignation meeting” as they called it, which was held in Flinders Street and subsequently shifted to the corner of Collins Street and Russell Street where the tragic events narrated elsewhere took place. It appears that several of the discontented loafers, who scorn to live except upon ​“agitation” and charity, convened a meeting of similarly-disposed ne'er-do-wells, presumably to “consider” the present grave depression, which is sorely taxing the minds of our wisest philanthropists and statesmen, though really to carry out the nefarious designs which they had brutally conceived and prearranged at a secret meeting held for the purpose some weeks before. Sharples, Holdfast, and a number of other roughs, who are well known to the police, are mainly instrumental for the disturbances and the terrific loss of life which has accompanied them, but the public will be glad to hear that they are all, or nearly all, in safe custody, and ready to take their quietus at the proper moment. It will not be prudent, at the present moment, to say too much on the subject, as the police have the matter in hand and are diligently working to forge such of chain of evidence as shall rid society of this terrible pest that has so long been allowed to destroy all public confidence, to frighten capital out of the colony, to absolutely stop all commercial enterprize, and to drive tens of thousands of deserving men and women to poverty and destitution. It is sufficient, for the present, to say, that one of the miserable cowardly wretches has shown the white feather already, and has exposed the whole of their nefarious designs, their operations for the past four years, the names and whereabouts of the ringleaders, and several other facts that we dare not mention. We cannot disclose the name of the miserable traitor, as he is still allowed to move among his old confreres in order to report their further proceedings, he still being one of the most trusted among them; and were we to name him they would set upon him and ferociously murder him, as they murdered those poor innocent men, women and children last night. We may, however, mention that our old and esteemed fellow-citizen, Gregory Grindall, our late and much-respected mayor of Melbourne, has munificently offered a reward of £50 to anyone who will give such information as will lead to the conviction of the thief or thieves, who during the riot carried off £20,000 worth of jewellery from his magnificent warehouses in Collins Street, and £25 to anyone who will expose the secrets of the labor organizations.

When Slymer had finished reading the paragraph, Grindall looked steadily at him, as though waiting some expression of feeling from him.

“Do you know anything of this matter?” he asked at length.

“Why do you ask?” responded Slymer.

"Do you not see? You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know; but you underestimate the risk.”

“You think £25 too little. Of course; I understand. What would you have me make it?”

“One thousand.”

“Great heavens! man, you seem to think I am made of money.”

“I dont know what else you're made of.”

“Slymer, you know I can't afford to resist your cruel insinuation, now that I have reposed such confidence in you. But really, the depression is so serious just now that one needs to look at every £5 note to keep out of the Insolvency Court.”

“My price is a thousand. If it don't suit you don't bargain. I know very well you won't get anyone else to do your dirty work for fifty times that sum, and you know it too.”

“Agreed, then,” said Grindall, “but give me time.”

“I will wait one month, provided you give me £100 now.”

“Right, then. But before you go, one word more. Were you present at this meeting last night?”

“I was. Don't you see my name amongst the speakers?”

“Yes; but how is it you were not incarcerated with the others?” ​“In the melee, I feigned being shot, and was able to crawl under the cart unobserved, where I waited until the disturbances were over, and then escaped unnoticed.”

“That will do. Good-bye. I wish you success.”

“Yes, but only for the sake of your own banking account, you old miser,” muttered Felix to himself as the door closed behind him and he was once again in the street.

IV.

Gregory Grindall was unhappy. Not that that was anything unusual with him because he was never a happy individual at the best of times. He had money certainly—abundance of it, in fact—but what pleasure could he derive from it when he was in constant danger of losing it? He had hosts of friends, too, amongst the higher, as well as the lower classes of society, but what did all their friendship benefit him when he mistrusted everyone of them and believed that most of them mistrusted him? True, he had the press extolling his innumerable virtues (real or imaginary) and the principal daily organ, of which he was part proprietor, lauded him to the skies; but as others in his own position understood the worth of the eulogies lavished upon him by the press, and as the pesky rabble were beginning to mistrust everything and everyone recommended by the “bourgeoisie press,” as they termed it, and as moreover the other papers had now and then a mercenary interest in supporting his rivals, what good, after all, would the press be to him in time of adversity, and with all the anxieties it brought upon him did it assist in his happiness? Certainly not. There is no happiness in life, where one is in constant anxiety. Although money rendered miserable all those poor wretches without money, there was no concealing the fact that it didn’t succeed very well either in bringing happiness to those who had lots of it. At least, so Grindall thought. He believed himself to be worth considerably over a million pounds, but then his liabilities were something enormous. As to his assets, he could not possibly estimate them, because half his investments appeared to be unsound now that the terrible depression was settling on everything—mines were failing, banks bursting, creditors failing without paying a shilling in the pound; and worse than all, he could not immediately convert his assets into cash as he desired to do, and the banks were so panic-stricken they feared to make advances to anyone except upon the most ruinous terms.

Gregory Grindall had lived a life full of varied business experience. Starting humbly, as many successful men have done before him, he had terrible odds to fight against. Often would he look back at the happy time when as a little errand boy he honestly worked for the few shillings which every week he took home to his anxious parents. Then he showed such intelligence and diligence that he got a situation as a clerk in a position of trust; but owing to the dishonesty of a fellow-worker, he was dismissed in disgrace on a false charge of embezzlement. Then he skipped ​from one thing to another until he chanced to form the acquaintance of an influential local councillor, who got him a job working for the corporation, and he gradually ingratiated himself into the favours of the councillors by his willing ways and his friendly manner. Then he saw the petty scheming, the selfish intrigues and the unscrupulous overreaching that appear to constitute about three-fourths of the raison d' etre of municipal governing bodies; and he was at first disgusted. Then he got so accustomed to seeing privileged intrigue trampling down meritorious effort that he became quite used to it, and he began to look upon it as the right thing after all—“the right of might” as he used to ease his conscience by labelling it. Then he watched his opportunity until he got in a few little swindles himself, “made money” as the saying is; got a little property somehow or other; began to be known publicly; got elected to the council, and proceeded step by step until he became mayor of the city of Melbourne, proprietor of one of the largest jewellery establishments in the colony, newspaper proprietor, mining share-broker, and a large shareholder in several of the largest banking syndicates in Australia. But still he wasn't happy.

Gregory paced up and down the room like a caged lion, and it was very evident some terrible weight was upon his mind. “I wish the damned thing was all over,” he muttered to himself; “what's the good of a fellow worrying and worrying his short life out if its all going to come to this? What's the good of wealth when you can't realize upon it, and honors when only a lot of avaricious hounds respect for them—and even their respect is only envy after all. It's all very fine for Parson Wilkins to talk about “the duty of the rich towards the poor”—bah! why doesn't the fat old beast, with his twenty pounds a week rolling in for doing nothing, why doesn't he practise those duties to the poor that he talks about? The miserable old wretch, he growled at me the other day because the interest on his shares in the International Chartered Bank had fallen two-and-a-half per cent., and only the month before I had cautioned him against leaving his ten thousand deposit in the Perpetual Prosperity Bank just in time for him to withdraw before it went smash. And that Slymer! the ungrateful little wretch! snivelling about my not being able to get anyone else to do my ‘dirty work.’ Dirty work, indeed, the insolent wretch! but I'll be even with him yet. If I don't get that thousand pounds back some day, aye, and with interest added, my name's not Grindall, by heavens it isn't!” The prospect of revenge seemed greatly to please the irate old millionaire, and to banish the prospects of his downfall from his mind; for he hastily put on his hat and gloves, and marched out into the street, slamming the door after him, with the air of one who had accomplished a decisive victory.

V.

It was a red-letter day in the history of Victorian labor, when Holdfast and his comrades were arraigned before the magistrates on the charge of murdering their fellow citizens. Never had the walls of the court held a ​more eager and expectant throng of men and women. The excitement a few years before over the fiendish murderer, Deeming, was nothing in comparison with it. And no wonder, for all seemed to realize that the case before the bench meant nothing less than the first decisive blow in the great struggle for supremacy between the classes and the masses. Eager speculations were indulged in as to the ultimate outcome of the impending trial. Would the authorities be severe with the prisoners, and if so what frightful revenge would the friends of the prisoners take upon their adversaries? Would the poor man have justice for the first time in civilisation's history, or had money already decided the fatal verdict? Such were the questions troubling the brains of the amazed spectators, and forming the topic of conversation amongst the thousands who thronged the streets for miles around. After the usual batch of drunks, larcenies, and petty misdeameanors had been rapidly disposed of, the great case of the Melbourne Rioters came on for hearing. After the usual preliminaries, the Crown Prosecutor stated the case, which was briefly as follows:—For a considerable time past, the police had been diligently watching a secret society, which had its headquarters in Melbourne, and had branches ramifying throughout all the industrial centres of the colonies. This society bore the ominous title of “The Knights of Revenge.” For a long time their purpose was unknown, and for a considerable time even their very existence was unsuspected. But thanks to the vigilance of the police and their practised agents the nefarious operations of the villains had all been ascertained and their base designs thwarted. The president of the society was one Thomas Treadway who he was glad to say was in safe custody amongst the accused. This monster had a scheme on hand to destroy every public building in Melbourne, to take the life of every man whose wealth was excessive and who attempted to resist his murderous onslaught. Harry Holdfast, the secretary to the gang, had written letters which were now in possession of the authorities and which he was certain would send every one of them to the gallows. It was the Knights of Revenge who had convened the fatal meeting held on the First day of May, a day celebrated everywhere as the festival of labor, and it was at their instigation, and through their organization, that the atrocious deeds of that day were committed, when six hundred and five men, women and children were cruelly and remorselessly massacred and many thousands seriously wounded, in most cases beyond hopes of recovery. Many wealthy men had been “marked” for destruction by the Society among whom was their most worthy and respected citizen, Gregory Grindall; all the banks were to be plundered; the establishments of certain tradesmen, who had not supported the return of the labor party to parliamentary power, were to be looted; and every special constable, or any other person who endeavoured in any way to oppose their designs was to be “removed.” The official prosecutor said he would not occupy the time of the court with full details of the ghastly plots; but would produce witnesses who would furnish the fullest and most reliable particulars.

Jonah Johnson, the first witness called, said he had known the accused for several years past. He had been a member of the Knights of ​Revenge for four years, having joined it when Treadway was president, a few months after its formation, when a friend of his in a state of semi-intoxication had divulged its existence. Treadway, one of the defendants, had then told witness that he meant to “destroy every wealthy loafer and every loafer's mansion before another five years were over their heads,” and he believed the present riot was the first organized attempt to carry the threat into execution. He could show them copies of a newspaper called Vengeance [paper produced] in which the plans of destruction were depicted exactly as Treadway had described them to his sanguinary confreres.

Ralph Washington, the next witness called, said he knew several of the defendants personally, being himself a member of the Knights of Revenge, having joined when in poverty and despair. He had long since ceased to be an actual member, having been for two years established in business as a hair-pin manufacturer through the charitable assistance of a wealthy gentleman, but he dared not hitherto leave it formally under penalty of death. Now that the miscreants were brought to justice and out of harm's way, he did not fear to proclaim his secession from the secret body, although he had long made known his true position to the police. He had known Treadway very intimately, having come out with him in the Royal Rover, from England, nearly three years ago, when he first broached his wicked plan to organize the society now known as the Knights of Revenge. He had now at his factory in Elizabeth Street, a large quantity of bombs and other explosives, which he had allowed another member of the gang, Sharples, to deposit there immediately upon their being manufactured; the whereabouts of the “plant” being well known to police who had arranged with witness to allow the diabolical fiends to deposit all their dangerous products there without official detection. Besides the bombs, there were a large number of rifles belonging to the members of the gang; but which were fortunately called into requisition by the authorities in suppressing the great riot.

A great number of other witnesses were called, all of whom agreed in denouncing the accused as members of a secret gang of assassins whose machinations had caused the wholesale human slaughters on May Day. They also swore that Holdfast and the others had used inflammatory language inciting the mob to use violence.

Upon the prisoners being asked if they had any witnesses to bring forward or anything they wished to say in their defence, unless they wished to reserve it for their trial,

Tom Treadway boldly asserted his innocence of the crime laid to his charge. He had not taken any life during the so-called riots, for he had come there unarmed and had solely relied on his muscles to help him fight his way out of the dreadful fray. He had even taken his wife with him, so little had he anticipated the sad events. He firmly believed the whole thing was a vile concoction of the police or the capitalists. [Here the witness was sternly reminded that he must confine himself to his own defence instead of casting slurs on reputable citizens if he desired to he heard]. He would say, then, that the charges were a tissue of lies. The ​Knights of Revenge was a myth, as far as he knew, for he had never heard of such an organization. He had only been in the colony two years, and yet two of the witnesses had perjured themselves, and furthermore perjured each other, one saying that he (Treadway) had been president of the asserted society in Melbourne over four years ago, and another pretended member of the pretended society had stated that witness came out in the same ship with him two years later. The paper called Vengeance witness had never seen before its production in court, and he firmly believed some capitalists had printed it to make certain of the legal murder of the defendants. [The magistrates here stopped the defendant's speech, and threatened that the next one who dared to make such scandalous imputations would be committed for contempt of court and deprived of further opportunity to speak].

Holdfast stoutly denied he had used language inciting to violence, and declared that the language put into his mouth by some of the witnesses for the prosecution had actually been used by one Felix Slymer, who had not been arrested for some reason but had mysteriously disappeared. Although he himself believed that a people suffering wrong at the hands of the authorities were fully justified in resorting to force to resist that wrong, still he did not think those violent measures would produce the desirable results that the labor party anticipated, and therefore he had not advised them. The witnesses were a crowd of unblushing perjurors; and the documents produced in court and said to be written by him were all deliberate forgeries and a very bad imitation of his own handwriting as he would show by some letters he had sent to his friends on several occasions. [Letters produced.]

The other seventeen prisoners asserted their innocence, and supported the statements of Treadway; one of the number, Sharples, almost foaming with rage when he contradicted the assertion that he had manufactured, and secreted bombs and other explosives with Washington, whom he denied ever having seen before any more than he had ever seen a bomb until one had been introduced in court during the examination of witnesses.

After the defendants had finished speaking, the magistrates held consultation together for a few moments, when they ordered the prisoners to be committed for trial. The nineteen miserable wretches were hurried off to their cells, and the court cleared for the day.

VI.

“Ah, yes, that is the question of all questions, after all. Whatever will become of the poor working men and women if things go on as they are doing? I sometimes think I am the most unfortunate being in the world, lying here in this cold, dark cell, with no face to cheer me—not even that of my worst enemy, much less of my friends. And I am remanded for trial, eh? Oh, yes, of course, the same old mockery to be repeated, lying perjurors to concoct falsehoods and predetermined judges ​to pass unjust judgment upon me. I suppose I'll be hung. But what of that. ‘Good men must not obey the laws too well,’ said Emerson, which of course means that good men must pay the penalty of their disobedience to those unjust laws. But what's the penalty after all? The worst they can do is take one's life. And what is the life of a proletariat? Only a life of drudgery, anxiety, poverty, and anguish; a life of death, for all life's noblest pleasure are denied us, and what we call our life is but one ceaseless round of toiling bondage to our fellows who whip and starve us to a welcome grave. Hallo! who's this?”

It was the turnkey who entered and announced that a visitor was waiting an interview with the prisoner. Holdfast was removed to the visiting place, a sort of bird-cage, with strong iron bars between the prisoner and the visitor, and wire work all round it to prevent friends from passing anything through to the unfortunate occupants. Looking through the bars, Harry instantly recognised who it was, and a sort of painful joy flitted across his troubled, though sanguine, features. It was a pale young woman, trembling with emotion, and striving hard to thrust back the bitter tears that come to solace woman in despair.

“Hypatia” said Harry, “is it you?”

“Yes, my poor friend, it is. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Hypatia, nothing.”

There was a silence—a painful silence such as one almost fancies one can hear. These two brave spirits, male and female, stood looking in each other's faces. Oh! that the foes of humanity could have seen that look. Oh, that the cold heart of a Shylock might have been there to have withered under the burning intellectual glances.

“Harry, I must do something for you,” said Hypatia at last. “I cannot, dare not, stand idly by, and see these human tigers take your life. I cannot part with you. To know and understand each other as you and I have done for these long years is to be united in a bond whose strength no earthly priest or lawyer could conceive. I would not die for you, as lovers do in lackadaisy tales. For one to live without the other would be death to that one that remained. No, Harry rather than die to save your life, I'd kill the fiend who took that life and kill off all his kind.”

Here the turnkey rudely interrupted the conversation and said it must be confined to family matters.

“Harry,” continued Hypatia, “listen while I tell you something. Since your committal, I have had a proposal of salvation offered out to me. Ugh! how it infuriates me to think of it! That fiend, that human and licentious monster, Grindall, has dared to promise me your perfect freedom if I will sate his lust with holy matrimony. As though Love's passion could he bought and sold! As though a woman could become a prostitute in marriage e'en though it save her lover's life. No, Harry, I resented the insult. I struck him. He called the servants and ordered my arrest. But I was a match for the tyrant, and he well knew it. I told him that if he laid a hand upon me, the injury would cost him his life. I told him, too, that scores, aye hundreds of victims of his past wrong-doing were waiting at his gate to help me should I call upon them. ​And I reminded him that not one single servant could he depend upon when once I told them his unholy motives. It was enough. It struck the cur, and smote his wretched semblance of a conscience. Dismissing the servants, he ordered my departure before further trouble ensued. But calling me aside, he guaranteed your freedom if I would sojourn with him one brief day. Again I struck him; and he fell. He glared at me just like some wretched quadruped defeated in its carnal lust—a tyrant and a cur! I left, and have not seen him since.”

“Hypatia, noble girl, you have suffered more than I. Oh, that we could brave the world together! But no, I must wait my captors' pleasure I cannot help you yet, Hypatia, nor can you help me. But let us wait our time. For years I have waited for a home that I could take you to, there to call you wife and know you worthy to accept that name; for years have I struggled against wrong and injustice to get a little hold upon this poor brigand-captured earth that you and I may dwell together on a spot that even greedy tyrants would not drive us from. But our time has not yet come. We can only wait, and nerve ourselves to endure the blows of our oppressors. Some day we may strike the blow.”

“And we shall. And now I must be gone; the turnkey objects to our conversation. Good-bye, Harry.”

“Good-bye.”

VII.

At last the day for the hearing of the eventful trial arrived. Throngs of people were assembled about the junction of Lonsdale and William Streets long before the appointed hour, anxious to be among the fortunate few to get into the courthouse or to learn the latest scraps of information concerning the unfortunate prisoners. Large numbers of troopers and militiamen were stationed amongst the crowd to preserve order and to prevent any serious breach of the peace, for a strong feeling had grown up amongst the people that the prisoners were the victims of a vile persecution and that the almost certain sentence of death would be an unearned martyrdom that should be resisted at all hazards. No one had dared to openly express sympathy with the accused, for the press had already significantly hinted at the fate of any who should be so daring. All labor meetings had been strictly forbidden; red flags were confiscated wherever they could be found; revolutionary literature was being seized in all directions; and open air meetings of any kind absolutely forbidden. In fact, the Legislature had taken special measures to meet the emergency, and a special act of Parliament was passed making it a penal offence for anyone at any meeting whatever to advocate any unlawful course to accomplish a lawful object; and it furthermore decreed that if anyone did so suggest, by speech or print, any unlawful course to accomplish any lawful or unlawful object, that he should be held guilty of conspiracy, and that if any life were lost he should be guilty of murder, even if he had not heard the speech or read the print; and it furthermore decreed that anyone ​present at such a meeting, or assisting in the compilation, printing, or distributing of such print, should be held equally responsible with the speaker or writer thereof. And this astounding outrage on the boasted liberty of the subject was allowed to become law practically without protest or delay. The workers had waited many scores of years for legislation to ensure them steady employment and the fruits of their labor, and they had witnessed governments go in and out, but the legislative measure that was to bring justice to them had never come. And yet this dastardly measure to gag and destroy them was passed through both houses of the legislature, and had become law in three brief hours! It was rumoured that the labor representatives, and others who would in all probability have opposed the passage of the Bill, were bribed by large grants of land in an estate through which a proposed railway service was to be carried, and for which an enormous sum of money was voted just after the infamous “Seditious Conspiracy Bill” became law, and which promised enormous fortunes to its lucky promoters.

It was during the excitement consequent upon these remarkable legislative measures that the trial of the Melbourne Rioters took place. The evidence at the Criminal Court was alike to that in the lower court, and very little fresh matter was introduced, the witnesses for the prosecution repeating their former evidence and forging a complete network of damnatory evidence around the prisoners, who on their part repeated their innocence, refused to bring witnesses to what they asserted to be hatched up conspiracies that never existed and which could therefore have no witnesses, and asked the jury to honorably acquit them. The whole affair did not take long, for none were anxious to prolong it. And then came the judicial address to the bench. There was a fearful silence for a few moments. Then the judge solemnly and quietly delivered his charge. After the usual preliminary instructions regarding the nature of the charges, the duties of the jury, and the heavy responsibility that rested upon their shoulders, he proceeded as follows:—

“Gentlemen of the jury—It is now your solemn duty, after considering the evidence and hearing the instructions I have given you, to decide whether the prisoners are guilty or guiltless of the charges laid against them. The charge is the worst that can possibly be laid against any human being, for it is that of violently and maliciously depriving another human being of that, which is dearer than all else to him, his life. Do not be guided by the sentiments that the learned counsel for both sides have conjured before you; for it is not your place to be swayed by fine sentiments, or any appeal to the sympathies; but it is your place to now finally decide, from the evidence placed before you, whether those unfortunate men now standing in the dock are guilty, or not guilty, of the charges laid against them. Their lives hang by a thread, and that thread is in your hands with all its grave responsibilities. If you cut that thread, you take those human lives. Hence you must be discreet, you must be certain, you must be true in your convictions, and courageous in your verdict. Society now reposes its confidence for security in yourselves. If those men are guilty of the ferocious deeds assigned to them, it looks to you to ​preserve it from the ravages of them and others like them, by deciding the one small word that shall launch them into eternity. Do not be swayed by considerations concerning your own personal security, or the threats of vengeance held out by the friends of the accused, nor do you allow friendships or other ties of sympathy to turn you from the strict execution of justice. But if on the evidence you are satisfied they are deserving of the extreme penalty of the law, find them ‘Guilty’. On the other hand, if you do not think the evidence conclusive against them; if there is doubt of guilt in your minds; if you believe from the evidence they have not committed the crimes laid to their charge, but that the guilt rests with others; or if you think they were justified in such actions as they took, according to the laws of the land, then hesitate ere you seal their doom—acquit them. But whatever you decide, do not decide rashly, but let justice and the law sway your deliberations and determine your conclusions. Turning to the evidence, we find it asserted the accused are members of a gang of conspirators, belonging to an organization known as the Knights of Revenge. The prisoners are unanimous in denying this, though unfortunately they do not bring evidence to attempt to disprove it, and they have the sworn evidence against them of different witnesses who assert that such a body does exist and that the accused are members of it. This society; according to the witnesses for the prosecution, publishes, or published, an unlawful and seditious paper called Vengeance, wherein the cruel massacre of May 1st was planned and the lives and properties of certain worthy citizens, threatened with destruction. Explosives were secreted by one or more of the prisoners, similar to those used during the riot and produced in court. The accused used violent and seditious language at the meeting in question and called on the populace to resort to the violence that subsequently took place, when six hundred and five men, women and children were massacred, the accused having caused and assisted in that murder, according to the evidence of the prosecution. For the defence, there was unfortunately no sworn evidence forthcoming, the accused doggedly refusing to bring forward witnesses, or to give sworn evidence themselves, declaring the verdict to be a predetermined conspiracy against them. All they had done had been to protest their innocence—a thing nearly all criminal, as well as guiltless persons had done before them; and therefore their protest had no value in the eyes of the law. The manufacture and storage of the explosives had been proven, and although the accused had denied complicity they had failed to bring forward any evidence in support of their denial. The letters from the secretary of the organization had had their authenticity denied by the reputed writer of them, who had produced other letters asserted to have been written by him and which certainly did not appear to be from the same pen. He had, however, failed to bring the reputed recipients of the letters into the witness box, and it was for the jury to determine whether they were genuine and of any value as evidence. They had also attempted to show that the witnesses had contradicted each other, thus destroying the reliability of the evidence, one of the witnesses having stated that a member of the accused had come out to the colony with him two years after ​the time that another witness had asserted his presence in Melbourne in complicity with the secret society. . . . . Such is the nature of the evidence before you, Gentlemen of the Jury, and I charge you to consider it well, that you may deal justly with the accused, not convicting them if you think any uncertainty exists concerning the guilt alleged against them, but giving them an impartial and honorable acquittal by a verdict of ‘Not Guilty;’ and, on the other hand, if the evidence seems to you conclusive proof of their guilt, that you bring in the only verdict possible under the circumstances,—the verdict which shall cause these wretched men to suffer the extreme penalty of the law—the verdict of ‘Guilty’!”

The jury retired for a few minutes, and a painful suspense was felt all through the court while the fatal verdict was waited for. After about fifteen minutes the jury reappeared; and the foreman, his voice trembling with emotion, reported their decision as follows:—“We find the prisoners, Thomas Treadway, Harry Holdfast, Samuel Sharples, Thomas Smith, Frederick Thompson, Thomas Harrison, William Spencer, James Grace, Alfred Jackson, Michael O'Halloran, Phillip Williams, Joseph Marks, William Wilson, Adolph Nortier, Henry White, Rupert Blackman, Edwin Christopherson, Patrick Murphy, and Phelim O'Dowd guilty of wilful murder; but we recommend Thomas Treadway and Harry Holdfast to mercy on account of the inconclusive nature of some of the evidence brought against them.”

The judge was not long in passing the fatal sentences. With a few well chosen words, warning them of the awful fate that awaited them, he condemned Tom Treadway and Harry Holdfast to imprisonment for life; the others he sentenced to death.

There was a sigh of relief, and all eyes were turned towards the prisoners, some of whom broke down with grief at the awful sentence; though most of them retained their composure and prepared to meet their doom as only martyrs in a glorious cause can do. There was, however, a feeling of dissatisfaction on the brows of Treadway and Holdfast, who begged to be “murdered” along with their comrades rather than rot to death in a prison cell. But their request was unheeded. All the prisoners were hastily removed, and the court cleared. Immediately on the sentence being made known outside the court, loud groans were heard; the faces of the multitude were sullen and angered. It was threatened that if the men's lives were to be forfeited an attempt would he made to liberate them and to destroy the judge and every juryman and witness who had gone against them. And now the terrible hour had arrived. Now the fatal blow was to be struck, and Melbourne was to reek with blood, and a “Cæsar's Column” to be played in grim reality!

VIII.

In the front room of a small brick cottage in Carlton, a number of men and women were gathered together, talking earnestly over the great trial of the Melbourne Rioters, with an earnestness and an intimacy with the ​facts that showed them to be active participators in the struggle just described. One of the men present had in his hand a copy of the Evening Echo, from which he was reading the latest particulars of the trial to his attentive listeners.

“There,” said he at length, placing the paper on the table, “now you see what it has come to. I told you these villains would have their blood, as they had already taken the blood of the noble martyrs of Chicago; and if we don't look out, mark my words, they’ll have the lives of everyone else of us too.”

“That wouldn't much matter, Smythers; life isn't worth much to us when we can't earn a pound a week, and it costs us more than that to pay our rent and purchase our food and clothing,” said one of the younger members of the party.

“More fool you to pay your rent, Wilberforce, when the money you earn belongs to your starving family and not to an overfed landlord. If you had all refused to pay your rents and pointed a revolver at the first chap who demanded it, these troubles would never have overtaken us. What are you going to do now? I suppose you are going to sit here like a lot of curs and let those poor devils be murdered, when—”

“It’s not that we are curs,” interjected another, “ we'd as soon put an end to this cursed business as you would yourself, Bill, but we can't do what we like, and no more can you. I only wish I could see some way of frustrating their schemes, and preventing more bloodshed. But what can we do against the power of money? When it comes to this, that hundreds of innocent working men and women can be shot down at the secret instigation of the wealthy, and then hang our leaders who are equally innocent with the other victims, I think it's time we called a halt somewhere and began to talk sense instead of violence.”

“That's always you, Walton, showing the white feather just like Holdfast does with his talk about peaceful co-operation,” remarked Felix Slymer, who occupied an arm chair in the corner of the room, “you haven't the courage of Bill Smythers, so you want to stop him because he shows some.”

“Look here, Slymer,” said Hypatia Stephens, who had hitherto kept an attentive silence, “if you don't stop your shameful allusions to Harry Holdfast, I'll make you regret it. Don't dare charge him with cowardice in my presence, for I cannot endure it. I know Harry too well to think him a coward. He is as brave and honorable a fellow as ever breathed. Oh, that there were more like him! Never slander him in my presence, or by the living God, Slymer, you'll incur the wrath of an injured woman; and I think you know what that means.”

“I don’t think we ought to quarrel now,” said Walton, “and I certainly think Slymer's remark uncalled for. We are met to fight the common enemy, not each other.”

This remark met with general approval, and the business of the meeting was proceeded with.

“Well, comrades,” said Smythers, “to test the feeling of the meeting, I'll propose that we post spies in all directions to watch the movements of ​our adversaries. Each spy shall carry a bomb to protect his life in case of emergency, but not for purposes of aggression. Near each spy we shall put a group of secret soldiers, each of whom shall be well armed with bombs and other weapons of destruction carefully concealed about their persons; their dress shall also be disguised to make them resemble ordinary working men carrying on their usual occupations, and as messengers of the plutocracy carrying letters and messages; they shall also be sworn in as Special Constables under fictitious names, and shall now and then furnish secret reports of bogus plots to influential public personages. We have full lists of all the jurymen and witnesses who assisted the judge in ordering the murder of our comrades, and have already a number of trustworthy men and women watching their every movement and in many cases in close confidence with them. In fact, since the trial first came on, we have been carefully working up an organization similar to that hoax called the Knights of Revenge, and have met with unexpected support and encouragement. Comrade Slymer can corroborate my words.”

“Yes,” said Slymer, “Smythers is correct; and although it would not be prudent for me to say much about it here, because ‘walls have ears,’ I have no hesitation in saying that our success is certain. I gladly support the proposition.”

“Am I to understand that these persons of whom you speak, the spies and ‘soldiers,’ are under any organized direction from some executive body or other recognized authority?” asked one.

“I can only answer Mr. Millar's question by stating that all who have volunteered those duties, and are now performing them, have hitherto done so solely under the supervision of myself and Slymer, and two others who for certain reasons dare not be present. We are mainly met here to consider what to do in the present crisis, and to see if we can appoint such an executive out of the present meeting.”

After a considerable amount of talking, the proposed executive was formed and the majority of those present swore in their adherence to the new body; the remainder, among whom were Hypatia Stephens, Harry Walton, and Fred Wilberforce, taking their departure. Then the remainder proceeded to “business.” The new organization was named The Band of Justice; but they also adopted another name by which to be known to the outside world—The Excelsior Mutual Improvement Society. The adoption of this latter name would enable them to stave off the curiosity of the public, and to conduct private meetings without raising suspicion, even in the ante-rooms of public halls. Then the necessary arrangements were made to carry out the objects of the Band by appointing each to his particular office, having the necessary pass-words and grips, fixing the dates and places of their future movements, and attending to many other details that were necessary to deal with on the occasion.Special pains were taken to avoid the finding of any documentary evidence of any members of the Band by any of the authorities or spies; and for that reason an easily remembered cypher was adopted to express several important words that would be in frequent use by them, and the secretary, Felix Slymer, was instructed to keep no minutes or accounts of the Band's ​transactions. Having made all these necessary arrangements, the members dispersed for the night, each entrusted with a part in the fulfilment of their dangerous mission.

IX.

When Hypatia and the others left the conspirators' meeting in the Carlton cottage, they did not go each at once to their several homes; but slowly walking down Lygon Street together, and keeping on the road to avoid listeners as much as possible, they talked quietly together over the meeting they had just left and the general state of public affairs. They did not dare stand together conversing, as it would be sure to excite suspicion, and they did not know but that the first person they met might be some secret detective.

“I am afraid,” said Fred Wilberforce, after they had been conversing for some time, “that nothing will come of all our efforts after all. The more I think over it, the more satisfied I am that the present state of affairs is as likely to endure as it was to come. What can you do with the workers when they never trouble about their condition until it is too late? They are certainly very anxious just now, and seem as if they were fully resolved on doing desperate deeds; but they won't do anything. Look at Smythers and those fellows trying to organize a revolutionary conspiracy amongst a lot of fools whose whole thoughts are occupied with such childish absurdities as a football or cricket match, who can tell you the names, weights and pedigrees of the winners of the Melbourne Cup in past years or the probable winning horses of this, and whose chief literary food is the perusal of penny comic papers whose is on an intellectual level with that of a children's nursery; while the preservation of their health or their liberty is a thing they never think about, but only call you a ‘crank’ if you mention it to them!”

“That is very true,” replied Harry, “but it isn't everything. You might have added that when they can't find food for themselves and their families they always manage to poison themselves with alcohol or tobacco. But on the other hand, you must remember that nations in the past have had the same vices and yet have effected mighty changes of one kind or another. The legislative charlatans who now bamboozle the proletaire by granting land for football grounds are only imitating the tyrants of mediæval days who blinded the people with gladiatorial combats while they forged the chains of slavery tighter round their necks. But some day the slave awakes, and the chains are broken; and who knows but what the slaves of modern Melbourne capitalism may not someday do likewise? I shall not be surprised to see them do so in the present struggle, even before the fatal verdict of to-day is carried out; but I am afraid they are not yet ripe for a victorious rebellion.”

“Do you think the penalties will be carried out?” asked Hypatia.

“I do not see why they should not,” replied Walton. “The machinery of the law is powerful; the execution of its decrees are firmly established ​by custom, and are not likely to be generally resisted; the people willingly permit their rulers to pass laws to gag them; and even were they resolved on resistance they cannot trust each other, for each does not know but what his dearest friend may prove a traitor. The authorities, on the other hand, have to deal with a people who are proverbially apathetic, stupid, helpless, and loyal. For generations they have submitted to the most outrageously unjust laws, and shamefully proclaimed their allegiance to them by boasting that all their actions were ‘constitutional’!”

“You spoke of traitors,” responded Hypatia, “don't you think that Felix Slymer is one?”

“No; I don't, Miss Stephens; and really I think you are wronging a worthy fellow when you suggest that he is. I know there is a sort of jealousy or dislike between Holdfast and him; but I see nothing to warrant it. He is always to the front—”

“No; not always.”

“Well, as often as anyone. He is now working up this new secret organization; he is a courageous and able advocate of revolutionary principles; and he is one of the most popular and influential members the labor party have. Although I cannot always agree with him or work with him, I often wish we had more like him.”

“l quite agree with you, Walton,” remarked Fred. “I think our friend misjudges him. Although I believe him to be rather rash and altogether too sanguine, we couldn't very readily dispense with him.”

“But he would very readily dispense with you,” was Hypatia's sarcastic reply.

The three had now reached Victoria Street, where Hypatia entered a passing tram, and they all separated and sought their respective homes, there to enjoy nature's kindest gift to the troubled brain of man—that delightful state of mental annihilation that he calls “sleep.”

X.

The day at length arrived for the execution of the now famous “Rioters.” Ever since the trial, the public had kept very quiet. The dreaded attack on the jurymen and witnesses after the trial not been made, and disappointed curiosity thirsted in vain for sensation. Day after day, angry groups of men were to be seen moving here and there as though eager for the moment to arrive when the blow should be struck; but still that moment did not arrive. Men were seen loitering mysteriously about different parts of the city, and every now and then they would be rudely told to “move on” by the police, which they generally did with alacrity, either thinking discretion “the better part valor” or perhaps patiently waiting for their time to come when they should do the moving on and the authorities of to-day should be their supplicants. Rumor had it that every man “loafing” about the streets was a member of the Knights of Revenge, or some such daring body. A few others said they were only hungry victims of the present grave depression, which, by the way, had almost ​been forgotten now that affairs had assumed such a militant aspect. But no one seemed very clear about the matter; and but for the their fears they might have tired of speculating about it at all. But when the day arrived for the dread ceremony to be performed, the pent up feelings of the populace could not be subdued any longer. Men began to say what they were thinking, and to say it rather noisily. Women vied with the men in threats of vengeance, and showed by their demeanor that they were in desperate earnest. Even the police seemed to feel as if they had been sitting on a slumbering volcano quite long enough, for they began to be unusually haughty and officious, and were not at all scrupulous about maltreating the citizens who had deputed them to carefully watch over the them. All along the walls of the jail, at every possible point, armed men were stationed. Thousands of police in uniform or plain clothes mixed up with the tens of thousands who waited outside its grim walls. Large bodies of soldiers were stationed in all directions, and others throughout the city, at the request of the Victorian Government many of them having come from the adjoining colonies. The latter were carefully posted in the most dangerous positions, the authorities rightly reasoning that as they were necessarily ill-informed on Melbourne affairs they would be less in sympathy with the people, and therefore more amenable to duty and more likely to fire upon their unfortunate fellow-men when ordered to do so by their commanding officers. All the available mounted troopers had been brought to the scene; and in their case, too, care had been taken to place those accustomed to country duty in the thickest part of the crowds. At last the hour for the execution drew near, and the favored few within the walls prepared to assist in, or witness, the revolting details with a zeal worthy of a cannibal feast. The attendants went about their accustomed work with almost as little unconcern as a cook would show in preparing her meals. And the spectators showed a zeal even more intense. There they waited, like human vultures, thirsting for the blood of the unfortunate victims, waiting to gloat over the sight of a species destroying its kind, waiting to hear the last despairing words of the tortured, or to note the quivering muscles of the unfortunate victims of human brutality. There they were, like so many tigers—no, not like tigers, for tigers and other quadrupeds do not devour their own species: it is only man, brutal man, the boasted “lord of creation” who stoops to such base deeds as that—there they were, waiting anxiously to feast their brutal eyes on their actions. And at last those victims came. Manfully and did they eye their captors. Nobly did they hold their heads erect, as only men can hold them. Then there was a profound silence as the brave fellows prepared to say their parting words to their earthly tormentors. But, alas, this was denied them. Tyranny durst not let its victims speak. The devourer of his kind dare not hear the voice of him he would devour. The martyrs words might echo outside the walls, and perchance that echo might never die, but might herald in the victim's retribution. So the authorities had decided that the victims, like the martyrs of Chicago should be gagged before being murdered. A few stifled cries were all that was heard; and seventeen more human beings had suffered the utmost ​penalty of man's brutality. The spectators were delighted. Law was triumphant. It's power was vindicated. Its institutions were assured. And its foes were crushed like worms beneath its feet!

Immediately that the news reached outside that the dread penalty had been fulfilled, fearful groans rent the air, bitter curses were heard in all directions, and the indignant millions madly and despairingly rushed against the foes before them. Then followed a scene that baffles all description. Men and women were frantically rushing at each other like starving wild beasts; the armed butchers of the law shooting down all who failed to assist them; truncheons of police breaking every available skull; troopers' horses trampling down anyone, and lances and swords spilling blood like a bursted reservoir; buildings were flaming and consuming their inmates; while in all directions explosives were flying, hurling master and slave together to destruction. The combat was sharp; but it was short. Madmen act with frenzy; but frenzy does not last. Ammunition destroys; but ammunition runs out. And before long this frightful combat was nothing but a few skirmishes here and there; presently the earth slept in murderous silence.

But the conflict between master and servant had not been ended.

The proletaire had not triumphed.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*

It was a sad day that followed on the events just described. No rioters were prosecuted, for no rioters remained. Blood had been spilt, but freedom had not been found. Comrades, relatives, were all missing. All, or nearly all, of the labor leaders were dead. Though hundreds of the authorities were no more, thousands of others filled their places. Men commenced again to seek for bread, and failed to get it. They sought employers as of yore, but few found employment. Landlords commenced again to send their collectors for the rents, and the starving proletaire again attempted his vain task of paying it. The plutocracy offered their accursed gold, and the poor once more bowed down before it and pawned their lives to Mammon from whom they could never redeem. Crime went on merrily as of yore, and legislative charlatans waxed fat on its creation; while the proletaire and the parasite vied with each other in the practice of vice to drown their cares. Jails continued to be built, and laws made to fill them. Women sold their purity to man for a crust; and men made themselves bestial to win woman's flattery. Children continued to be educated without learning sense. Vanity and pomp flourished as destructively as ever, and self-respect continued to be the rarest virtue.

The Melbourne Riots were over.

The Workers yet awaited their emancipation.

XI.

Fifteen years had passed since the events narrated in the last chapter. The Melbourne Riots had become a matter of past history, and the actors in it were getting fewer as years rolled on. Melbourne, with all its ​wickedness, had grown, as all other wicked cities grow, and had become a modern wonder. Industrial improvements of all kinds had built it into something scarcely conceivable by those who had existed in the “riot days,” as they got to be called. The finest architects of the world had come there to take up their abode, and wealthy men had employed them to build some of the finest edifices in the world. The city was like a magnificent palace, fit dwelling-place almost for a demigod. The decorations of the houses, the dresses of the wealthy citizens, and the wonderful advances made in locomotive, dietetic, and other comforts, were amazing. Such was the appearance that it gave one on first seeing it that the great international traveller, Sir Hercules Crayon, could not help remarking that “If Paradise were to be re-instituted on earth, this is where we would find it.” Certainly, that was but one side of the mighty city; and the remarks of a critic were well chosen when he said that “Were Paradise to visit us, unless she stopped her nose and stifled every other sense, she'd soon turn up her toes.” As a matter of fact, things had gone on drifting in the one direction. Invention had grown and had brought grand homes to the wealthy. But poverty had grown just as rapidly and so had its accompanying vices. There was no turning back from the order of social evolution; but a constant extension of the old order of things. It may easily be surmised that along with this growth of poverty, alongside of wealth, the organizations of the discontented still continued to find a place. One of the most important of those organizations was that of The Brotherhood of the New Socialism which met weekly in a large room in a house in Latrobe Street.

The meetings of the Brotherhood of the New Socialism were usually not much out of the ordinary run of such gatherings. The workers met there to declaim against the injustices of the existing social order, the perfidy of the politicians, the increasing disparity between rich and poor, and the hopes that the newest schools of socialistic thought held out to the hungry and oppressed. There were generally the usual stock speakers, armed with the usual stock resolutions that signified nothing. Sometimes, however, there was a more or less unexpected change of programme; and at the particular meeting that is just going to be described the proceedings were enlivened by affairs certainly very much out of the common. It was the usual Thursday evening when the Brotherhood were to meet, and various people were making their way up the steps to the room where the proceedings were to be carried on, when a rather elderly man, whom one might take to be close on fifty years of age, but whose manner nevertheless was more like that of a younger man, accosted one of the Brotherhood stationed at the door.

“Is this where the Socialists are meeting, and if so, are strangers permitted to attend?” he asked.

“Certainly,” was the reply, “everybody is welcome. Go upstairs after the others there.”

The old gentleman followed as directed, and soon found himself in a large comfortable room, capable of seating about two hundred persons, although there were only about fifty present. It was now time to ​commence, and the chairman called on the pianist to open with a suitable piece, which he did by playing the “Marseillaise” in first-rate style. Then a few songs were sung, mostly the familiar songs of the day, and one gentleman recited Charles Mackay's stirring poem “Eternal Justice,” which elicited vigorous applause. After which one of the Brotherhood recited the following with some warmth:—

A CALL TO THE WORKERS.

Come lads, rouse yourselves, for the night is grown darker,

⁠The sad cry of anguish is louder than yore,

The victims of labor—of unwanted labor—

⁠Are crying at your feet, and their numbers grow more.



'Twas said, in the sweat of his brow, that the toiler

⁠Should eat his bread; but, alas, 'tis too true

That he who toils hardest has least of earth's bounties,

⁠Whilst plenty rewards him who toil scorns to do.



Oh, brothers, is this what our fathers have fought for?

⁠Is this but the outcome of thousands of years

Of thinking, and trying, and doing for their fellows

⁠By lawgivers, scientists, thinkers and seers!



Is man born to live and to die unrewarded?

⁠Are all his best efforts to be spent in vain?

Shall idleness always enjoy of the good things?

⁠Is labor doomed always to toil and complain?



'Tis said that the poor we have with us at all times;

⁠ Alas for the world, that 'twas so in the past;

But, brothers, because we have long suffered evil,

⁠Dost follow we should suffer evil to last?



Oh, poor fellow-creatures! so long thy injustice—

⁠So long hast thou bent under tyranny's hand—

So long hast thou crouched 'neath the whip of thy master,

⁠Thou durst not look upright, thou fearest to stand.



Oh, brothers, cast off the dead load of oppression

⁠That Cunning has heaped upon Labor's strong form—

So cunningly heaped that the victim who bears it

⁠Scarce knows of its presence, except when the storm



Of righteous rebellion breaks out in its fury,

⁠And Slavery strikes in its blind frenzied might,

And throws at proud Capital, bloated, but helpless,

⁠The force of a True Thought, the bombshell of Right.



Alas, ah my brothers, so long used to serfdom,

⁠So ready to fawn, and to cringe, and to crawl

Before the vile monster thy toil hath created,

⁠The Door of Nothing, the Filcher of all!



Then courage, my brothers, arise in your manhood,

⁠Stand firmly together and dare the whole world—

A world in which thou hast no claim of possession,

⁠The Idler's domain, from which Labor is hurled.



Rise up, and ask not your oppressors for favors,

⁠For loans, or for mercy, or justice, or gain;

To Hell with Monopoly and its defenders:

⁠The world is your own when you dare lay the claim.

​The chairman then thanked the comrades for entertaining them, and said William Treadway would introduce the principal business of the evening with his promised address on “Labor's Hopes and Prospects.” An intelligent looking young man here arose, and mounted the platform, the applause that greeted him showing that he was a familiar favorite amongst them. Without any ceremony, he commenced his address, the elderly stranger eyeing him with eager attention.

“I shall not trouble you to-night,” said he, “with a repetition of the questions we are always discussing as to the sufferings of the working classes. We are already too painfully familiar with them. Nor will I weary you with the conventional platitudes that must be as tiring to you as to myself. But I will endeavor to treat the subject as thoroughly and clearly as I can in order that some real good may come of it. It is now fifteen years since my poor father lost his liberty in striving to do what we are still striving for; and when I look back I ask myself, What has been accomplished in that time? I think, comrades, you will agree with me when I say ‘nothing.’ Of course, I was but a lad at the time of the famous riots, and have a very imperfect knowledge of the facts connected with it. I lost my dear mother, as many of you may know, in the bloody massacre that took place upon the execution of ‘the Noble Seventeen,’ and my father was taken from me at the same time, never to see my face again; for as you know, he died three years ago in jail—died, so they say, from an hereditary and incurable disease; though I firmly believe they foully murdered him because they could not break his indomitable spirit. I have no relatives surviving that unhappy day, so I can but glean my information from the historical sources known to you all. I have principally taken my facts from ‘McCulloch's History of the Melbourne Riots,’ of which a valuable three-volume edition is in the Public Library. What do I find from a carefully study of it? Why, that matters are no better now than they were in the pre-Riot days; that poverty is as keen as then, if not worse; that the apathy of the masses, their ignorance, their scramble after recreation when they required bread, and their treacherous actions towards their truest champions were as common then as now. And I find too that they rested on the same hopes as we do. They vainly waited, as we are waiting, for honest legislators, just laws, a wide diffusion of humanitarian sentiments, mutual sympathies, the disappearance of vicious habits, and all those other elements that we contend are the essential precursors of the glorious social life for which we are striving. But I now see where they erred, and where you, friends, are erring along with them. They trusted to bad conditions to create good human beings. They tolerated the institutions of human slavery, and hoped, poor fools, for the day when the slave should be noble and the slave-master kind. They believed that the human race was wicked, that it gloried in its wickedness, and that all the vices and crimes it committed were but the natural manifestations of its totally depraved nature. They thought the individual character was superior to the conditions environing it—that the human will was free, and therefore responsible for the individual's wicked actions (although inconsistently giving it small credit for ​his good actions)—that man's nature was bad, bad, irretrievably bad, and therefore that his fellows should treat him with the brutality inherent in their own brutal natures and so richly deserved by the brutal nature of himself. But, friends, I find this is a lie, a fiendish falsehood, a slander on humanity. I find that the man is what his circumstances make him. That great reformer, Robert Owen, was right when he said that ‘the character is not made by but for the individual.’ If you put me in bad circumstances, you make me a bad man. If you enslave me, I learn in to rejoice in slavery. If you treat me brutally, you encourage brutality in my nature, and I act brutally to you. If in this land, which naturally belongs to all you who live upon it, you give me a special privilege to the ownership of this land, you make me a tyrant, and I cannot help but act like a tyrant; and you make yourselves my serfs and cowardly cringing curs willing to lick my feet in truly slave-like fashion, that I may graciously afford you permit to toil on the land I have deprived you of. Then you hate me, because I am your master; and I hate you because you are my slave. We pretend to love each other to win each other's favors, but in our hearts we love each one himself and eye the other with suspicion and mistrust. So it is throughout all society. All true morality is forbidden by the very laws under which we are associated. The landlord, despite his higher sentiments of love and justice, must rack the rents from starving toilers lest he become a toiler and wear out his life's blood for others. The remorseless usurer must stifle his conscience, and forge the yoke of Mammon round the neck of the proletaire that he may extort, by interest, the product of their toil, lest he someday perform that endless, fruitless toil himself. The legislator, offered bribes of wealth and power, dare not be true to manhood and refuse those bribes, lest he lose all his power and join the toiling proletaires who waste their wretched lives in others' gain. No, friends, we have fought on wrong lines. We have hoped to achieve fraternity by creating bitter antipathy. Our preachers have called on men to he honorable, while supporting all the institutions which compel us to be dishonorable. Every so-called ‘revolution’ has been a failure, because all the evil conditions were allowed to remain and new tyrants were created out of old institutions. The cannibal, with his chiefs and warriors, makes war upon his brother cannibal and eats him. The civilized man, with his rulers and their subordinates, makes war also upon his civilized brother, and he too devours him, but he devours him with the law instead of with his teeth. All those men,—cannibal or civilized,—are the creatures of their conditions, the victims of power and plunder. But, fortunately for the human race, there are exceptions to the general rule of mutual theft and destruction. The Doukhoborys, the Masinkers, the Veddahs, and others who lack our civilized customs of law and disorder, have shown us that man is moral when the conditions of his existence are such as necessitate morality. They have shown us that when man lives on his own efforts, instead of on his neighbor, that he daily enjoys the noble virtues of universal friendship, health and contentment that we only dream of; and that they who have no laws over them are ‘a law unto themselves,’ and that self-instructing law invariably teaches them that as ​they do unto others so do others unto them; and they have shown us that while dishonesty, lying and poverty are the general lot of those who tolerate our institutions, such evils are utterly unknown to them, and everyone is honest, truthful and as wealthy as he chooses to be by his own efforts. What a world of wasted efforts might have been spared had humanity but learned these lessons that nature is everywhere teaching him! Generations after generations have passed away, while poets, philosophers, and preachers were calling on the people to live good lives in harmony with each other; but the efforts of all those generations have been spent in vain. Had those noble minds but united their efforts in finding out the social conditions that generate morality, and then worked together to establish those conditions, in a few months or years they could have achieved them; and you and I, friends, might now be enjoying the glorious benefits of their wise actions, and the Melbourne Riots need never have blotted the pages of earth's history. If we tolerate bad conditions, we will preach in vain to make good men and women. If we create good conditions, we would preach in vain to make those men and women bad. For they are ever the creatures of their circumstances—the moral product of their surrounding. In lands where monopolies and legal plunders flourish, there the priesthoods preach morality, but they and their hearers continue immoral. In lands of freedom and unrestricted opportunity, there no preachers are found or needed to teach morality, because all are moral. Our present society, therefore, cannot progress as we wish it; and all our socialistic teaching is but labor thrown away, because the conditions of life are opposed to our teachings, the present order is not a social but an anti-social one, and even we who aspire to lead society are corrupted by it. Socialistic propaganda is like the cry of the shipwrecked mariner in mid-ocean, and meets with no response. If we want to succeed, we must carry our thoughts into practice. The world has learned how to hate: we must teach it how to love. It has learned how to oppress and steal: we must teach it how to render mutual assistance and be honest. Can we do this? If not, then Socialism is a failure, and Goodness is a word that deserves no place in man's vocabulary. But I believe, friends, it is possible for us to introduce here the elements of goodness that others have found, and to find, even in barbarous Melbourne, a congenial soil in which to transplant them. But how shall we do it? What determined, united action shall we take? That, friends, I do not pretend to be able yet to answer. I can only say that I have determined to find the way from chaos into freedom, and when I have found it to devote my whole life's efforts into carrying it out for the mutual good of myself and my fellow men.”

The applause that followed on young Treadway's speech was marked with real enthusiasm, and the chairman took occasion to remark that he felt it worth more than mere passing comment, and hoped that something really tangible would come out of it. The platform was declared open for other speakers; but no one seemed anxious to come forward after the brilliant speech they had just listened to.

At last the elderly stranger stood up in the hall. ​“Do you permit a visitor to speak?” he asked.

“Certainly,” replied the chairman, “come to the platform.”

The elderly gentleman lost no time in doing as requested.

“Friends,” said he, “for I feel I must address you thus