_First Emp._ Oh, you _are_ in a hurry! (_To Friend._) Yes, I took a lot of trouble in getting the gold beads. There is only one place where you can get them. They don't sell them at the Stores.
_Second Mem. of the Pub._ (_in a loud tone of voice_). Again I ask you when the Mail leaves for India?
_Second Emp._ And yet you can get almost anything you want there. Only it's a terrible nuisance going from one place to another.
_Second Mem. of the Pub._ (_in a voice of thunder_). Silence! You are an impudent set! You are calculated to injure the class to whom you belong! I am ashamed of you!
_Second Mem. of the Pub._ Whom may I be? I will tell you! (_Throws off his disguise_.) I am the Postmaster-General!!!
[_Scene closes in upon a tableau suggestive of astonishment, contrition and excitement._
ITS LATEST APPLICATION.--Chorus for Royal Academicians, for Monday next:--"Ta-R.A.-R.A.-Boom-to-day!"
(_Effects on Education of Modern Advertising._)
"WHO WAS BORN IN CORSICA?" (_Silence._) "TRY AND THINK--AND DIED IN ST. HELENA?"
"OH, OF COURSE--I KNOW! THE GREAT SAPOLIO!"]
_After the Proclamation of the Anarchist Manifestoes, (With Apologies to the Author of the magnificent "Hymn to Proserpine.")_
["For the third time the International mobilises its battalions.... Already the mere mention of the magical word 'May-Day' throws the _bourgeoisie_ into a state of nervous trembling, and its cowardice only finds refuge in cynicism and ferocity. But whether the wretch (the _bourgeoisie_) likes it or not, the end draws nigh. Capitalist robbery is going to perish in mud and shame.... The conscious proletariat organises itself, and marches towards its emancipation. You can have it all your own way presently; proletarians of the whole world, serfs of the factory, the men of the workshop, the office, and the shop, who are mercilessly exploited and pitilessly assassinated.... For, lo! '93 reappears on the horizon.... 'Vive l'Internationale des Travailleurs!'"--_Manifesto of the May-Day Labour Demonstration Executive Committee_.]
Have we lived long enough to have seen one thing, that hate hath no end? Goddess, and maiden, and queen, must we hail _you_ as Labour's true friend?-- Will you give us a prosperous morrow, and comfort the millions who weep? Will you give them joy for their sorrow, sweet labour, and satisfied sleep? Sweet is the fragrance of flowers, and soft are the wings of the dove, And no goodlier gift is there given than the dower of brotherly love; But you, O May-Day Medusa, whose glance makes the heart turn cold, Art a bitter Goddess to follow, a terrible Queen to behold. We are sick of spouting--the words burn deep and chafe: we are fain, To rest a little from clap-trap, and probe the wild promise of gain. For new gods we know not of are acclaimed by all babbledom's breath, And they promise us love-inspired life--by the red road of hatred and death. The gods, dethroned and deceased, cast forth--so the chatterers say-- Are banished with Flora and Pan, and behold our new Queen of the May! New Queen, fresh crowned in the city, flower-drest, her snake-sceptre a rod, Her orb a decked dynamite bomb, which shall shatter all earth at her nod; But for us their newest device seems barren, and did they but dare To bare the new Queen of the May, were she angel or demon _when_ bare?