Your laws admit of it, your Government admits of it.
Neither birth nor money are indispensable to success. The way is
open for the working man to pass even to the Cabinet. And you are
nothing of the sort. The cause of the people is not in any
country so shamefully and badly represented. You have a
bourgeoisie which maintains itself in almost feudal luxury by
means of the labour which it employs, and that labour is content
to squeak and open its mouth for worms, when it should have the
finest fruits of the world. And all this is for want of
leadership. Up you come you David Sands, you Phineas Crosses, you
Nicholas Fenns, you Thomas Evanses. You each think that you
represent Labour, but you don't. You represent trade--the
workers at one trade. How they laugh at you, the men who like to
keep the government of this country in their own possession! They
stretch down a hand to the one who has climbed the highest, they
pull him up into the Government, and after that Labour is well
quit of him. He has found his place with the gods. Perhaps they
will make him a `Sir' and his wife a `Lady,' but for him it is all
over with the Cause. And so another ten years is wasted, while
another man grows up to take his place."
"She's right enough," Furley confessed gloomily. "There is
something about the atmosphere of the inner life of politics which
has proved fatal to every Labour man who has ever climbed. Paul
Fiske wrote the same thing only a few weeks ago.
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