“In short,” pursued the poet, “Socialism is Judaism and Judaism is Socialism, and Karl Marx and Lassalle, the founders of Socialism, were Jews.  Judaism does not bother with the next world.  It says, ’Eat, drink and be satisfied and thank the Lord, thy God, who brought thee out of Egypt from the land of bondage.’  But we have nothing to eat, we have nothing to drink, we have nothing to be satisfied with, we are still in the land of bondage.” (Cheers.) “My brothers, how can we keep Judaism in a land where there is no Socialism?  We must become better Jews, we must bring on Socialism, for the period of Socialism on earth and of peace and plenty and brotherly love is what all our prophets and great teachers meant by Messiah-times.”

A little murmur of dissent rose here and there, but Pinchas went on.

“When Hillel the Great summed up the law to the would-be proselyte while standing on one leg, how did he express it?  ’Do not unto others what you would not have others do unto you.’  This is Socialism in a nut-shell.  Do not keep your riches for yourself, spread them abroad.  Do not fatten on the labor of the poor, but share it.  Do not eat the food others have earned, but earn your own.  Yes, brothers, the only true Jews in England are the Socialists.  Phylacteries, praying-shawls—­all nonsense.  Work for Socialism—­that pleases the Almighty.  The Messiah will be a Socialist.”

There were mingled sounds, men asking each other dubiously, “What says he?” They began to sniff brimstone.  Wolf, shifting uneasily on his chair, kicked the poet’s leg in reminder of his own warning.  But Pinchas’s head was touching the stars again.  Mundane considerations were left behind somewhere in the depths of space below his feet.

“But how is the Messiah to redeem his people?” he asked.  “Not now-a-days by the sword but by the tongue.  He will plead the cause of Judaism, the cause of Socialism, in Parliament.  He will not come with mock miracle like Bar Cochba or Zevi.  At the general election, brothers, I will stand as the candidate for Whitechapel.  I, a poor man, one of yourselves, will take my stand in that mighty assembly and touch the hearts of the legislators.  They shall bend before my oratory as the bulrushes of the Nile when the wind passes.  They will make me Prime Minister like Lord Beaconsfield, only he was no true lover of his people, he was not the Messiah.  To hell with the rich bankers and the stockbrokers—­we want them not.  We will free ourselves.”

The extraordinary vigor of the poet’s language and gestures told.  Only half comprehending, the majority stamped and huzzahed.  Pinchas swelled visibly.  His slim, lithe form, five and a quarter feet high, towered over the assembly.  His complexion was as burnished copper, his eyes flashed flame.