Shakespeare's time it was the people _versus_ king storm that was
brewing. Majesty was about to have its head off. Come what might, Hamlet
and Macbeth and Goneril and Regan had to see the business through.

Now a new wind is getting up. We call it Labour _versus_ Capitalism. We
say it is a mere material struggle, a money-grabbing affair. But this
is only one aspect of it. In so far as men are merely mechanical,
the struggle is one which, though it may bring disaster and death to
millions, is no more than accident, an accidental collision of forces.
But in so far as men are men, the situation is tragic. It is not really
the bone we are fighting for. We are fighting to have somebody's head
off. The conflict is in pure, passional antagonism, turning upon the
poles of belief. Majesty was only _hors d'oevres_ to this tragic repast.

So, the strike situation has this dual aspect. First it is a
mechanico-material struggle, two mechanical forces pulling asunder
from the central object, the bone. All it can result in is the pulling
asunder of the fabric of civilisation, and even of life, without any
creative issue. It is no more than a frog under a cart-wheel. The
mechanical forces, rolling on, roll over the body of life and squash it.

The second is the tragic aspect. According to this view, we see more
than two dogs fighting for a bone, and life hopping under the Juggernaut
wheel. The two dogs are making the bone a pretext for a fight with each
other. That old bull-dog, the British capitalist, has got the bone in
his teeth. That unsatisfied mongrel, Plebs, the proletariat, shivers
with rage not so much at the sight of the bone, as at sight of the great
wrinkled jowl that holds it. There is the old dog, with his knowing look
and his massive grip on the bone: and there is the insatiable mongrel,
with his great splay paws. The one is all head and arrogance, the other
all paws and grudge. The bone is only the pretext. A first condition of
the being of Bully is that he shall hate the prowling great paws of the
Plebs, whilst Plebs by inherent nature goes mad at the sight of Bully's
jowl. "Drop it!" cries Plebs. "Hands off!" growls Bully. It is hands
against head, the shambling, servile body in a rage of insurrection at
last against the wrinkled, heavy head.

Labour not only wants his debt. He wants his pound of flesh. It is a
quandary. In our heart of hearts we must admit the debt. We must admit
that it is long overdue. But this