{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43098/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43098","id":"gutenberg_43098","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43098","summary":null,"tags":["Anarchism -- Literary collections","Category: Biographies","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Feminism -- Literary collections"],"text":"SELECTED WORKS\n OF\n VOLTAIRINE DE CLEYRE\n\n\n Edited by\n ALEXANDER BERKMAN\n\n\n Biographical Sketch by\n HIPPOLYTE HAVEL\n\n\n NEW YORK\n MOTHER EARTH PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION\n 1914\n\n Set up and electrotyped.\n Published May, 1914.\n\n\n\n\n CONTENTS\n\n\n Poems\n\n Page\n The Burial of My Past Self . . . . . . 17\n Night on the Graves . . . . . . . . . 18\n The Christian's Faith . . . . . . . . 18\n The Freethinker's Plea . . . . . . . . 22\n To My Mother . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26\n Betrayed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27\n Optimism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33\n At the Grave in Waldheim . . . . . . . 33\n The Hurricane . . . . . . . . . . . . 34\n Ut Sementem Feceris, Ita Metes . . . . 36\n Bastard Born . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36\n Hymn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42\n You and I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42\n The Toast of Despair . . . . . . . . . 44\n In Memoriam--To Dyer D. Lum . . . . . 45\n Out of the Darkness . . . . . . . . . 47\n Mary Wollstonecraft . . . . . . . . . 49\n The Gods and the People . . . . . . . 50\n John P. Altgeld . . . . . . . . . . . 56\n The Cry of the Unfit . . . . . . . . . 56\n In Memoriam--To Gen. M. M. Trumbull . 58\n The Wandering Jew . . . . . . . . . . 58\n The Feast of Vultures . . . . . . . . 59\n The Suicide's Defense . . . . . . . . 62\n A Novel of Color . . . . . . . . . . . 64\n Germinal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65\n \"Light Upon Waldheim\" . . . . . . . . 66\n Love's Compensation . . . . . . . . . 66\n The Road Builders . . . . . . . . . . 68\n Angiolillo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69\n Ave et Vale . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70\n Marsh-Bloom . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74\n Written--in--Red . . . . . . . . . . . 75\n\n\n Essays\n\n Page\n The Dominant Idea . . . . . . . . . . 79\n Anarchism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96\n Anarchism and American Traditions . . 118\n Anarchism in Literature . . . . . . . 136\n The Making of an Anarchist . . . . . . 154\n The Eleventh of November, 1887 . . . . 164\n Crime and Punishment . . . . . . . . . 173\n In Defense of Emma Goldman . . . . . . 205\n Direct Action . . . . . . . . . . . . 220\n The Paris Commune . . . . . . . . . . 243\n The Mexican Revolution . . . . . . . . 253\n Thomas Paine . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276\n Dyer D. Lum . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284\n Francisco Ferrer . . . . . . . . . . . 297\n Modern Educational Reform . . . . . . 321\n Sex Slavery . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342\n Literature the Mirror of Man . . . . . 359\n The Drama of the Nineteenth Century . 381\n\n\n Sketches and Stories\n\n Page\n A Rocket of Iron . . . . . . . . . . . 409\n The Chain Gang . . . . . . . . . . . . 414\n The Heart of Angiolillo . . . . . . . 420\n The Reward of an Apostate . . . . . . 433\n At the End of the Alley--I . . . . . . 437\n Alone--II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441\n To Strive and Fail . . . . . . . . . . 446\n The Sorrows of the Body . . . . . . . 451\n The Triumph of Youth . . . . . . . . . 454\n The Old Shoemaker . . . . . . . . . . 464\n Where the White Rose Died . . . . . . 466\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nConsistent spelling and hyphen usage are maintained within each\npoem/essay.\n\nPunctuation typos with a single solution are corrected; those\nhaving more than one solution remain unchanged.\n\nIn the essay \"Literature the Mirror of Man,\" the reference to\n\"Bosworth's Life of Johnson\" is corrected to \"Boswell's Life of\nJohnson.\"\n\nWords printed in the text as mixed small caps are surrounded by\nequal signs, as in =Voltairine de Cleyre=.\n\n\n\n\nIntroduction\n\n\n\"Nature has the habit of now and then producing a type of human being\nfar in advance of the times; an ideal for us to emulate; a being devoid\nof sham, uncompromising, and to whom the truth is sacred; a being whose\nselfishness is so large that it takes in the whole human race and treats\nself only as one of the great mass; a being keen to sense all forms of\nwrong, and powerful in denunciation of it; one who can reach into the\nfuture and draw it nearer. Such a being was =Voltairine de Cleyre=.\"\n\nWhat could be added to this splendid tribute by Jay Fox to the memory of\n=Voltairine de Cleyre=? These admirable words express the sentiments of\nall the friends and comrades of that remarkable woman whose whole life\nwas dedicated to a dominant idea.\n\nLike many other women in public life, =Voltairine de Cleyre= was a\nvoluminous letter writer. Those letters addressed to her comrades,\nfriends, and admirers would form her real biography; in them we trace\nher heroic struggles, her activity, her beliefs, her doubts, her mental\nchanges--in short, her whole life, mirrored in a manner no biographer\nwill ever be able to equal. To collect and publish this correspondence\nas a part of =Voltairine de Cleyre's= works is impossible; the task is\ntoo big for the present undertaking. But let us hope that we will find\ntime and means to publish at least a part of this correspondence in the\nnear future.\n\nThe average American still holds to the belief that Anarchism is a\nforeign poison imported into the States from decadent Europe by\ncriminal paranoiacs. Hence the ridiculous attempt of our lawmakers to\nstamp out Anarchy, by passing a statute which forbids Anarchists from\nother lands to enter the country. Those wise Solons are ignorant of the\nfact that Anarchist theories and ideas were propounded in our\nCommonwealth ere Proudhon or Bakunin entered the arena of intellectual\nstruggle and formulated their thesis of perfect freedom and economic\nindependence in Anarchy. Neither are they acquainted with the writings\nof Lysander Spooner, Josiah Warren, Stephen Pearl Andrews, William B.\nGreene, or Benjamin Tucker, nor familiar with the propagandistic work of\nAlbert R. Parsons, Dyer D. Lum, C. L. James, Moses Harman, Ross Winn,\nand a host of other Anarchists who sprang from the native stock and\nsoil. To call their attention to these facts is quite as futile as to\npoint out that the tocsin of revolt resounds in the writings of Emerson,\nThoreau, Hawthorne, Whitman, Garrison, Wendell Phillips, and other seers\nof America; just as futile as to prove to them that the pioneers in the\nmovement for woman's emancipation in America were permeated with\nAnarchist thoughts and feelings. Hardened by a fierce struggle and\nstrengthened by a vicious persecution, those brave champions of\nsex-freedom defied the respectable mob by proclaiming their independence\nfrom prevailing cant and hypocrisy. They inaugurated the tremendous sex\nrevolt among the American women--a purely native movement which has yet\nto find its historian.\n\n=Voltairine de Cleyre= belongs to this gallant array of rebels who swore\nallegiance to the cause of universal liberty, thus forfeiting the\nrespect of all \"honorable citizens,\" and bringing upon their heads the\npersecution of the ruling class. In the real history of the struggle for\nhuman emancipation, her name will be found among the foremost of her\ntime. Born shortly after the close of the Civil War, she witnessed\nduring her life the most momentous transformation of the nation; she saw\nthe change from an agricultural community into an industrial empire; the\ntremendous development of capital in this country, with the accompanying\nmisery and degradation of labor. Her life path was sketched ere she\nreached the age of womanhood: she had to become a rebel! To stand\noutside of the struggle would have meant intellectual death. She chose\nthe only way.\n\n=Voltairine de Cleyre= was born on November 17, 1866, in the town of\nLeslie, Michigan. She died on June 6, 1912, in Chicago. She came from\nFrench-American stock, on her mother's side of Puritan descent. Her\nfather, Auguste de Cleyre, was a native of western Flanders, but his\nfamily was of French origin. He emigrated to America in 1854. Being a\nfreethinker and a great admirer of Voltaire, he insisted on the birthday\nof the child that the new member of the family should be called\nVoltairine. Though born in Leslie, the earliest recollections of\nVoltairine were of the small town of St. John's, in Clinton County, her\nparents having removed to that place a year after her birth. Voltairine\ndid not have a happy childhood; her earliest life was embittered by want\nof the common necessities, which her parents, hard as they tried, could\nnot provide. A vein of sadness can be traced in her earliest poems--the\nsongs of a child of talent and great fantasy. A deep sorrow fell into\nher heart at the age of four, when the teacher of the primary school\nrefused to admit her because she was too young. But she soon succeeded\nin forcing her entrance into the temple of knowledge. An earnest\nstudent, she was graduated from the grammar school at the age of twelve.\n\nStrength of mind does not seem to have been a characteristic of Auguste\nde Cleyre, for he recanted his libertarian ideas, returned to the fold\nof the church, and became obsessed with the idea that the highest\nvocation for a woman was the life of a nun. He determined to put the\nchild into a convent. Thus began the great tragedy of =Voltairine's=\n_early life_. Her beloved mother, a member of the Presbyterian Church,\nopposed this idea with all her strength, but in vain: the will of the\nlord of the household prevailed, and the child was sent to the Convent\nof Our Lady of Lake Huron, at Sarnia, in the Province of Ontario,\nCanada. Here she experienced four years of terrible ordeal; only after\nmuch repression, insubordination, and atonement, she forced her way back\ninto the living world. In the sketch, \"The Making of an Anarchist,\" she\ntells us of the strain she underwent in that living tomb:\n\n\"How I pity myself now, when I remember it, poor lonesome little soul,\nbattling solitary in the murk of religious superstition, unable to\nbelieve and yet in hourly fear of damnation, hot, savage, and eternal,\nif I do not instantly confess and profess! How well I recall the bitter\nenergy with which I repelled my teacher's enjoinder, when I told her I\ndid not wish to apologize for an adjudged fault as I could not see that\nI had been wrong and would not feel my words. 'It is not necessary,'\nsaid she, 'that we should feel what we say, but it is always necessary\nthat we obey our superiors.' 'I will not lie,' I answered hotly, and at\nthe same time trembled lest my disobedience had finally consigned me to\ntorment! I struggled my way out at last, and was a freethinker when I\nleft the institution, three years later, though I had never seen a book\nor heard a word to help me in my loneliness. It had been like the Valley\nof the Shadow of Death, and there are white scars on my soul yet, where\nIgnorance and Superstition burnt me with their hell-fire in those\nstifling days. Am I blasphemous? It is their word, not mine. Beside that\nbattle of my young days all others have been easy, for whatever was\nwithout, within my own Will was supreme. It has owed no allegiance, and\nnever shall; it has moved steadily in one direction, the knowledge and\nassertion of its own liberty, with all the responsibility falling\nthereon.\"\n\nDuring her stay at the convent there was little communication between\nher and her parents. In a letter from Mrs. Eliza de Cleyre, the mother\nof =Voltairine=, we are informed that she decided to run away from the\nconvent after she had been there a few weeks. She escaped before\nbreakfast, and crossed the river to Port Huron; but, as she had no\nmoney, she started to walk home. After covering seventeen miles, she\nrealized that she never could do it; so she turned around and walked\nback, and entering the house of an acquaintance in Port Huron asked for\nsomething to eat. They sent for her father, who afterwards took her back\nto the convent. What penance they inflicted she never told, but at\nsixteen her health was so bad that the convent authorities let her come\nhome for a vacation, telling her, however, that she would find her every\nmovement watched, and that everything she said would be reported to\nthem. The result was that she started at every sound, her hands shaking\nand her face as pale as death. She was about five weeks from graduating\nat that time. When her vacation was over, she went back and finished her\nstudies. And then she started for home again, but this time she had\nmoney enough for her fare, and she got home to stay, never to go back to\nthe place that had been a prison to her. She had seen enough of the\nconvent to decide for herself that she could not be a nun.\n\nThe child who had sung:\n\n \"There's a love supreme in the Great Hereafter,\n The buds of Earth are bloom in Heaven,\n The smiles of the world are ripples of laughter\n When back to its Aidenn the soul is given,\n And the tears of the world, though long in flowing,\n Water the fields of the bye-and-bye;\n They fall as dews on the sweet grass growing,\n When the fountains of sorrow and grief run dry.\n Though clouds hang over the furrows now sowing\n There's a harvest sun-wreath in the After-sky.\n\n \"No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly,\n There's a vast perfection beyond the grave;\n Up the bays of heaven the stars shine plainly--\n The stars lying dim on the brow of the wave.\n And the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, they\n Shall shine all undimmed in the ether nave.\n For the altars of God are lit with souls\n Fanned to flaming with love where the star-wind rolls.\"\n\nreturned from the convent a strong-minded freethinker. She was received\nwith open arms by her mother, almost as one returned from the grave.\nWith the exception of the education derived from books, she knew no more\nthan a child, having almost no knowledge of practical things.\n\nAlready in the convent she had succeeded in impressing her strong\npersonality upon her surroundings. Her teachers could not break her;\nthey were therefore forced to respect her. In a polemic with the\neditor of the Catholic _Buffalo Union_ and _Times_, a few years ago,\n=Voltairine= wrote: \"If you think that I, as your opponent, deserve\nthe benefit of truth, but as a stranger you doubt my veracity, I\nrespectfully request you to submit this letter to Sister Mary Medard,\nmy former teacher, now Superioress at Windsor, or to my revered friend,\nFather Siegfried, Overbrook Seminary, Overbrook, Pa., who will tell\nyou whether, in their opinion, my disposition to tell the truth may be\ntrusted.\"\n\nReaction from the repression and the cruel discipline of the Catholic\nChurch helped to develop =Voltairine's= inherent tendency toward\nfree-thought; the five-fold murder of the labor leaders in Chicago, in\n1887, shocked her mind so deeply that from that moment dates her\ndevelopment toward Anarchism. When in 1886 the bomb fell on the\nHaymarket Square, and the Anarchists were arrested, =Voltairine de\nCleyre=, who at that time was a free-thought lecturer, shouted: \"They\nought to be hanged!\" They were hanged, and now her body rests in\nWaldheim Cemetery, near the grave of those martyrs. Speaking at a\nmemorial meeting in honor of those comrades, in 1901, she said: \"For\nthat ignorant, outrageous, bloodthirsty sentence I shall never forgive\nmyself, though I know the dead men would have forgiven me, though I know\nthose who loved them forgive me. But my own voice, as it sounded that\nnight, will sound so in my ears till I die--a bitter reproach and a\nshame. I have only one word of extenuation for myself and the millions\nof others who did as I did that night--ignorance.\"\n\nShe did not remain long in ignorance. In \"The Making of an Anarchist\"\nshe describes why she became a convert to the idea and why she entered\nthe movement. \"Till then,\" she writes, \"I believed in the essential\njustice of the American law and trial by jury. After that I never could.\nThe infamy of that trial has passed into history, and the question it\nawakened as to the possibility of justice under law has passed into\nclamorous crying across the world.\"\n\nAt the age of nineteen =Voltairine= had consecrated herself to the\nservice of humanity. In her poem, \"The Burial of My Past Self,\" she\nthus bids farewell to her youthful life:\n\n \"And now, Humanity, I turn to you;\n I consecrate my service to the world!\n Perish the old love, welcome to the new--\n Broad as the space-aisles where the stars are whirled!\"\n\nYet the pure and simple free-thought agitation in its narrow circle\ncould not suffice her. The spirit of rebellion, the spirit of Anarchy,\ntook hold of her soul. The idea of universal rebellion saved her;\notherwise she might have stagnated like so many of her contemporaries,\nsuffocated in the narrow surroundings of their intellectual life. A\nlecture of Clarence Darrow, which she heard in 1887, led her to the\nstudy of Socialism, and then there was for her but one step to\nAnarchism. Dyer D. Lum, the fellow worker of the Chicago martyrs, had\nundoubtedly the greatest influence in shaping her development; he was\nher teacher, her confidant, and comrade; his death in 1893 was a\nterrible blow to =Voltairine=.\n\n=Voltairine= spent the greater part of her life in Philadelphia. Here,\namong congenial friends, and later among the Jewish emigrants, she did\nher best work. In 1897 she went on a lecture tour to England and\nScotland, and in 1902, after an insane youth had tried to take her life,\nshe went for a short trip to Norway to recuperate from her wounds. Hers\nwas a life of bitter economic struggle and an unceasing fight with\nphysical weakness, partly resulting from this very economic struggle.\nOne wonders how, under such circumstances, she could have produced such\nan amount of work. Her poems, sketches, propagandistic articles and\nessays may be found in the _Open Court_, _Twentieth Century_, _Magazine\nof Poetry_, _Truth_, _Lucifer_, _Boston Investigator_, _Rights of\nLabor_, _Truth Seeker_, _Liberty_, _Chicago Liberal_, _Free Society_,\n_Mother Earth_, and in _The Independent_. She translated Jean Grave's\n\"Moribund Society and Anarchy\" from the French, and left an unfinished\ntranslation of Louise Michel's work on the Paris Commune. In _Mother\nEarth_ appeared her translations from the Jewish of Libin and Peretz. In\ncollaboration with Dyer D. Lum she wrote a novel on social questions,\nwhich has unfortunately remained unfinished.\n\n=Voltairine de Cleyre's= views on the sex-question, on agnosticism and\nfree-thought, on individualism and communism, on non-resistance and\ndirect action, underwent many changes. In the year 1902 she wrote: \"The\nspread of Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' and 'The Slavery of Our Times,' and\nthe growth of the numerous Tolstoy clubs having for their purpose the\ndissemination of the literature of non-resistance, is an evidence that\nmany receive the idea that it is easier to conquer war with peace. I am\none of these. I can see no end of retaliation, unless some one ceases to\nretaliate.\" She adds, however: \"But let no one mistake this for servile\nsubmission or meek abnegation; my right shall be asserted no matter at\nwhat cost to me, and none shall trench upon it without my protest.\" But\nas she used to quote her comrade, Dyer D. Lum: \"Events proved to be the\ntrue schoolmasters.\" The last years of her life were filled with the\nspirit of direct action, and especially with the social importance of\nthe Mexican Revolution. The splendid propaganda work of Wm. C. Owen in\nbehalf of this tremendous upheaval inspired her to great effort. She,\ntoo, had found out by experience that only action counts, that only a\ndirect participation in the struggle makes life worth while.\n\n=Voltairine de Cleyre= was one of the most remarkable personalities\nof our time. She was a born iconoclast; her spirit was too free, her\ntaste too refined, to accept any idea that has the slightest degree\nof limitation. A great sadness, a knowledge that there is a universal\npain, filled her heart. Through her own suffering and through the\nsuffering of others she reached the highest exaltation of mind; she was\nconscious of all the vanities of life. In the service of the poor and\noppressed she found her life mission. In an exquisite tribute to her\nmemory, Leonard D. Abbott calls =Voltairine de Cleyre= a priestess of\nPity and of Vengeance, whose voice has a vibrant quality that is unique\nin literature. We are convinced that her writings will live as long as\nhumanity exists.\n\n=Hippolyte Havel.=\n\n\n\n\nPOEMS\n\n\n\n\nTHE BURIAL OF MY PAST SELF\n\n Poor Heart, so weary with thy bitter grief!\n So thou art dead at last, silent and chill!\n The longed-for death-dart came to thy relief,\n And there thou liest, Heart, forever still.\n\n Dead eyes, pain-pressed beneath their black-fringed pall!\n Dead cheeks, dark-furrowed with so many tears!\n So thou art passed far, far beyond recall,\n And all thy hopes are past, and all thy fears.\n\n Thy lips are closed at length in the long peace!\n Pale lips! so long they have thy woe repressed,\n They seem even now when life has run its lease\n All dumbly pitiful in their mournful rest.\n\n And now I lay thee in thy silent tomb,\n Printing thy brow with one last solemn kiss;\n Laying upon thee one fair lily bloom,\n A symbol of thy rest;--oh, rest is bliss.\n\n No, Heart, I would not call thee back again;\n No, no; too much of suffering hast thou known;\n But yet, but yet, it was not all in vain--\n Thy unseen tears, thy solitary moan!\n\n For out of sorrow joy comes uppermost;\n Where breaks the thunder soon the sky smiles blue;\n A better love replaces what is lost,\n And phantom sunlight pales before the true!\n\n The seed must burst before the germ unfolds,\n The stars must fade before the morning wakes;\n Down in her depths the mine the diamond holds;\n A new heart pulses when the old heart breaks.\n\n And now, Humanity, I turn to you;\n I consecrate my service to the world!\n Perish the old love, welcome to the new--\n Broad as the space-aisles where the stars are whirled!\n\n=Greenville, Mich., 1885.=\n\n\n\n\nNIGHT ON THE GRAVES\n\n O'er the sweet, quiet homes in the silent grave-city,\n Softly the dewdrops, the night-tears, fall;\n Broadly about, like the wide arms of pity,\n The silver-shot darkness lies over all.\n Heroes, asleep 'neath the red-hearted rose-wreaths,\n Leaf-crowned with honor, flower-crowned with rest,\n Gently above you each moon-dripping bough breathes\n A far-echoed whisper, \"Sleep well; ye are blest.\"\n\n Oh! never, as long as the heart pulses quicker\n At the dear name of Country may yours be forgot;\n Nor may we, till the last puny life spark shall flicker,\n Your deeds from the tablets of Memory blot!\n Spirits afloat in the night-shrouds that bound us,\n Souls of the \"Has-Been\" and of the \"To-Be,\"\n Keep the fair light of Liberty shining around us,\n Till our souls may go back to the mighty SOUL-SEA.\n\n=St. Johns, Mich., 1886= (Decoration Day).\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHRISTIAN'S FAITH\n\n (The two following poems were written at that period of my life when\n the questions of the existence of God and the divinity of Jesus had\n but recently been settled, and they present the pros and cons which\n had been repeating themselves over and over again in my brain for\n some years.)\n\n We contrast light and darkness,--light of God,\n And darkness from the Stygian shades of hell;\n Fumes of the pit infernal rising up\n Have clouded o'er the brain, laid reason low;--\n For when the eye looks on fair Nature's face\n And sees not God, then is she blind indeed!\n No night so starless, even in its gloom,\n As his who wanders on without a hope\n In that great, just Hereafter all must meet!--\n No heart so dull, so heavy, and so void,\n As that which lives for this chill world alone!\n No soul so groveling, unaspiring, base,\n As that which, here, forgets the afterhere!\n And still through all the darkness and the gloom\n Its voice will not be stilled, its hopes be quenched;\n It cries, it screams, it struggles in its chains,\n And bleeds upon the altar of the mind,--\n Unwilling sacrifice to thought misled.\n The soul that knows no God can know no peace.\n Thus speaketh light, the herald of our God!\n In that far dawn where shone each rolling world\n First lit with shadowed splendor of the stars,\n In that fair morning when Creation sang\n Its praise of God, e'er yet it dreamed of sin,\n Pure and untainted as the source of life\n Man dwelt in Eden. There no shadows came,\n No question of the goodness of our Lord,\n Until the prince of darkness tempted man,\n And, yielding to the newly born desire,\n He fell! Sank in the mire of ignorance!\n And Man, who put himself in Satan's power,\n Since then has wandered far in devious ways,\n Seeing but now and then a glimpse of light,\n Till Christ is come, the living Son of God!\n Far in his heavenly home he viewed the world,\n Saw all her sadness and her sufferings,\n Saw all her woes, her struggles, and her search\n For some path leading up from out the Night.\n Within his breast the fount of tears was touched;\n His great heart swelled with pity, and he said:\n \"Father, I go to save the world from sin.\"\n Ah! What power but a soul divinely clad\n In purity, in holiness and love,\n Could leave a home of happiness and light\n For this lost World of suffering and death?\n He came: the World tossed groaning in her sleep;\n He touched her brow: the nightmare passed away;\n He soothed her heart, red with the stain of sin;\n And she forgot her guilt in penitence;\n She washed the ruby out with pearls of tears.\n He came, he suffered, and he died for us;\n He felt the bitterest woes a soul can feel;\n He probed the darkest depths of human grief;\n He sounded all the deeps and shoals of pain;\n Was cursed for all his love; thanked with the cross,\n Whereon he hung nailed, bleeding, glorified,\n As the last smoke of holocaust divine.\n \"Ah! This was all two thousand years ago!\"\n Two thousand years ago, and still he cries,\n With voice sweet calling through the distant dark:\n \"O souls that labor, struggling in your pain,\n Come unto me, and I will give you rest!\n For every woe of yours, and every smart,\n I, too, have felt:--the mockery, the shame,\n The sneer, the scoffing lip, the hate, the lust,\n The greed of gain, the jealousy of man,\n Unstinted have been measured out to me.\n I know them all, I feel them all with you!\n And I have known the pangs of poverty,\n The cry of hunger and the weary heart\n Of childhood burdened with the weight of age!\n O sufferers, ye all are mine to love!\n The pulse-beats of my heart go out with you,\n And every drop of agony that drips\n From my nailed hands adown this bitter cross,\n Cries out, 'O God! accept the sacrifice,\n And ope the gates of heaven to the world!'\n Ye vermin of the garret, who do creep\n Your weary lives away within its walls;\n Ye children of the cellar, who behold\n The sweet, pale light, strained through the lothsome air\n And doled to you in tid-bits, as a thing\n Too precious for your use; ye rats in mines,\n Who knaw within the black and somber pits\n To seek poor living for your little ones;\n Ye women who stitch out your lonely lives,\n Unmindful whether sun or stars keep watch;\n Ye slaves of wheels; ye worms that bite the dust\n Where pride and scorn have ground you 'neath the heel;\n Ye Toilers of the earth, ye weary ones,--\n I know your sufferings, I feel your woes;\n My peace I give you; in a little while\n The pain will all be over, and the grave\n Will sweetly close above your folded hands!\n And then?--Ah, Death, no conqueror art thou!\n For I have loosed thy chains; I have unbarred\n The gates of heaven! In my Father's house\n Of many mansions I prepare a place;\n And rest is there for every heart that toils!\n Oh, all ye sick and wounded ones who grieve\n For the lost health that ne'er may come again;\n Ye who do toss upon a couch of pain,\n Upon whose brow disease has laid his hand,\n Within whose eyes the dull and heavy sight\n Burns like a taper burning very low,\n Upon whose lips the purple fever-kiss\n Rests his hot breath, and dries the sickened palms,\n Scorches the flesh and e'en the very air;\n Ye who do grope along without the light;\n Ye who do stumble, halting on your way;\n Ye whom the world despises as unclean;\n Know that the death-free soul has none of these:\n The unbound spirit goes unto its God,\n Pure, whole, and beauteous as newly born!\n Oh, all ye mourners, weeping for the dead;\n Your tears I gather as the grateful rain\n Which rises from the sea and falls again,\n To nurse the withering flowers from its touch;\n No drop is ever lost! They fall again\n To nurse the blossoms of some other heart!\n I would not dry one single dew of grief:\n The sorrow-freighted lashes which bespeak\n The broken heart and soul are dear to me;\n I mourn with them, and mourning so I find\n The grief-bowed soul with weeping oft grows light!\n But yet ye mourn for them not without hope:\n Beyond the woes and sorrows of the earth,\n As stars still shine though clouds obscure the sight,\n The friends ye mourn as lost immortal live;\n And ye shall meet and know their souls again,\n Through death transfigured, through love glorified!\n Oh, all ye patient waiters for reward,\n Scorned and despised by those who know not worth,\n I know your merit and I give you hope;\n For in my Father's law is justice found.\n See how the seed-germ, toiling underground,\n Waits patiently for time to burst its shell;\n And by and by the golden sunlight warms\n The dark, cold earth; the germ begins to shoot.\n And upward trends until two small green leaves\n Unfold and wave and drink the pure, fresh air.\n The blossoms come and go with Summer's breath,\n And Autumn brings the fruit-time in her hand.\n So ye, who patient watch and wait and hope,\n Trusting the sun may bring the blossoms out,\n Shall reap the fruited labor by and by.\n I am your friend; I wait and hope with you,\n Rejoice with you when the hard vict'ry's won!\n And still for you, O prisoners in cells,\n I hold the dearest gifts of penitence,\n Forgiveness and charity and hope!\n I stretch the hands of mercy through the bars;\n White hands,--like doves they bring the branch of peace!\n Repent, believe,--and I will expiate\n Upon this bitter cross all your deep guilt!\n Oh, take my gift, accept my sacrifice!\n I ask no other thing but only--trust!\n Oh, all ye martyrs, bleeding in your chains;\n Oh, all ye souls that live for others' good;\n Oh, all ye mourners, all ye guilty ones,\n And all ye suffering ones, come unto me!\n Ye are all my brothers, all my sisters, all!\n And as I love one, so I love you all.\n Accept my love, accept my sacrifice;\n Make not my cross more bitter than it is\n By shrinking from the peace I bring to you!\"\n\n=St. Johns, Mich., April, 1887.=\n\n\n\n\nTHE FREETHINKER'S PLEA\n\n Grand eye of Liberty, light up my page!\n Like promised morning after night of age\n Thy dawning youth breaks in the distant east!\n Thy cloudy robes like silken curtains creased\n And swung in folds are floating fair and free!\n The shadows of the cycles turn and flee;\n The budding stars, bright minds that gemmed the night,\n Are bursting into broad, bright-petaled light!\n Sweet Liberty, how pure thy very breath!\n How dear in life, how doubly dear in death!\n Ah, slaves that suffer in your self-forged chains,\n Praying your Christ to touch and heal your pains,\n Tear off your shackling irons, unbind your eyes,\n Seize the grand hopes that burn along the skies!\n Worship not God in temples built of gloom;\n Far sweeter incense is the flower-bloom\n Than all the fires that Sacrifice may light;\n And grander is the star-dome gleaming bright\n With glowing worlds, than all your altar lamps\n Pale flickering in your clammy, vaulted damps;\n And richer is the broad, full, fair sun sheen,\n Dripping its orient light in streams between\n The fretted shafting of the forest trees,\n Throwing its golden kisses to the breeze,\n Lifting the grasses with its finger-tips,\n And pressing the young blossoms with warm lips,\n Show'ring its glory over plain and hill,\n Wreathing the storm and dancing in the rill;\n Far richer in wild freedom falling there,\n Shaking the tresses of its yellow hair,\n Than all subdued within the dim half-light\n Of stained glass windows, drooping into night.\n Oh, grander far the massive mountain walls\n Which bound the vista of the forest halls,\n Than all the sculptured forms which guard the piles\n That arch your tall, dim, gray, cathedral aisles!\n And gladder is the carol of a bird\n Than all the anthems that were ever heard\n To steal in somber chanting from the tone\n Of master voices praising the Unknown.\n In the great wild, where foot of man ne'er trod,\n There find we Nature's church and Nature's God!\n Here are no fetters! though is free as air;\n Its flight may spread far as its wings may dare;\n And through it all one voice cries, \"God is love,\n And love is God!\" Around, within, above,\n Behold the working of the perfect law,--\n The law immutable in which no flaw\n Exists, and from which no appeal is made;\n Ev'n as the sunlight chases far the shade\n And shadows chase the light in turn again,\n So every life is fraught with joy and pain;\n The stinging thorn lies hid beside the rose;\n The bud is blighted ere its leave unclose;\n So pleasure born of Hope may oft-time yield\n A stinging smart of thorns, a barren field!\n But let it be: the buds will bloom again,\n The fields will freshen in the summer rain;\n And never storm scowls dark but still, somewhere,\n A bow is bending in the upper air.\n Then learn the law if thou wouldst live aright;\n And know no unseen power, no hand of might,\n Can set aside the law which wheels the stars;\n No incompleteness its perfection mars;\n The buds will wake in season, and the rain\n will fall when clouds hang heavy, and again\n The snows will tremble when the winter's breath\n Congeals the cloud-tears, as the touch of Death\n Congeals the last drop on the sufferer's cheek.\n Thus do all Nature's tongues in chorus speak:\n \"Think not, O man, that thou canst e'er escape\n One jot of Justice's law, nor turn thy fate\n By yielding sacrifice to the Unseen!\n Purged by thyself alone canst thou be clean.\n One guide to happiness thou mayst learn:\n _Love toward the world begets love in return._\n And if to others you the measure mete\n Of love, be sure your harvest will be sweet;\n But if ye sow broadcast the seed of hate,\n Ye'll reap again, albeit ye reap it late.\n Then let your life-work swell the great flood-tide\n Of love towards all the world; the world is wide,\n The sea of life is broad; its waves stretch far;\n No range, no barrier, its sweep may bar;\n The world is filled, is trodden down with pain;\n The sea of life is gathered up of rain,--\n A throat, a bed, a sink, for human tears,\n A burial of hopes, a miasm of fears!\n But see! the sun of love shines softly out,\n Flinging its golden fingers all about,\n Pressing its lips in loving, soft caress,\n Upon the world's pale cheek; the pain grows less,\n The tears are dried upon the quivering lashes,\n An answering sunbeam 'neath the white lids flashes!\n The sea of life is dimpled o'er with smiles,\n The sun of love the cloud of woe beguiles,\n And turns its heavy brow to forehead fair,\n Framed in the glory of its sun-gilt hair.\n Be thine the warming touch, the kiss of love;\n Vainly ye seek for comfort from above,\n Vainly ye pray the Gods to ease your pain;\n The heavy words fall back on you again!\n Vainly ye cry for Christ to smooth your way;\n The thorns sting sharper while ye kneeling pray!\n Vainly ye look upon the world of woe,\n And cry, \"O God, avert the bitter blow!\"\n Ye cannot turn the lightning from its track,\n Nor call one single little instant back;\n The law swerves not, and with unerring aim\n The shaft of justice falls; he bears the blame\n Who violates the rule: do well your task,\n For justice overtakes you all at last.\n Vainly ye patient ones await reward,\n Trusting th' Almighty's angel to record\n Each bitter tear, each disappointed sigh;\n Reward descends not, gifted from on high,\n But is the outgrowth of the eternal law:\n As from the earth the toiling seed-germs draw\n The food which gives them life and strength to bear\n The storms and suns which sweep the upper air,\n So ye must draw from out the pregnant earth\n The metal true wherewith to build your worth;\n So shall ye brave the howling of the blast,\n And smile triumphant o'er the storm at last.\n Nor dream these trials are without their use;\n Between your joys and griefs ye cannot choose,\n And say your life with either is complete:\n Ever the bitter mingles with the sweet.\n The dews must press the petals down at night,\n If in the dawning they would glisten bright;\n If sunbeams needs must ripen out the grain\n Not less the early blades must woo the rain:\n If now your eyes be wet with weary tears,\n Ye'll gather them as gems in after years;\n And if the rains now sodden down your path,\n Ye'll reap rich harvest in the aftermath.\n Ye idle mourners, crying in your grief,\n The souls ye weep have found the long relief:\n Why grieve for those who fold their hands in peace?\n Their sore-tried hearts have found a glad release;\n Their spirits sink into the solemn sea!\n Mourn ye the prisoner from his chains let free?\n Nay, ope your ears unto the living cry\n That pleads for living comfort! Hark, the sigh\n Of million heartaches rising in your ears!\n Kiss back the living woes, the living tears!\n Go down into the felon's gloomy cell;\n Send there the ray of love: as tree-buds swell\n When spring's warm breath bids the cold winter cease,\n So will his heart swell with the hope of peace.\n Be filled with love, for love is Nature's God;\n The God which trembles in the tender sod,\n The God which tints the sunset, lights the dew,\n Sprinkles with stars the firmament's broad blue,\n And draws all hearts together in a free\n Wide sweep of love, broad as the ether-sea.\n No other law or guidance do we need;\n The world's our church, to do good is our creed.\n\n=St. Johns, Mich., 1887.=\n\n\n\n\nTO MY MOTHER\n\n Some souls there are which never live their life;\n Some suns there are which never pierce their cloud;\n Some hearts there are which cup their perfume in,\n And yield no incense to the outer air.\n Cloud-shrouded, flower-cupped heart: such is thine own:\n So dost thou live with all thy brightness hid;\n So dost thou dwell with all thy perfume close;\n Rich in thy treasured wealth, aye, rich indeed--\n And they are wrong who say thou \"dost not feel.\"\n But I--I need blue air and opened bloom;\n To keep my music means that it must die;\n And when the thrill, the joy, the love of life is gone,\n I, too, am dead--a corpse, though not entombed.\n Let me live then--but a while--the gloom soon comes,\n The flower closes and the petals shut;\n Through them the perfume slips out, like a soul--\n The long, still sleep of death--and then the Grave.\n\n=Cleveland, Ohio=, March, 1889.\n\n\n\n\nBETRAYED\n\n So, you're the chaplain! You needn't say what you have come\n for; I can guess.\n You've come to talk about Jesus' love, and repentance and rest\n and forgiveness!\n You've come to say that my sin is great, yet greater the mercy\n Heaven will mete,\n If I, like Magdalen, bend my head, and pour my tears at your\n Saviour's feet.\n Your promise is fair, but I've little faith: I relied on promises\n once before;\n They brought me to this--this prison cell, with its iron-barred\n window, its grated door!\n Yet he, too, was fair who promised me, with his tender mouth\n and his Christ-like eyes;\n And his voice was as sweet as the summer wind that sighs\n through the arbors of Paradise.\n And he seemed to me all that was good and pure, and noble and\n strong, and true and brave!\n I had given the pulse of my heart for him, and deemed it a\n precious boon to crave.\n\n You say that Jesus so loved the world he died to redeem it\n from its sin:\n It isn't redeemed, or no one could be so fair without, and so\n black within.\n I trusted his promise, I gave my life;--the truth of my love is\n known on high,\n If there is a God who knows all things;--his promise was false,\n his _love_ was a lie!\n It was over soon, Oh! soon, the dream,--and me, he had called\n \"his life,\" \"his light,\"\n He drove me away with a sneering word, and you Christians\n said that \"it served me right.\"\n I was proud, Mr. Chaplain, even then; I set my face in the\n teeth of Fate,\n And resolved to live honestly, come what might, and sink beneath\n neither scorn nor hate.\n Yes, and I prayed that the Christ above would help to bear the\n bitter cross,\n And put something here, where my heart had been, to fill up the\n aching void of loss.\n\n It's easy for you to say what I should do, but none of you ever\n dream how hard\n Is the way that you Christians make for us, with your \"sin no\n more,\" \"trust the Lord.\"\n When for days and days you are turned from work with cold\n politeness, or open sneer,\n You get so you don't trust a far-off God, whose creatures are\n cold, and they, so near.\n You hold your virtuous lives aloof, and refuse us your human\n help and hand,\n And set us apart as accurs\u00e8d things, marked with a burning,\n Cain-like brand.\n\n But I didn't bend, though many days I was weary and hungry,\n and worn and weak,\n And for many a starless night I watched, through tears that\n grooved down my pallid cheek.\n They are all dry now! They say I'm hard, because I never weep\n or moan!\n You can't draw blood when the heart's bled out! you can't find\n tears or sound in a stone!\n And I don't know why _I_ should be mild and meek: no one has\n been very mild to me.\n You say that Jesus would be--perhaps! but Heaven's a long way\n off, you see.\n\n That will do; I know what you're going to say: \"I can have it\n right here in this narrow cell.\"\n The _soul_ is slow to accept Christ's heav'n when his followers\n chain the body in hell.\n Not but I'm just as well off here,--better, perhaps, than I was\n outside.\n The world was a prison-house to me, where I dwelt, defying\n and defied.\n\n I don't know but I'd think more of what you say, if they'd\n given us both a common lot;\n If justice to me had been justice to him, and covered our names\n with an equal blot;\n But they took him into the social court, and pitied, and said he'd\n been \"led astray\";\n In a month the stain on _his_ name had passed, as a cloud that\n crosses the face of day!\n He joined the Church, and he's preaching now, just as you are,\n the love of God,\n And the duty of sinners to kneel and pray, and humbly to kiss\n the chastening rod.\n If they'd dealt with me as they dealt by him, may be I'd credit\n your Christian love;\n If they'd dealt with him as they dealt by me, I'd have more faith\n in a just Above.\n\n I don't know, but sometimes I used to think that she, who was\n told there was no room\n In the inn at Bethlehem, might look down with softened eyes\n thro' the starless gloom.\n Christ wasn't a woman--he couldn't know the pain and endurance\n of it; but _she_,\n The mother who bore him, she might know, and Mary in\n Heaven might pity me.\n Still that was useless: it didn't bring a single mouthful for me\n to eat,\n Nor work to get it, nor sheltering from the dreary wind and\n the howling street.\n Heavenly pity won't pass as coin, and earthly shame brings a\n higher pay.\n Sometimes I was tempted to give it up, and go, like others, the\n easier way;\n But I didn't; no, sir, I kept my oath, though my baby lay in my\n arms and cried,\n And at last, to spare it--I poisoned it; and kissed its murdered\n lips when it died.\n I'd never seen him since it was born (he'd said that it wasn't\n his, you know);\n But I took its body and laid it down at the steps of his door, in\n the pallid glow\n Of the winter morning; and when he came, with a love-tune\n hummed on those lips of lies,\n It lay at his feet, with its pinched white face staring up at him\n from its dead, blue eyes;\n I hadn't closed them; they were like his, and so was the mouth\n and the curled gold hair,\n And every feature so like his own,--for I am dark, sir, and he\n is fair.\n 'Twas a moment of triumph, that showed me yet there was a\n passion I could feel,\n When I saw him bend o'er its meagre form, and, starting backwards,\n cry out and reel!\n If there _is_ a time when all souls shall meet the reward of the\n deeds that are done in the clay,\n When accused and accuser stand face to face, he will cry out\n so in the Judgment Day!\n\n The rest? Oh, nothing. They hunted me, and with virtuous\n lawyers' virtuous tears\n To a virtuous jury, convicted me; and I'm sentenced to stay here\n for twenty years.\n Do I repent? Yes, I do; but wait till I tell you of what I repent,\n and why.\n I repent that I ever believed a man could be anything but a\n living lie!\n I repent because every noble thought, or hope, or ambition, or\n earthly trust,\n Is as dead as dungeon-bleached bones in me,--as dead as my\n child in its murdered dust!\n Do I repent that I killed the babe? Am I repentant for that,\n you ask?\n I'll answer the truth as I feel it, sir; I leave to others the pious\n mask.\n Am I repentant because I saved its starving body from Famine's\n teeth?\n Because I hastened what time would do, to spare it pain and\n relieve its death?\n Am I repentant because I held it were better a _grave_ should\n have no name\n Than a _living being_, whose only care must come from a mother\n weighed with shame?\n Am I repentant because I thought it were better the tiny form\n lay hid\n From the heartless stings of a brutal world, unknown, unnamed,\n 'neath a coffin lid?\n Am I repentant for the act, the last on earth in my power, to save\n From the long-drawn misery of life, in the early death and the\n painless grave?\n I'm _glad_ that I did it! Start if you will! I'll repeat it over; I\n say I'm _glad_!\n No, I'm neither a fiend, nor a maniac--don't look as if I were\n going mad!\n\n Did I not love it? Yes, I loved with a strength that you, sir, can\n never feel;\n It's only a strong love can kill to save, tho' itself be torn where\n time cannot heal.\n You see my hands--they are red with its blood! Yet I would\n have cut them, bit by bit,\n And fed them, and smiled to see it eat, if that would have\n saved and nourished it!\n \"Beg!\" I _did_ beg,--and \"pray!\" I _did_ pray! God was as stony\n and hard as Earth,\n And Christ was as deaf as the stars that watched, or the night\n that darkened above his birth!\n And I--I feel stony now, too, like them; deaf to sorrow and\n mute to grief!\n Am I heartless?--yes:--it-is-_all_-=cut=-OUT! Torn! Gone! All\n gone! Like my dead belief.\n\n Do I not fear for the judgment hour? So unrepentant, so hard\n and cold?\n Wait! It is little I trust in that; but if ever the scrolled sky\n shall be uprolled,\n And the lives of men shall be read and known, and their acts be\n judged by their very worth,\n And the Christ you speak of shall come again, and the thunders\n of Justice shake the earth,\n You will hear the cry, \"Who murdered here? Come forth to\n the judgment, false heart and eyes,\n That pulsed with accurs\u00e9d strength of lust, and loaded faith\n with envenomed lies!\n Come forth to the judgment, haughty dames, who scathed the\n mother with your scorn,\n And answer here, to the poisoned child, _who_ decreed its murder\n ere it was born?\n Come forth to the judgment ye who heaped the gold of earth\n in your treasured hoard,\n And answer, 'guilty,' to those who stood all naked and starving,\n beneath your board.\n Depart, accurs\u00e9d! I know you not! Ye heeded not the command\n of Heaven,\n 'Unto the least of these ye give, it is even unto the Master\n given.'\"\n\n Judgment! Ah, sir, to see that day, I'd willingly pass thro' a\n hundred hells!\n I'd believe, then, the Justice that hears each voice buried alive\n in these prison cells!\n But, no--it's not that; that will never be! I trusted too long,\n and He answered not.\n There _is_ no avenging God on high!--we live, we struggle,\n and--_we rot_.\n\n _Yet does Justice come!_ and, O Future Years! sorely ye'll reap,\n and in weary pain,\n When ye garner the sheaves that are sown to-day, when the\n clouds that are gathering fall in rain!\n The time will come, aye! the time _will_ come, when the child\n ye conceive in lust and shame,\n Quickened, will mow you like swaths of grass, with a sickle\n born of Steel and Flame.\n Aye, tremble, shrink, in your drunken den, coward, traitor, and\n Child of Lie!\n The unerring avenger stands close to you, and the dread hour\n of parturition's nigh!\n Aye! wring your hands, for the air is black! thickly the\n cloud-troops whirl and swarm!\n See! yonder, on the horizon's verge, play the lightning-shafts of\n the coming storm!\n\n=Adrian, Mich.,= July, 1889.\n\n\n\n\nOPTIMISM\n\n There's a love supreme in the great hereafter,\n The buds of earth are blooms in heaven;\n The smiles of the world are ripples of laughter\n When back to its Aidenn the soul is given:\n And the tears of the world, though long in flowing,\n Water the fields of the bye-and-bye;\n They fall as dews on the sweet grass growing\n When the fountains of sorrow and grief run dry.\n Though clouds hang over the furrows now sowing\n There's a harvest sun-wreath in the After-sky!\n\n No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly,\n There's a vast perfection beyond the grave;\n Up the bays of heaven the stars shine plainly,\n The stars lying dim on the brow of the wave.\n And the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, they\n Shall shine all undimmed in the ether-nave.\n For the altars of God are lit with souls\n Fanned to flaming with love where the star-wind rolls.\n\n=St. Johns, Michigan, 1889.=\n\n\n\n\nAT THE GRAVE IN WALDHEIM\n\n Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest,\n Their lids kissed close 'neath the lips of peace;\n Over each pulseless and painless breast\n The hands lie folded and softly pressed,\n As a dead dove presses a broken nest;\n Ah, broken hearts were the price of these!\n\n The lips of their anguish are cold and still,\n For them are the clouds and the gloom all past;\n No longer the woe of the world can thrill\n The chords of those tender hearts, or fill\n The silent dead-house! The \"people's will\"\n Has mapped asunder the strings at last.\n\n \"The people's will!\" Ah, in years to come,\n Dearly ye'll weep that ye did not save!\n Do ye not hear now the muffled drum,\n The tramping feet and the ceaseless hum,\n Of the million marchers,--trembling, dumb,\n In their tread to a yawning, giant grave?\n\n And yet, ah! yet there's a rift of white!\n 'Tis breaking over the martyrs' shrine!\n Halt there, ye doomed ones,--it scathes the night,\n As lightning darts from its scabbard bright\n And sweeps the face of the sky with light!\n \"No more shall be spilled out the blood-red wine!\"\n\n These are the words it has written there,\n Keen as the lance of the northern morn;\n The sword of Justice gleams in its glare,\n And the arm of Justice, upraised and bare,\n Is true to strike, aye, 'tis strong to dare;\n It will fall where the curse of our land is born.\n\n No more shall the necks of the nations be crushed,\n No more to dark Tyranny's throne bend the knee;\n No more in abjection be ground to the dust!\n By their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades' trust,\n By the brave heart-beats stilled, by the brave voices hushed,\n We swear that humanity yet shall be free!\n\n=Pittsburg, 1889.=\n\n\n\n\nTHE HURRICANE[A]\n\n (\"We are the birds of the coming storm.\"--_August Spies._)\n\n The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore;\n Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun;\n The sea complains, but its great voice is low.\n\n Bitter thy woes, O People,\n And the burden\n Hardly to be borne!\n Wearily grows, O People,\n All the aching\n Of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn!\n But yet thy time is not,\n And low thy moaning.\n Desert thy sands!\n Not yet is thy breath hot,\n Vengefully blowing;\n It wafts o'er lifted hands.\n\n The tide has turned; the vane veers slowly round;\n Slow clouds are sweeping o'er the blinding light;\n White crests curl on the sea,--its voice grows deep.\n\n Angry thy heart, O People,\n And its bleeding\n Fire-tipped with rising hate!\n Thy clasped hands part, O People,\n For thy praying\n Warmed not the desolate!\n God did not hear thy moan:\n Now it is swelling\n To a great drowning cry;\n A dark wind-cloud, a groan,\n Now backward veering\n From that deaf sky!\n\n The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths,\n The whirled-white sand heaps with the foam-white waves;\n Thundering the sea rolls o'er its shell-crunched wall!\n\n Strong is thy rage, O People,\n In its fury\n Hurling thy tyrants down!\n Thou metest wage, O People.\n Very swiftly,\n Now that thy hate is grown:\n Thy time at last is come;\n Thou heapest anguish,\n Where thou thyself wert bare!\n No longer to thy dumb\n God clasped and kneeling,\n _Thou answerest thine own prayer._\n\n=Sea Isle City, N. J.=, August, 1889.\n\n[A] Since the death of the author this poem has been put to\nmusic by the young American composer, George Edwards.\n\n\n\n\nUT SEMENTEM FECERIS, ITA METES\n\n(To the Czar, on a woman, a political prisoner, being flogged to death\nin Siberia.)\n\n How many drops must gather to the skies\n Before the cloud-burst comes, we may not know;\n How hot the fires in under hells must glow\n Ere the volcano's scalding lavas rise,\n Can none say; but all wot the hour is sure!\n Who dreams of vengeance has but to endure!\n He may not say how many blows must fall,\n How many lives be broken on the wheel,\n How many corpses stiffen 'neath the pall,\n How many martyrs fix the blood-red seal;\n But certain is the harvest time of Hate!\n And when weak moans, by an indignant world\n Re-echoed, to a throne are backward hurled,\n Who listens, hears the mutterings of Fate!\n\n=Philadelphia=, February, 1890.\n\n\n\n\nBASTARD BORN\n\n Why do you clothe me with scarlet of shame?\n Why do you point with your finger of scorn?\n What is the crime that you hissingly name\n When you sneer in my ears, \"Thou bastard born?\"\n\n Am I not as the rest of you,\n With a hope to reach, and a dream to live?\n With a soul to suffer, a heart to know\n The pangs that the thrusts of the heartless give?\n\n I am no monster! Look at me--\n Straight in my eyes, that they do not shrink!\n Is there aught in them you can see\n To merit this hemlock you make me drink?\n\n This poison that scorches my soul like fire,\n That burns and burns until love is dry,\n And I shrivel with hate, as hot as a pyre,\n A corpse, while its smoke curls up to the sky?\n\n Will you touch my hand? It is flesh like yours;\n Perhaps a little more brown and grimed,\n For it could not be white while the drawers' and hewers',\n My brothers, were calloused and darkened and slimed.\n\n Yet touch it! It is no criminal's hand!\n No children are toiling to keep it fair!\n It is free from the curse of the stolen land,\n It is clean of the theft of the sea and air!\n\n It has set no seals to a murderous law,\n To sign a bitter, black league with death!\n No covenants false do these fingers draw\n In the name of \"The State\" to barter Faith!\n\n It bears no stain of the yellow gold\n That earth's wretches give as the cost of heaven!\n No priestly garment of silken fold\n I wear as the price of their \"sins forgiven\"!\n\n Still do you shrink! Still I hear the hiss\n Between your teeth, and I feel the scorn\n That flames in your gaze! Well, what is this,\n This crime I commit, being \"bastard born\"?\n\n What! You whisper my \"eyes are gray,\"\n The \"color of hers,\" up there on the hill,\n Where the white stone gleams, and the willow spray\n Falls over her grave in the starlight still!\n\n My \"hands are shaped like\" those quiet hands,\n Folded away from their life, their care;\n And the sheen that lies on my short, fair strands\n Gleams darkly down on her buried hair!\n\n My voice is toned like that silent tone\n That might, if it could, break up through the sod\n With such rebuke as would shame your stone,\n Stirring the grass-roots in their clod!\n\n And my heart-beats thrill to the same strong chords;\n And the blood that was hers is mine to-day;\n And the thoughts she loved, I love; and the words\n That meant most to her, to me most say!\n\n _She was my mother--I her child!_\n Could ten thousand priests have made us more?\n Do you curse the bloom of the heather wild?\n Do you trample the flowers and cry \"impure\"?\n\n Do you shun the bird-songs' silver shower?\n Does their music arouse your curling scorn\n That none but God blessed them? The whitest flower,\n The purest song, were but \"bastard born\"!\n\n _This is my sin_,--I was born of her!\n _This is my crime_,--that I reverence deep!\n God, that her pale corpse may not stir,\n Press closer down on her lids--the sleep!\n\n Would you have me hate her? Me, who knew\n That the gentlest soul in the world looked there,\n Out of the gray eyes that pitied you\n E'en while you cursed her? The long brown hair\n\n That waved from her forehead, has brushed my cheek,\n When her soft lips have drunk up my salt of grief;\n And the voice, whose echo you hate, would speak\n The hush of pity and love's relief!\n\n And those still hands that are folded now\n Have touched my sorrows for years away!\n Would you have me question her whence and how\n The love-light streamed from her heart's deep ray?\n\n Do you question the sun that it gives its gold?\n Do you scowl at the cloud when it pours its rain\n Till the fields that were withered and burnt and old\n Are fresh and tender and young again?\n\n Do you search the source of the breeze that sweeps\n The rush of the fever from tortured brain?\n Do you ask whence the perfume that round you creeps\n When your soul is wrought to the quick with pain?\n\n She was my Sun, my Dew, my Air,\n The highest, the purest, the holiest;\n =Peace=--was the shade of her beautiful hair,\n =Love=--was all that I knew on her breast!\n\n Would you have me forget? Or remembering\n Say that her love had bloomed from Hell?\n Then =Blessed be Hell=! And let Heaven sing\n \"_Te Deum laudamus_,\" until it swell\n\n And ring and roll to the utterest earth,\n That the damned are free,--since out of sin\n Came the whiteness that shamed all ransomed worth\n Till God opened the gates, saying \"Enter in!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n What! In the face of the witness I bear\n To her measureless love and her purity,\n Still of your hate would you make me to share,\n Despising that she gave life to me?\n\n You would have me stand at her helpless grave,\n To dig through its earth with a venomed dart!\n This is Honor! and Right! and Brave!\n To fling a stone at her pulseless heart!\n\n This is Virtue! To blast the lips\n Speechless beneath the Silence dread!\n To lash with Slander's scorpion whips\n The voiceless, defenseless, helpless dead!\n\n * * * * *\n\n God! I turn to an adder now!\n Back upon you I hurl your scorn!\n Bind the scarlet upon your brow!\n _Ye_ it is, who are \"bastard born\"!\n\n Touch me not! These hands of mine\n Despise your fairness--the leper's white!\n Tanned and hardened and black with grime,\n They are clean beside your souls to-night!\n\n Basely born! 'Tis ye are base!\n Ye who would guerdon holy trust\n With slavish law to a tyrant race,\n To sow the earth with the seed of lust.\n\n Base! By Heaven! Prate of peace,\n When your garments are red with the stain of wars.\n Reeling with passion's mad release\n By your sickly gaslight damn the stars!\n\n Blurred with wine ye behold the snow\n Smirched with the foulness that blots within!\n What of purity can ye know,\n Ye ten-fold children of Hell and Sin?\n\n Ye to judge her! Ye to cast\n The stone of wrath from your house of glass!\n Know ye the Law, that ye dare to blast\n The bell of gold with your clanging brass?\n\n Know ye the harvest the reapers reap\n Who drop in the furrow the seed of scorn?\n Out of this anguish ye harrow deep,\n Ripens the sentence: \"_Ye_, bastard born!\"\n\n Ay, sin-begotten, hear the curse;\n Not mine--not hers--but the fatal Law!\n \"Who bids one suffer, shall suffer worse;\n Who scourges, himself shall be scourg\u00e8d raw!\n\n \"For the thoughts ye think, and the deeds ye do,\n Move on, and on, till the flood is high,\n And the dread dam bursts, and the waves roar through,\n Hurling a cataract dirge to the sky!\n\n \"To-night ye are deaf to the beggar's prayer;\n To-morrow the thieves shall batter your wall!\n Ye shall feel the weight of a starved child's care\n When your warders under the Mob's feet fall!\n\n \"'Tis the roar of the whirlwind ye invoke\n When ye scatter the wind of your brother's moans;\n 'Tis the red of your hate on your own head broke,\n When the blood of the murdered spatters the stones!\n\n \"Hark ye! Out of the reeking slums,\n Thick with the fetid stench of crime,\n Boiling up through their sickening scums,\n Bubbles that burst through the crimson wine,\n\n \"Voices burst--with terrible sound,\n Crying the truth your dull souls ne'er saw!\n _We_ are _your_ sentence! The wheel turns round!\n The bastard spawn of your bastard law!\"\n\n This is bastard: That Man should say\n How Love shall love, and how Life shall live!\n Setting a tablet to groove God's way,\n Measuring how the divine shall give!\n\n * * * * *\n\n O, Evil Hearts! Ye have maddened me,\n That I should interpret the voice of God!\n Quiet! Quiet! O angered Sea!\n Quiet! I go to her blessed sod!\n\n * * * * *\n\n Mother, Mother, I come to you!\n Down in your grasses I press my face!\n Under the kiss of their cold, pure dew,\n I may dream that I lie in the dear old place!\n\n Mother, sweet Mother, take me back,\n Into the bosom from whence I came!\n Take me away from the cruel rack,\n Take me out of the parching flame!\n\n Fold me again with your beautiful hair,\n Speak to this terrible heaving Sea!\n Over me pour the soothing of prayer,\n The words of the Love-child of Galilee:\n\n \"=Peace--be still=!\" Still,--could I but hear!\n Softly,--I listen.--O fierce heart, cease!\n Softly,--I breathe not,--low,--in my ear,--\n Mother, Mother--I heard you!--=Peace=!\n\n=Enterprise, Kansas,= January, 1891.\n\n\n\n\nHYMN\n\n (This hymn was written at the request of a Christian Science friend\n who proposed to set it to music. It did not represent my beliefs\n either then or since, but rather what I wish might be my beliefs,\n had I not an inexorable capacity for seeing things as they are,--a\n vast scheme of mutual murder, with no justice anywhere, and no God\n in the soul or out of it.)\n\n I am at peace--no storm can ever touch me;\n On my clear heights the sunshine only falls;\n Far, far below glides the phantom voice of sorrows,\n In peace-lifted light the Silence only calls.\n Ah, Soul, ascend! The mountain way, up-leading,\n Bears to the heights whereon the Blest have trod!\n Lay down the burden;--stanch the heart's sad bleeding;\n =Be ye at peace=, for know that Ye are God!\n\n Not long the way, not far in a dim heaven;\n In the locked Self seek ye the guiding star:\n Clear shine its rays, illumining the shadow;\n There, where God is, there, too, O Souls ye are.\n Ye are at one, and bound in Him forever,\n Ev'n as the wave is bound in the great sea;\n Never to drift beyond, below Him, never!\n Whole as God is, so, even so, are ye.\n\n=Philadelphia,= 1892.\n\n\n\n\nYOU AND I\n\n(A reply to \"You and I in the Golden Weather,\" by Dyer D. Lum.)\n\n You and I, in the sere, brown weather,\n When clouds hang thick in the frowning sky,\n When rain-tears drip on the bloomless heather,\n Unheeding the storm-blasts will walk together,\n And look to each other--You and I.\n\n You and I, when the clouds are shriven\n To show the cliff-broods of lightnings high;\n When over the ramparts, swift, thunder-driven,\n Rush the bolts of Hate from a Hell-lit Heaven,\n Will smile at each other--You and I.\n\n You and I, when the bolts are falling,\n The hot air torn with the earth's wild cries,\n Will lean through the darkness where Death is calling,\n Will search through the shadows where Night is palling,\n And find the light in each other's eyes.\n\n You and I, when black sheets of water\n Drench and tear us and drown our breath,\n Below this laughter of Hell's own daughter,\n Above the smoke of the storm-girt slaughter,\n Will hear each other and gleam at Death.\n\n You and I, in the gray night dying,\n When over the east-land the dawn-beams fly,\n Down in the groans, in the low, faint crying,\n Down where the thick blood is blackly lying,\n Will reach out our weak arms, You and I.\n\n You and I, in the cold, white weather,\n When over our corpses the pale lights lie,\n Will rest at last from the dread endeavor,\n Pressed to each other, for parting--never!\n Our dead lips together, You and I.\n\n You and I, when the years in flowing\n Have left us behind with all things that die,\n With the rot of our bones shall give soil for growing\n The loves of the Future, made sweet for blowing\n By the dew of the kiss of a last good-bye!\n\n=Philadelphia=, 1892.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOAST OF DESPAIR\n\n We have cried,--and the Gods are silent;\n We have trusted,--and been betrayed;\n We have loved,--and the fruit was ashes;\n We have given,--the gift was weighed.\n\n We know that the heavens are empty,\n That friendship and love are names;\n That truth is an ashen cinder,\n The end of life's burnt-out flames.\n\n Vainly and long have we waited,\n Through the night of the human roar,\n For a single song on the harp of Hope,\n Or a ray from a day-lit shore.\n\n Songs aye come floating, marvelous sweet,\n And bow-dyed flashes gleam;\n But the sweets are Lies, and the weary feet\n Run after a marsh-light beam.\n\n In the hour of our need the song departs,\n And the sea-moans of sorrow swell;\n The siren mocks with a gurgling laugh\n That is drowned in the deep death-knell.\n\n The light we chased with our stumbling feet\n As the goal of happier years,\n Swings high and low and vanishes,--\n The bow-dyes were of our tears.\n\n God is a lie, and Faith is a lie,\n And a tenfold lie is Love;\n Life is a problem without a why,\n And never a thing to prove.\n\n It adds, and subtracts, and multiplies,\n And divides without aim or end;\n Its answers all false, though false-named true,--\n Wife, husband, lover, friend.\n\n We know it now, and we care no more;\n What matters life or death?\n We tiny insects emerge from earth,\n Suffer, and yield our breath.\n\n Like ants we crawl on our brief sand-hill,\n Dreaming of \"mighty things,\"--\n Lo, they crunch, like shells in the ocean's wrath,\n In the rush of Time's awful wings.\n\n The sun smiles gold, and the planets white,\n And a billion stars smile, still;\n Yet, fierce as we, each wheels towards death,\n And cannot stay his will.\n\n Then build, ye fools, your mighty things,\n That Time shall set at naught;\n Grow warm with the song the sweet Lie sings,\n And the false bow your tears have wrought.\n\n For us, a truce to Gods, loves, and hopes,\n And a pledge to fire and wave;\n A swifter whirl to the dance of death,\n And a loud huzza for the Grave!\n\n=Philadelphia,= 1892.\n\n\n\n\nIN MEMORIAM\n\n(To Dyer D. Lum, my friend and teacher, who died April 6, 1893.)\n\n Great silent heart! These barren drops of grief\n Are not for you, attained unto your rest;\n This sterile salt upon the withered leaf\n Of love, is mine--mine the dark burial guest.\n\n Far, far within that deep, untroubled sea\n We watched together, walking on the sands,\n Your soul has melted,--painless, silent, free;\n Mine the wrung heart, mine the clasped, useless hands.\n\n Into the whirl of life, where none remember,\n I bear your image, ever unforgot;\n The \"Whip-poor-will,\" still \"wailing in December,\"\n Cries the same cry--cries, cries, and ceases not.\n\n The future years with all their waves of faces\n Roll shoreward singing the great undertone;\n Yours is not there;--in the old, well-loved places\n I look, and pass, and watch the sea alone.\n\n Alone along the gleaming, white sea-shore,\n The sea-spume spraying thick around my head,\n Through all the beat of waves and winds that roar,\n I go, remembering that you are dead.\n\n That you are dead, and nowhere is there one\n Like unto you;--and nowhere Love leaps Death;--\n And nowhere may the broken race be run;--\n Nowhere unsealed the seal that none gainsaith.\n\n Yet in my ear that deep, sweet undertone\n Grows deeper, sweeter, solemner to me,--\n Dreaming your dreams, watching the light that shone\n So whitely to you, yonder, on the sea.\n\n Your voice is there, there in the great life-sound--\n Your eyes are there, out there, within the light;\n Your heart, within the pulsing Race-heart drowned,\n Beats in the immortality of Right.\n\n O Life, I love you for the love of him\n Who showed me all your glory and your pain!\n \"Unto Nirvana\"--so the deep tones sing--\n And there--and there--we--shall--be--one--again.\n\n=Greensburg, Pa.,= April 9th, 1893.\n\n\n\n\nOUT OF THE DARKNESS\n\n Who am I? Only one of the commonest common people,\n Only a worked-out body, a shriveled and withered soul,\n What right have I to sing then? None; and I do not, I cannot.\n Why ruin the rhythm and rhyme of the great world's songs with\n moaning?\n I know not--nor why whistles must shriek, wheels ceaselessly\n mutter;\n Nor why all I touch turns to clanging and clashing and discord;\n I know not;--I know only this,--I was born to this, live in it\n hourly,\n Go round with it, hum with it, curse with it, would laugh with\n it, had it laughter;\n It is my breath--and that breath goes outward from me in\n moaning.\n\n O you, up there, I have heard you; I am \"God's image defaced,\"\n \"In heaven reward awaits me,\" \"hereafter I shall be perfect\";\n Ages you've sung that song, but what is it to me, think you?\n If you heard down here in the smoke and the smut, in the smear\n and the offal,\n In the dust, in the mire, in the grime and in the slime, in the\n hideous darkness,\n How the wheels turn your song into sounds of horror and\n loathing and cursing,\n The offer of lust, the sneer of contempt and acceptance, thieves'\n whispers,\n The laugh of the gambler, the suicide's gasp, the yell of the\n drunkard,\n If you heard them down here you would cry, \"The reward of\n such is damnation,\"\n If you heard them, I say, your song of \"rewarded hereafter\"\n would fail.\n\n You, too, with your science, your titles, your books, and your\n long explanations\n That tell me how I am come up out of the dust of the cycles,\n Out of the sands of the sea, out of the unknown primeval\n forests,--\n Out of the growth of the world have become the bud and the\n promise,--\n Out of the race of the beasts have arisen, proud and triumphant,--\n You, if you knew how your words rumble round in the wheels\n of labor!\n If you knew how my hammering heart beats, \"Liar, liar, you lie!\n Out of all buds of the earth we are most blasted and blighted!\n What beast of all the beasts is not prouder and freer than we?\"\n You, too, who sing in high words of the glory of Man universal,\n The beauty of sacrifice, debt of the future, the present immortal,\n The glory of use, absorption by Death of the being in Being,\n You, if you knew what jargon it makes, down here, would be\n quiet.\n\n Oh, is there no one to find or to speak a meaning to _me_,\n To me as I am,--the hard, the ignorant, withered-souled worker?\n To me upon whom God and Science alike have stamped \"failure,\"\n To me who know nothing but labor, nothing but sweat, dirt, and\n sorrow,\n To me whom you scorn and despise, you up there who sing while\n I moan?\n To me as I am,--for me as I am--not dying but living;\n _Not_ my future, my present! my body, my needs, my desires! Is\n there no one,\n In the midst of this rushing of phantoms--of Gods, of Science,\n of Logic,\n Of Philosophy, Morals, Religion, Economy,--all this that helps\n not,\n All these ghosts at whose altars you worship, these ponderous,\n marrowless Fictions,\n Is there no one who thinks, is there nothing to help this dull\n moaning me?\n\n=Philadelphia,= April, 1893.\n\n\n\n\nMARY WOLLSTONECRAFT\n\n The dust of a hundred years\n Is on thy breast,\n And thy day and thy night of tears\n Are centurine rest.\n Thou to whom joy was dumb,\n Life a broken rhyme,\n Lo, thy smiling time is come,\n And our weeping time.\n Thou who hadst sponge and myrrh\n And a bitter cross,\n Smile, for the day is here\n That we know our loss;--\n Loss of thine undone deed,\n Thy unfinished song,\n Th' unspoken word for our need,\n Th' unrighted wrong;\n Smile, for we weep, we weep,\n For the unsoothed pain,\n The unbound wound burned deep,\n That we might gain.\n Mother of sorrowful eyes\n In the dead old days,\n Mother of many sighs,\n Of pain-shod ways;\n Mother of resolute feet\n Through all the thorns,\n Mother soul-strong, soul-sweet,--\n Lo, after storms\n Have broken and beat thy dust\n For a hundred years,\n Thy memory is made just,\n And the just man hears.\n Thy children kneel and repeat:\n \"Though dust be dust,\n Though sod and coffin and sheet\n And moth and rust\n Have folded and molded and pressed,\n Yet they cannot kill;\n In the heart of the world at rest\n She liveth still.\"\n\n=Philadelphia,= April 27th, 1893.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GODS AND THE PEOPLE\n\n What have you done, O skies,\n That the millions should kneel to you?\n Why should they lift wet eyes,\n Grateful with human dew?\n\n Why should they clasp their hands,\n And bow at thy shrines, O heaven,\n Thanking thy high commands\n For the mercies that thou hast given?\n\n What have those mercies been,\n O thou, who art called the Good,\n Who trod through a world of sin,\n And stood where the felon stood?\n\n What is that wondrous peace\n Vouchsafed to the child of dust,\n For whom all doubt shall cease\n In the light of thy perfect trust?\n\n How hast Thou heard their prayers\n Smoking up from the bleeding sod,\n Who, crushed by their weight of cares,\n Cried up to Thee, Most High God?\n\n * * * * *\n\n Where the swamps of Humanity sicken,\n Read the answer, in dumb, white scars!\n You, Skies, gave the sore and the stricken\n The light of your far-off stars!\n\n The children who plead are driven,\n Shelterless, through the street,\n Receiving the mercy of Heaven\n Hard-frozen in glittering sleet!\n\n The women who prayed for pity,\n Who called on the saving Name,\n Through the walks of your merciless city\n Are crying the rent of shame.\n\n The starving, who gazed on the plenty\n In which they might not share,\n Have died in their hunger, rent by\n The anguish of unheard prayer!\n\n The weary who plead for remission,\n For a moment, only, release,\n Have sunk, with unheeded petition:\n This is the Christ-pledged Peace.\n\n These are the mercies of Heaven,\n These are the answers of God,\n To the prayers of the agony-shriven,\n From the paths where the millions plod!\n\n The silent scorn of the sightless!\n The callous ear of the deaf!\n The wrath of might to the mightless!\n The shroud, and the mourning sheaf!\n\n Light--to behold their squalor!\n Breath--to draw in life's pain!\n Voices to plead and call for\n Heaven's help!--hearts to bleed--in vain!\n\n * * * * *\n\n What have you done, O Church,\n That the weary should bless your name?\n Should come with faith's holy torch\n To light up your altar'd fane?\n\n Why should they kiss the folds\n Of the garment of your High Priest?\n Or bow to the chalice that holds\n The wine of your Sacred Feast?\n\n Have you blown out the breath of their sighs?\n Have you strengthened the weak, the ill?\n Have you wiped the dark tears from their eyes,\n And bade their sobbings be still?\n\n Have you touched, have you known, have you felt,\n Have you bent and softly smiled\n In the face of the woman, who dwelt\n In lewdness--to feed her child?\n\n Have you heard the cry in the night\n Going up from the outraged heart,\n Masked from the social sight\n By the cloak that but angered the smart?\n\n Have you heard the children's moan,\n By the light of the skies denied?\n Answer, O Walls of Stone,\n In the name of your Crucified!\n\n * * * * *\n\n Out of the clay of their heart-break,\n From the red dew of its sod,\n You have mortar'd your brick, for Christ's sake,\n And reared a palace to God!\n\n Your painters have dipped their brushes\n In the tears and the blood of the race,\n Whom, LIVING, your dark frown crushes--\n And limned--a DEAD Savior's face!\n\n You have seized, in the name of God, the\n Child's crust from famine's dole;\n You have taken the price of its body\n And sung a mass for its soul!\n\n You have smiled on the man, who, deceiving,\n Paid exemption to ease your wrath!\n You have cursed the poor fool who believed him,\n Though her body lay prone in your path!\n\n You have laid the seal on the lip!\n You have bid us to be content!\n To bow 'neath our master's whip,\n And give thanks for the scourge--\"heav'n sent.\"\n\n These, O Church, are your thanks;\n These are the fruits without flaw,\n That flow from the chosen ranks\n Who keep in your perfect law;\n\n Doors hard-locked on the homeless!\n Stained glass windows for bread!\n On the living, the law of dumbness,\n And the law of need, for--the _dead_!\n\n Better the dead, who, not needing,\n Go down to the vaults of the Earth,\n Than the living whose hearts lie bleeding,\n Crushed by you at their very birth.\n\n * * * * *\n\n What have you done, O State,\n That the toilers should shout your ways;\n Should light up the fires of their hate\n If a \"traitor\" should dare dispraise?\n\n How do you guard the trust\n That the people repose in you?\n Do you keep to the law of the just,\n And hold to the changeless true?\n\n What do you mean when you say\n \"The home of the free and brave\"?\n How free are your people, pray?\n Have you no such thing as a slave?\n\n What are the lauded \"rights,\"\n Broad-sealed, by your Sovereign Grace?\n What are the love-feeding sights\n You yield to your subject race?\n\n * * * * *\n\n The rights!--Ah! the right to toil,\n That another, idle, may reap;\n The right to make fruitful the soil\n And a meagre pittance to keep!\n\n The right of a woman to own\n Her body, spotlessly pure,\n And starve in the street--alone!\n The right of the wronged--to endure!\n\n The right of the slave--to his yoke!\n The right of the hungry--to pray!\n The right of the toiler--to vote\n For the master who buys his day!\n\n You have sold the sun and the air!\n You have dealt in the price of blood!\n You have taken the lion's share\n While the lion is fierce for food!\n\n You have laid the load of the strong\n On the helpless, the young, the weak!\n You have trod out the purple of wrong;--\n Beware where its wrath shall wreak!\n\n \"Let the Voice of the People be heard!\n O----\" You strangled it with your rope!\n Denied the last dying word,\n While your Trap and your Gallows spoke!\n\n But a thousand voices rise\n Where the words of the martyr fell;\n The seed springs fast to the Skies\n Watered deep from that bloody well!\n\n * * * * *\n\n Hark! Low down you will hear\n The storm in the underground!\n Listen, Tyrants, and fear!\n Quake at that muffled sound!\n\n \"Heavens, that mocked our dust,\n Smile on, in your pitiless blue!\n Silent as you are to us,\n So silent are we to you!\n\n \"Churches that scourged our brains!\n Priests that locked fast our hands!\n We planted the torch in your chains:\n Now gather the burning brands!\n\n \"States that have given us LAW,\n When we asked for THE RIGHT TO EARN BREAD!\n The Sword that Damocles saw\n By a hair swings over your head!\n\n \"What ye have sown ye shall reap:\n Teardrops, and Blood, and Hate,\n Gaunt gather before your Seat,\n And knock at your palace gate!\n\n \"There are murderers on your Thrones!\n There are thieves in your Justice-halls!\n White Leprosy cancers their stones,\n And gnaws at their worm-eaten walls!\n\n \"And the Hand of Belshazzar's Feast\n Writes over, in flaming light:\n =Thought's kingdom no more to the Priest;\n Nor the Law of Right unto Might=.\"\n\n\n\n\nJOHN P. ALTGELD\n\n (After an incarceration of six long years in Joliet state prison for\n an act of which they were entirely innocent, namely, the throwing of\n the Haymarket bomb, in Chicago, May 4th, 1886, Oscar Neebe, Michael\n Schwab and Samuel Fielden, were liberated by Gov. Altgeld, who thus\n sacrificed his political career to an act of justice.)\n\n There was a tableau! Liberty's clear light\n Shone never on a braver scene than that.\n Here was a prison, there a Man who sat\n High in the Halls of state! Beyond, the might\n Of ignorance and Mobs, whose hireling press\n Yells at their bidding like the slaver's hounds,\n Ready with coarse caprice to curse or bless,\n To make or unmake rulers!--Lo, there sounds\n A grating of the doors! And three poor men,\n Helpless and hated, having naught to give,\n Come from their long-sealed tomb, look up, and live,\n And thank this Man that they are free again.\n And He--to all the world this Man dares say,\n \"Curse as you will! I have been just this day.\"\n\n=Philadelphia,= June, 1893.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRY OF THE UNFIT\n\n The gods have left us, the creeds have crumbled;\n There are none to pity and none to care:\n Our fellows have crushed us where we have stumbled;\n They have made of our bodies a bleeding stair.\n\n Loud rang the bells in the Christmas steeples;\n We heard them ring through the bitter morn:\n The promise of old to the weary peoples\n Came floating sweetly,--\"Christ is born.\"\n\n But the words were mocking, sorely mocking,\n As we sought the sky through our freezing tears,\n We children, who've hung the Christmas stocking,\n And found it empty two thousand years.\n\n No, there is naught in the old creed for us;\n Love and peace are to those who win;\n To them the delight of the golden chorus,\n To us the hunger and shame and sin.\n\n Why then live on since our lives are fruitless,\n Since peace is certain and death is rest;\n Since our masters tell us the strife is bootless,\n And Nature scorns her unwelcome guest?\n\n You who have climbed on our aching bodies,\n You who have thought because we have toiled,\n Priests of the creed of a newer goddess,\n Searchers in depths where the Past was foiled.\n\n Speak in the name of the faith that you cherish!\n Give us the truth! We have bought it with woe!\n Must we forever thus worthlessly perish,\n Burned in the desert and lost in the snow?\n\n Trampled, forsaken, foredoomed, and forgotten,--\n Helplessly tossed like the leaf in the storm?\n Bred for the shambles, with curses begotten,\n Useless to all save the rotting grave-worm?\n\n Give us some anchor to stay our mad drifting!\n Give, for your own sakes! for lo, where our blood,\n A red tide to drown you, is steadily lifting!\n Help! or you die in the terrible flood!\n\n=Philadelphia,= 1893.\n\n\n\n\nIN MEMORIAM\n\nTo Gen. M. M. Trumbull.\n\n (No man better than Gen. Trumbull defended my martyred comrades in\n Chicago.)\n\n Back to thy breast, O Mother, turns thy child,\n He whom thou garmentedst in steel of truth,\n And sent forth, strong in the glad heart of youth,\n To sing the wakening song in ears beguiled\n By tyrants' promises and flatterers' smiles;\n These searched his eyes, and knew nor threats nor wiles\n Might shake the steady stars within their blue,\n Nor win one truckling word from off those lips,--\n No--not for gold nor praise, nor aught men do\n To dash the Sun of Honor with eclipse,\n O Mother Liberty, those eyes are dark,\n And the brave lips are white and cold and dumb;\n But fair in other souls, through time to come,\n Fanned by thy breath glows the Immortal Spark.\n\n=Philadelphia,= May, 1894.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WANDERING JEW\n\n (The above poem was suggested by the reading of an article\n describing an interview with the \"wandering Jew,\" in which he was\n represented as an incorrigible grumbler. The Jew has been, and will\n continue to be, the grumbler of earth,--until the prophetic ideal of\n justice shall be realized: \"BLESSED BE HE.\")\n\n_\"Go on.\"--\"THOU shalt go on till I come.\"_\n\n Pale, ghostly Vision from the coffined years,\n Planting the cross with thy world-wandering feet,\n Stern Watcher through the centuries' storm and beat,\n In those sad eyes, between those grooves of tears,--\n Those eyes like caves where sunlight never dwells\n And stars but dimly shine--stand sentinels\n That watch with patient hope, through weary days,\n That somewhere, sometime, He indeed may \"come,\"\n And thou at last find thee a resting place,\n Blast-driven leaf of Man, within the tomb.\n\n Aye, they have cursed thee with the bitter curse,\n And driven thee with scourges o'er the world;\n Tyrants have crushed thee, Ignorance has hurled\n Its black anathema;--but Death's pale hearse,\n That bore them graveward, passed them silently;\n And vainly didst thou stretch thy hands and cry,\n \"Take me instead\";--not yet for thee the time,\n Not yet--not yet: thy bruised and mangled limbs\n Must still drag on, still feed the Vulture, Crime,\n With bleeding flesh, till rust its steel beak dims.\n\n Aye, \"till He come,\"--=He,--freedom, justice, peace=--\n Till then shalt thou cry warning through the earth,\n Unheeding pain, untouched by death and birth,\n Proclaiming \"Woe, woe, woe,\" till men shall cease\n To seek for Christ within the senseless skies,\n And, joyous, find him in each other's eyes.\n Then shall be builded such a tomb for thee\n Shall beggar kings' as diamonds outshine dew!\n The Universal Heart of Man shall be\n The sacred urn of \"the accursed Jew.\"\n\n=Philadelphia,= 1894.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF VULTURES\n\n (As the three Anarchists, Vaillant, Henry and Caserio, were led to\n their several executions, a voice from the prison cried loudly,\n \"Vive l'anarchie!\" Through watch and ward the cry escaped, and no\n man owned the voice; but the cry is still resounding through the\n world.)\n\n A moan in the gloam in the air-peaks heard--\n The Bird of Omen--the wild, fierce Bird,\n Aflight\n In the night,\n Like a whizz of light,\n Arrowy winging before the storm,\n Far away flinging,\n The whistling, singing,\n White-curdled drops, wind-blown and warm,\n From its beating, flapping,\n Thunderous wings;\n Crashing and clapping\n The split night swings,\n And rocks and totters,\n Bled of its levin,\n And reels and mutters\n A curse to Heaven!\n Reels and mutters and rolls and dies,\n With a wild light streaking its black, blind eyes.\n\n Far, far, far,\n Through the red, mad morn,\n Like a hurtling star,\n Through the air upborne,\n The Herald-Singer,\n The Terror-Bringer,\n Speeds--and behind, through the cloud-rags torn,\n Gather and wheel a million wings,\n Clanging as iron where the hammer rings;\n The whipped sky shivers,\n The White Gate shakes,\n The ripped throne quivers,\n The dumb God wakes,\n And feels in his heart the talon-stings--\n The dead bodies hurled from beaks for slings.\n \"Ruin! Ruin!\" the Whirlwind cries,\n And it leaps at his throat and tears his eyes;\n \"Death for death, as ye long have dealt;\n The heads of your victims your heads shall pelt;\n The blood ye wrung to get drunk upon,\n Drink, and be poisoned! On, Herald, on!\"\n\n Behold, behold,\n How a moan is grown!\n A cry hurled high 'gainst a scaffold's joist!\n The Voice of Defiance--the loud, wild Voice!\n Whirled\n Through the world,\n A smoke-wreath curled\n (Breath 'round hot kisses) around a fire!\n See! the ground hisses\n With curses, and glisses\n With red-streaming blood-clots of long-frozen ire,\n Waked by the flying\n Wild voice as it passes;\n Groaning and crying,\n The surge of the masses\n Rolls and flashes\n With thunderous roar--\n Seams and lashes\n The livid shore--\n Seams and lashes and crunches and beats,\n And drags a ragged wall to its howling retreats!\n\n Swift, swift, swift,\n 'Thwart the blood-rain's fall,\n Through the fire-shot rift\n Of the broken wall,\n The prophet-crying\n The storm-strong sighing,\n Flies--and from under Night's lifted pall,\n Swarming, menace ten million darts,\n Uplifting fragments of human shards!\n\n Ah, white teeth chatter,\n And dumb jaws fall,\n While winged fires scatter\n Till gloom gulfs all\n Save the boom of the cannon that storm the forts\n That the people bombard with their comrades' hearts;\n \"Vengeance! Vengeance!\" the voices scream,\n And the vulture pinions whirl and stream!\n \"Knife for knife, as ye long have dealt;\n The edge ye whetted for us be felt,\n Ye chopper of necks, on your own, your own!\n Bare it, Coward! On, Prophet, on!\"\n\n Behold how high\n Rolls a prison cry!\n\n=Philadelphia,= August 1894.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SUICIDE'S DEFENSE\n\n (Of all the stupidities wherewith the law-making power has signaled\n its own incapacity for dealing with the disorders of society, none\n appears so utterly stupid as the law which punishes an attempted\n suicide. To the question \"What have you to say in your defense?\" I\n conceive the poor wretch might reply as follows:)\n\n To say in my defense? Defense of what?\n Defense to whom? And why defense at all?\n Have I wronged any? Let that one accuse!\n Some priest there mutters I \"have outraged God\"!\n Let God then try me, and let none dare judge\n Himself as fit to put Heaven's ermine on!\n Again I say, let the wronged one accuse.\n Aye, silence! There is none to answer me.\n And whom could I, a homeless, friendless tramp,\n To whom all doors are shut, all hearts are locked,\n All hands withheld--whom could I wrong, indeed\n By taking that which benefited none\n And menaced all?\n Aye, since ye will it so,\n Know then your risk. But mark, 'tis not defense,\n 'Tis accusation that I hurl at you.\n See to't that ye prepare your own defense.\n My life, I say, is an eternal threat\n To you and yours; and therefore it were well\n To have foreborne your unasked services.\n And why? Because I hate you! Every drop\n Of blood that circles in your plethoric veins\n Was wrung from out the gaunt and sapless trunks\n Of men like me, who in your cursed mills\n Were crushed like grapes within the wine-press ground.\n To us ye leave the empty skin of life;\n The heart of it, the sweet of it, ye pour\n To fete your dogs and mistresses withal!\n Your mistresses! Our daughters! Bought, for bread,\n To grace the flesh that once was father's arms!\n\n Yes, I accuse you that ye murdered me!\n Ye killed the Man--and this that speaks to you\n Is but the beast that ye have made of me!\n What! Is it life to creep and crawl and beg,\n And slink for shelter where rats congregate?\n And for one's ideal dream of a fat meal?\n Is it, then, life, to group like pigs in sties,\n And bury decency in common filth,\n Because, forsooth, your income must be made,\n Though human flesh rot in your plague-rid dens?\n Is it, then, life, to wait another's nod,\n For leave to turn yourself to gold for him?\n Would it be life to you? And was I less\n Than you? Was I not born with hopes and dreams\n And pains and passions even as were you?\n\n But these ye have denied. Ye seized the earth,\n Though it was none of yours, and said: \"Hereon\n Shall none rest, walk or work, till first to me\n Ye render tribute!\" Every art of man,\n Born to make light of the burdens of the world,\n Ye also seized, and made a tenfold curse\n To crush the man beneath the thing he made.\n Houses, machines, and lands--all, all are yours;\n And us you do not need. When we ask work\n Ye shake your heads. Homes?--Ye evict us. Bread?--\n \"Here, officer, this fellow's begging. Jail's\n The place for him!\" After the stripes, what next?--\n Poison!--I took it!--Now you say 'twas sin\n To take this life which troubled you so much.\n Sin to escape insult, starvation, brands\n Of felony, inflicted for the crime\n Of asking food! Ye hypocrites! Within\n Your secret hearts the sin is that I _failed_!\n Because I failed ye judge me to the stripes,\n And the hard toil denied when I was free.\n So be it. But beware!--A prison cell's\n An evil bed to grow morality!\n Black swamps breed black miasms; sickly soils\n Yield poison fruit; snakes warmed to life will sting.\n This time I was content to go alone;\n Perchance the next I shall not be so kind.\n\n=Philadelphia=, September, 1894.\n\n\n\n\nA NOVEL OF COLOR\n\n (The following is a true and particular account of what happened on\n the night of December 11, 1895; but it is likely to be\n unintelligible to all save the Chipmunks and the Elephant, who,\n however, will no doubt recognize themselves.)\n\nChapter I.\n\n Chipmunks three sat on a tree,\n And they were as green as green could be;\n They cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late,\n And chirruped and chirruped, and ate and ate;\n \"'Tis a pity of chipmunks without nuts,\n And a gnawing hunger in their guts;\n But they should be wise like you and me,\n And color themselves to suit the tree.\n Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!\n Gay chaps are we, we chipmunks three!\"\n\n An elephant white in sorry plight,\n Hungry and dirty and sad bedight,\n Straggled one day on the nutting ground;\n \"Lo,\" chattered the chipmunks, \"our chance is found!\n Behold the beast's color; were he as we,\n Green and sleek and nut-full were he!\n But the beast is big, and the beast is white,\n And his skin full of emptiness serves him right!\n Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!\n Let us 'sit on him, sit on him,' chipmunks three.\"\n\nChapter II.\n\n Three chipmunks green right gay were seen\n To leap on the beast his brows between;\n They munched at his ears and chiffered his chin,\n And sat and sat and sat on him!\n Not a single available spot of hide\n Where a well-sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride,\n But was chipped and chipped and chip-chip-munked,\n Till aught but an elephant must have flunked.\n \"Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!\n What a ride we're having, we chipmunks three!\"\n\nChapter III.\n\n Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-f-f-f-f-f!!!\n\nChapter IV.\n\n \"What was it blew? Ah whew, ah whew!\"\n Three green chipmunks have all turned blue!\n The elephant smiles a peaceful smile,\n And lifts off a tree-trunk sans haste or guile.\n \"Seize him, seize him! He's stealing our tree!\n We're undone, undone,\" shriek the chipmunks three.\n The elephant calmly upraised his trunk,\n And said, \"Did I hear a green chipmunk?\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah choo!\"\n \"Chippy, you're blue!\" \"So're you!\" \"So're you!\"\n\n=Philadelphia=, December, 1895.\n\n\n\n\nGERMINAL\n\n (The last word of Angiolillo.)\n\n Germinal!--The Field of Mars is plowing,\n And hard the steel that cuts, and hot the breath\n Of the great Oxen, straining flanks and bowing\n Beneath his goad, who guides the share of Death.\n\n Germinal!--The Dragon's teeth are sowing,\n And stern and white the sower flings the seed\n He shall not gather, though full swift the growing;\n Straight down Death's furrow treads, and does not heed.\n\n Germinal!--The Helmet Heads are springing\n Far up the Field of Mars in gleaming files;\n With wild war notes the bursting earth is ringing.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Within his grave the sower sleeps, and smiles.\n\n=London=, October, 1897.\n\n\n\n\n\"LIGHT UPON WALDHEIM\"\n\n (The figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago martyrs in\n Waldheim Cemetery is a warrior woman, dropping with her left hand a\n crown upon the forehead of a fallen man just past his agony, and\n with her right drawing a dagger from her bosom.)\n\n Light upon Waldheim! And the earth is gray;\n A bitter wind is driving from the north;\n The stone is cold, and strange cold whispers say:\n \"What do ye here with Death? Go forth! Go forth!\"\n\n Is this thy word, O Mother, with stern eyes,\n Crowning thy dead with stone-caressing touch?\n May we not weep o'er him that martyred lies,\n Slain in our name, for that he loved us much?\n\n May we not linger till the day is broad?\n Nay, none are stirring in this stinging dawn--\n None but poor wretches that make no moan to God:\n What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn?\n\n \"Go forth, go forth! Stand not to weep for these,\n Till, weakened with your weeping, like the snow\n Ye melt, dissolving in a coward peace!\"\n Light upon Waldheim! Brother, let us go!\n\n=London=, October, 1897.\n\n\n\n\nLOVE'S COMPENSATION\n\n I went before God, and he said,\n \"What fruit of the life I gave?\"\n \"Father,\" I said, \"It is dead,\n And nothing grows on the grave.\"\n\n Wroth was the Lord and stern:\n \"Hadst thou not to answer me?\n Shall the fruitless root not burn,\n And be wasted utterly?\"\n\n \"Father,\" I said, \"forgive!\n For thou knowest what I have done;\n That another's life might live\n Mine turned to a barren stone.\"\n\n But the Father of Life sent fire\n And burned the root in the grave;\n And the pain in my heart is dire\n For the thing that I could not save.\n\n For the thing it was laid on me\n By the Lord of Life to bring;\n Fruit of the ungrown tree\n That died for no watering.\n\n Another has gone to God,\n And his fruit has pleased Him well;\n For he sitteth high, while I--plod\n The dry ways down towards hell.\n\n Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord,\n Whose tears made that fruit's root wet;\n Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword,\n And thy Guards by the Gate are set.\n\n Thou wilt give me up to the fire,\n And none shall deliver me;\n For I followed my heart's desire,\n And I labored not for thee:\n\n I labored for him thou hast set\n On thy right hand, high and fair;\n Thou lovest him, Lord; and yet\n 'Twas my love won Him there.\n\n But this is the thing that hath been,\n Hath been since the world began,--\n That love against self must sin,\n And a woman die for a man.\n\n And this is the thing that shall be,\n Shall be till the whole world die,\n _Kismet_:--My doom is on me!\n Why murmur since I am I?\n\n=Philadelphia=, August, 1898.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROAD BUILDERS\n\n (\"Who built the beautiful roads?\" queried a friend of the present\n order, as we walked one day along the macadamised driveway of\n Fairmount Park.)\n\n I saw them toiling in the blistering sun,\n Their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone,\n Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools,\n Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest,\n The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads.\n I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock,\n The helpless hand still clutching at the spade,\n The slack mouth full of earth.\n\n And he was dead.\n His comrades gently turned his face, until\n The fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes,\n Wide open, staring at the cruel sky.\n The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone;\n But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead:\n Driven to death beneath the burning sun,\n Driven to death upon the road he built.\n\n He was no \"hero,\" he; a poor, black man,\n Taking \"the will of God\" and asking naught;\n Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet\n Strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road;\n Think that for this, this common thing, The Road,\n A human creature died; 'tis a blood gift,\n To an o'erreaching world that does not thank.\n Ignorant, mean and soulless was he? Well,--\n Still human; and you drive upon his corpse.\n\n=Philadelphia=, July 24, 1900.\n\n\n\n\nANGIOLILLO\n\n We are the souls that crept and cried in the days when they\n tortured men;\n His was the spirit that walked erect, and met the beast in its den.\n\n Ours are the eyes that were dim with tears for the thing they\n shrunk to see;\n His was the glance that was crystal keen with the light that\n makes men free.\n\n Ours are the hands that were wrung in pain, in helpless pain\n and shame;\n His was the resolute hand that struck, steady and keen to its aim.\n\n Ours are the lips that quivered with rage, that cursed and prayed\n in a breath:\n His was the mouth that opened but once to speak from the\n throat of Death.\n\n \"Assassin, Assassin!\" the World cries out, with a shake of its\n dotard head;\n \"Germinal!\" rings back the grave where lies the Dead that is\n not dead.\n\n \"Germinal, Germinal,\" sings the Wind that is driving before\n the Storm;\n \"Few are the drops that have fallen yet,--scattered, but red and\n warm.\"\n\n \"Germinal, Germinal,\" sing the Fields, where furrows of men\n are plowed;\n \"Ye shall gather a harvest over-rich, when the ear at the full\n is bowed.\"\n\n Springing, springing, at every breath, the Word of invincible\n strife,\n The word of the Dead, that is calling loud down the battle ranks\n of Life!\n\n For these are the Dead that live, though the earth upon them lie:\n But the doers of deeds of the Night of the Dead, they are the\n Live that die.\n\n=Torresdale, Pa.=, August 1, 1900.\n\n\n\n\nAVE ET VALE\n\n Comrades, what matter the watch-night tells\n That a New Year comes or goes?\n What to us are the crashing bells\n That clang out the Century's close?\n\n What to us is the gala dress?\n The whirl of the dancing feet?\n The glitter and blare in the laughing press,\n And din of the merry street?\n\n Do we not know that our brothers die\n In the cold and the dark to-night?\n Shelterless faces turned toward the sky\n Will not see the New Year's light!\n\n Wandering children, lonely, lost,\n Drift away on the human sea,\n While the price of their lives in a glass is tossed\n And drunk in a revelry!\n\n Ah, know we not in their feasting halls\n Where the loud laugh echoes again,\n That brick and stone in the mortared walls\n Are the bones of murdered men?\n\n Slowly murdered! By day and day,\n The beauty and strength are reft,\n Till the Man is sapped and sucked away,\n And a Human Rind is left!\n\n A Human Rind, with old, thin hair,\n And old, thin voice to pray\n For alms in the bitter winter air,--\n A knife at his heart alway.\n\n And the pure in heart are impure in flesh\n For the cost of a little food:\n Lo, when the Gleaner of Time shall thresh,\n Let these be accounted good.\n\n For these are they who in bitter blame\n Eat the bread whose salt is sin;\n Whose bosoms are burned with the scarlet shame,\n Till their hearts are seared within.\n\n The cowardly jests of a hundred years\n Will be thrown where they pass to-night,\n Too callous for hate, and too dry for tears,\n The saddest of human blight.\n\n Do we forget them, these broken ones,\n That our watch to-night is set?\n Nay, we smile in the face of the year that comes\n _Because we do not forget._\n\n We do not forget the tramp on the track,\n Thrust out in the wind-swept waste,\n The curses of Man upon his back,\n And the curse of God in his face.\n\n The stare in the eyes of the buried man\n Face down in the fallen mine;\n The despair of the child whose bare feet ran\n To tread out the rich man's wine;\n\n The solemn light in the dying gaze\n Of the babe at the empty breast,\n The wax accusation, the sombre glaze\n Of its frozen and rigid rest;\n\n They are all in the smile that we turn to the east\n To welcome the Century's dawn;\n They are all in our greeting to Night's high priest,\n As we bid the Old Year begone.\n\n Begone and have done, and go down and be dead\n Deep drowned in your sea of tears!\n We smile as you die, for we wait the red\n Morn-gleam of a hundred-years\n\n That shall see the end of the age-old wrong,--\n The reapers that have not sown,--\n The reapers of men with their sickles strong\n Who gather, but have not strown.\n\n For the earth shall be his and the fruits thereof\n And to him the corn and wine,\n Who labors the hills with an even love\n And knows not \"thine and mine.\"\n\n And the silk shall be to the hand that weaves,\n The pearl to him who dives,\n The home to the builder; and all life's sheaves\n To the builder of human lives.\n\n And none go blind that another see,\n Or die that another live;\n And none insult with a charity\n That is not theirs to give.\n\n For each of his plenty shall freely share\n And take at another's hand:\n Equals breathing the Common Air\n And toiling the Common Land.\n\n A dream? A vision? Aye, what you will;\n Let it be to you as it seems:\n Of this Nightmare Real we have our fill;\n To-night is for \"pleasant dreams.\"\n\n Dreams that shall waken the hope that sleeps\n And knock at each torpid Heart\n Till it beat drum taps, and the blood that creeps\n With a lion's spring upstart!\n\n For who are we to be bound and drowned\n In this river of human blood?\n Who are we to lie in a swound,\n Half sunk in the river mud?\n\n Are we not they who delve and blast\n And hammer and build and burn?\n Without us not a nail made fast!\n Not a wheel in the world should turn!\n\n Must we, the Giant, await the grace\n That is dealt by the puny hand\n Of him who sits in the feasting place,\n While we, his Blind Jest, stand\n\n Between the pillars? Nay, not so:\n Aye, if such thing were true,\n Better were Gaza again, to show\n What the giant's rage may do!\n\n But yet not this: it were wiser far\n To enter the feasting hall\n And say to the Masters, \"These things are\n Not for you alone, but all.\"\n\n And this shall be in the Century\n That opes on our eyes to-night;\n So here's to the struggle, if it must be,\n And to him who fights the fight.\n\n And here's to the dauntless, jubilant throat\n That loud to its Comrade sings,\n Till over the earth shrills the mustering note,\n And the World Strike's signal rings.\n\n=Philadelphia=, January 1, 1901.\n\n\n\n\nMARSH-BLOOM\n\n (To Gaetano Bresci.)\n\n Requiem, requiem, requiem,\n Blood-red blossom of poison stem\n Broken for Man,\n Swamp-sunk leafage and dungeon bloom,\n Seeded bearer of royal doom,\n What now is the ban?\n\n What to thee is the island grave?\n With desert wind and desolate wave\n Will they silence Death?\n Can they weight thee now with the heaviest stone?\n Can they lay aught on thee with \"Be alone,\"\n That hast conquered breath?\n\n Lo, \"it is finished\"--a man for a king!\n Mark you well who have done this thing:\n The flower has roots;\n Bitter and rank grow the things of the sea;\n Ye shall know what sap ran thick in the tree\n When ye pluck its fruits.\n\n Requiem, requiem, requiem,\n Sleep on, sleep on, accursed of them\n Who work our pain;\n A wild Marsh-blossom shall blow again\n From a buried root in the slime of men,\n On the day of the Great Red Rain.\n\n=Philadelphia=, July, 1901.\n\n\n\n\nWRITTEN--IN--RED[A]\n\n (To Our Living Dead in Mexico's Struggle.)\n\n Written in red their protest stands,\n For the Gods of the World to see;\n On the dooming wall their bodiless hands\n Have blazoned \"Upharsin,\" and flaring brands\n Illumine the message: \"Seize the lands!\n Open the prisons and make men free!\"\n Flame out the living words of the dead\n Written--in--red.\n\n Gods of the World! Their mouths are dumb!\n Your guns have spoken and they are dust.\n But the shrouded Living, whose hearts were numb,\n Have felt the beat of a wakening drum\n Within them sounding--the Dead Men's tongue--\n Calling: \"Smite off the ancient rust!\"\n Have beheld \"Resurrexit,\" the word of the Dead,\n Written--in--red.\n\n Bear it aloft, O roaring flame!\n Skyward aloft, where all may see.\n Slaves of the World! Our cause is the same;\n One is the immemorial shame;\n One is the struggle, and in One name--\n =Manhood=--we battle to set men free.\n \"Uncurse us the Land!\" burn the words of the Dead,\n Written--in--red.\n\n[A] Voltairine de Cleyre's last poem.\n\n\n\n\nESSAYS\n\n\n\n\nThe Dominant Idea\n\n\nIn everything that lives, if one looks searchingly, is limned the shadow\nline of an idea--an idea, dead or living, sometimes stronger when dead,\nwith rigid, unswerving lines that mark the living embodiment with the\nstern, immobile cast of the non-living. Daily we move among these\nunyielding shadows, less pierceable, more enduring than granite, with\nthe blackness of ages in them, dominating living, changing bodies, with\ndead, unchanging souls. And we meet, also, living souls dominating dying\nbodies--living ideas regnant over decay and death. Do not imagine that I\nspeak of human life alone. The stamp of persistent or of shifting Will\nis visible in the grass-blade rooted in its clod of earth, as in the\ngossamer web of being that floats and swims far over our heads in the\nfree world of air.\n\nRegnant ideas, everywhere! Did you ever see a dead vine bloom? I have\nseen it. Last summer I trained some morning-glory vines up over a\nsecond-story balcony; and every day they blew and curled in the wind,\ntheir white, purple-dashed faces winking at the sun, radiant with\nclimbing life. Higher every day the green heads crept, carrying their\ntrain of spreading fans waving before the sun-seeking blossoms. Then\nall at once some mischance happened,--some cut-worm or some mischievous\nchild tore one vine off below, the finest and most ambitious one, of\ncourse. In a few hours the leaves hung limp, the sappy stem wilted\nand began to wither; in a day it was dead,--all but the top, which\nstill clung longingly to its support, with bright head lifted. I\nmourned a little for the buds that could never open now, and pitied\nthat proud vine whose work in the world was lost. But the next night\nthere was a storm, a heavy, driving storm, with beating rain and\nblinding lightning. I rose to watch the flashes, and lo! the wonder of\nthe world! In the blackness of the mid-=Night=, in the fury of wind\nand rain, the dead vine had flowered. Five white, moon-faced blossoms\nblew gaily round the skeleton vine, shining back triumphant at the red\nlightning. I gazed at them in dumb wonder. Dear, dead vine, whose will\nhad been so strong to bloom that in the hour of its sudden cut-off\nfrom the feeding earth it sent the last sap to its blossoms; and, not\nwaiting for the morning, brought them forth in storm and flash, as\nwhite night-glories, which should have been the children of the sun.\n\nIn the daylight we all came to look at the wonder, marveling much, and\nsaying, \"Surely these must be the last.\" But every day for three days\nthe dead vine bloomed; and even a week after, when every leaf was dry\nand brown, and so thin you could see through it, one last bud, dwarfed,\nweak, a very baby of a blossom, but still white and delicate, with five\npurple flecks, like those on the live vine beside it, opened and waved\nat the stars, and waited for the early sun. Over death and decay the\nDominant Idea smiled: the vine was in the world to bloom, to bear white\ntrumpet blossoms dashed with purple; and it held its will beyond death.\n\nOur modern teaching is that ideas are but attendant phenomena, impotent\nto determine the actions or relations of life, as the image in the glass\nwhich should say to the body it reflects: \"_I_ shall shape _thee_.\" In\ntruth we know that directly the body goes from before the mirror, the\ntransient image is nothingness; but the real body has its being to live,\nand will live it, heedless of vanished phantoms of itself, in response\nto the ever-shifting pressure of things without it.\n\nIt is thus that the so-called Materialist Conception of History, the\nmodern Socialists, and a positive majority of Anarchists would have us\nlook upon the world of ideas,--shifting, unreal reflections, having\nnaught to do in the determination of Man's life, but so many mirror\nappearances of certain material relations, wholly powerless to act upon\nthe course of material things. Mind to them is in itself a blank mirror,\nthough in fact never wholly blank, because always facing the reality of\nthe material and bound to reflect some shadow. To-day I am somebody,\nto-morrow somebody else, if the scenes have shifted; my Ego is a\ngibbering phantom, pirouetting in the glass, gesticulating,\ntransforming, hourly or momentarily, gleaming with the phosphor light of\na deceptive unreality, melting like the mist upon the hills. Rocks,\nfields, woods, streams, houses, goods, flesh, blood, bone, sinew,--these\nare realities, with definite parts to play, with essential characters\nthat abide under all changes; but my Ego does not abide; it is\nmanufactured afresh with every change of these.\n\nI think this unqualified determinism of the material is a great and\nlamentable error in our modern progressive movement; and while I believe\nit was a wholesome antidote to the long-continued blunder of Middle Age\ntheology, viz.: that Mind was an utterly irresponsible entity making\nlaws of its own after the manner of an Absolute Emperor, without logic,\nsequence, or relation, ruler over matter, and its own supreme\ndeterminant, not excepting God (who was himself the same sort of a mind\nwrit large)--while I do believe that the modern reconception of\nMaterialism has done a wholesome thing in pricking the bubble of such\nconceit and restoring man and his \"soul\" to its \"place in nature,\" I\nnevertheless believe that to this also there is a limit; and that the\nabsolute sway of Matter is quite as mischievous an error as the\nunrelated nature of Mind; even that in its direct action upon personal\nconduct, it has the more ill effect of the two. For if the doctrine of\nfree-will has raised up fanatics and persecutors, who, assuming that men\nmay be good under all conditions if they merely wish to be so, have\nsought to persuade other men's wills with threats, fines, imprisonments,\ntorture, the spike, the wheel, the axe, the fagot, in order to make them\ngood and save them against their obdurate wills; if the doctrine of\nSpiritualism, the soul supreme, has done this, the doctrine of\nMaterialistic Determinism has produced shifting, self-excusing,\nworthless, parasitical characters, who are _this_ now and _that_ at some\nother time, and anything and nothing upon principle. \"My conditions have\nmade me so,\" they cry, and there is no more to be said; poor\nmirror-ghosts! how could they help it! To be sure, the influence of such\na character rarely reaches so far as that of the principled persecutor;\nbut for every one of the latter, there are a hundred of these easy,\ndoughy characters, who will fit any baking tin, to whom determinist\nself-excusing appeals; so the balance of evil between the two doctrines\nis _about_ maintained.\n\nWhat we need is a true appraisement of the power and r\u00f4le of the Idea. I\ndo not think I am able to give such a true appraisement; I do not think\nthat any one--even _much_ greater intellects than mine--will be able to\ndo it for a long time to come. But I am at least able to suggest it, to\nshow its necessity, to give a rude approximation of it.\n\nAnd first, against the accepted formula of modern Materialism, \"Men\nare what circumstances make them,\" I set the opposing declaration,\n\"Circumstances are what men make them\"; and I contend that both\nthese things are true up to the point where the combating powers are\nequalized, or one is overthrown. In other words, my conception of mind,\nor character, is not that it is a powerless reflection of a momentary\ncondition of stuff and form, but an active modifying agent, reacting\non its environment and transforming circumstances, sometimes greatly,\nsometimes, though not often, entirely.\n\nAll over the kingdom of life, I have said, one may see dominant ideas\nworking, if one but trains his eyes to look for them and recognize them.\nIn the human world there have been many dominant ideas. I cannot\nconceive that ever, at any time, the struggle of the body before\ndissolution can have been aught but agony. If the reasoning that\ninsecurity of conditions, the expectation of suffering, are\ncircumstances which make the soul of man uneasy, shrinking, timid, what\nanswer will you give to the challenge of old Ragnar Lodbrog, to that\ntriumphant death-song hurled out, not by one cast to his death in the\nheat of battle, but under slow prison torture, bitten by serpents, and\nyet singing: \"The goddesses of death invite me away--now end I my song.\nThe hours of my life are run out. I shall smile when I die\"? Nor can it\nbe said that this is an exceptional instance, not to be accounted for by\nthe usual operation of general law, for old King Lodbrog the Skalder did\nonly what his fathers did, and his sons and his friends and his enemies,\nthrough long generations; they set the force of a dominant idea, the\nidea of the superascendant ego, against the force of torture and of\ndeath, ending life as they wished to end it, with a smile on their lips.\nBut a few years ago, did we not read how the helpless Kaffirs,\nvictimized by the English for the contumacy of the Boers, having been\nforced to dig the trenches wherein for pleasant sport they were to be\nshot, were lined up on the edge, and seeing death facing them, began to\nchant barbaric strains of triumph, smiling as they fell? Let us admit\nthat such exultant defiance was owing to ignorance, to primitive beliefs\nin gods and hereafters; but let us admit also that it shows the power of\nan idea dominant.\n\nEverywhere in the shells of dead societies, as in the shells of the\nsea-slime, we shall see the force of purposive action, of intent\n_within_ holding its purpose against obstacles _without_.\n\nI think there is no one in the world who can look upon the steadfast,\nfar-staring face of an Egyptian carving, or read a description of\nEgypt's monuments, or gaze upon the mummied clay of its old dead men,\nwithout feeling that the dominant idea of that people in that age was to\nbe enduring and to work enduring things, with the immobility of their\ngreat still sky upon them and the stare of the desert in them. One must\nfeel that whatever other ideas animated them, and expressed themselves\nin their lives, this was the dominant idea. _That which was_ must\nremain, no matter at what cost, even if it were to break the everlasting\nhills: an idea which made the live humanity beneath it, born and\nnurtured in the coffins of caste, groan and writhe and gnaw its\nbandages, till in the fullness of time it passed away: and still the\ngranite mould of it stares with empty eyes out across the world, the\nstern old memory of the _Thing-that-was_.\n\nI think no one can look upon the marbles wherein Greek genius wrought\nthe figuring of its soul, without feeling an apprehension that the\nthings are going to leap and fly; that in a moment one is like to be set\nupon by heroes with spears in their hands, by serpents that will coil\naround him; to be trodden by horses that may trample and flee; to be\nsmitten by these gods that have as little of the idea of stone in them\nas a dragon-fly, one instant poised upon a wind-swayed petal edge. I\nthink no one can look upon them without realizing at once that those\nfigures came out of the boil of life; they seem like rising bubbles\nabout to float into the air, but beneath them other bubbles rising, and\nothers, and others,--there will be no end of it. When one's eyes are\nupon one group, one feels that behind one, perhaps, a figure is uptoeing\nto seize the darts of the air and hurl them on one's head; one must keep\nwhirling to face the miracle that appears about to be wrought--stone\nleaping! And this though nearly every one is minus some of the glory the\nold Greek wrought into it so long ago; even the broken stumps of arms\nand legs live. And the dominant idea is Activity, and the beauty and\nstrength of it. Change, swift, ever-circling Change! The making of\nthings and the casting of them away, as children cast away their toys,\nnot interested that these shall endure, so that they themselves realize\nincessant activity. Full of creative power, what matter if the creature\nperished. So there was an endless procession of changing shapes in their\nschools, their philosophies, their dramas, their poems, till at last it\nwore itself to death. And the marvel passed away from the world. But\nstill their marbles live to show what manner of thoughts dominated them.\n\nAnd if we wish to know what master-thought ruled the lives of men when\nthe medi\u00e6val period had had time to ripen it, one has only at this day\nto stray into some quaint, out-of-the-way English village, where a\nstrong old towered Church yet stands in the midst of little\nstraw-thatched cottages, like a brooding mother-hen surrounded by her\nchickens. Everywhere the greatening of God, and the lessening of Man:\nthe Church so looming, the home so little. The search for the spirit,\nfor the _enduring_ thing (not the poor endurance of granite which in the\nages crumbles, but the eternal), the eternal,--and contempt for the body\nwhich perishes, manifest in studied uncleanliness, in mortifications of\nthe flesh, as if the spirit should have spat its scorn upon it.\n\nSuch was the dominant idea of that middle age which has been too much\ncursed by modernists. For the men who built the castles and the\ncathedrals were men of mighty works, though they made no books, and\nthough their souls spread crippled wings, because of their very\nendeavors to soar too high. The spirit of voluntary subordination for\nthe accomplishment of a great work, which proclaimed the aspiration of\nthe common soul,--that was the spirit wrought into the cathedral stones;\nand it is not wholly to be condemned.\n\nIn waking dream, when the shadow-shapes of world-ideas swim before the\nvision, one sees the Middle-Age Soul an ill-contorted, half-formless\nthing, with dragon wings and a great, dark, tense face, strained sunward\nwith blind eyes.\n\nIf now we look around us to see what idea dominates our own\ncivilization, I do not know that it is even as attractive as this\npiteous monster of the old darkness. The relativity of things has\naltered: Man has risen and God has descended. The modern village has\nbetter homes and less pretentious churches. Also the conception of dirt\nand disease as much-sought afflictions, the patient suffering of which\nis a meet offering to win God's pardon, has given place to the emphatic\npromulgation of cleanliness. We have Public School nurses notifying\nparents that \"pediculosis capitis\" is a very contagious and unpleasant\ndisease; we have cancer associations gathering up such cancers as have\nattached themselves to impecunious persons, and carefully experimenting\nwith a view to cleaning them out of the human race; we have\ntuberculosis societies attempting the Herculean labor of clearing the\nAugean stables of our modern factories of the deadly bacillus, and they\nhave got as far as spittoons with water in them in some factories; and\nothers, and others, and others, which, while not yet overwhelmingly\nsuccessful in their avowed purposes, are evidence sufficient that\nhumanity no longer seeks dirt as a means of grace. We laugh at those old\nsuperstitions, and talk much about exact experimental knowledge. We\nendeavor to galvanize the Greek corpse, and pretend that we enjoy\nphysical culture. We dabble in many things; but the one great real idea\nof our age, not copied from any other, not pretended, not raised to life\nby any conjuration, is the Much Making of Things,--not the making of\nbeautiful things, not the joy of spending living energy in creative\nwork; rather the shameless, merciless driving and over-driving, wasting\nand draining of the last bit of energy, only to produce heaps and heaps\nof things,--things ugly, things harmful, things useless, and at the best\nlargely unnecessary. To what end are they produced? Mostly the producer\ndoes not know; still less does he care. But he is possessed with the\nidea that he _must_ do it, every one is doing it, and every year the\nmaking of things goes on more and faster; there are mountain ranges of\nthings made and making, and still men go about desperately seeking to\nincrease the list of created things, to start fresh heaps and to add to\nthe existing heaps. And with what agony of body, under what stress and\nstrain of danger and fear of danger, with what mutilations and maimings\nand lamings they struggle on, dashing themselves out against these\nrocks of wealth! Verily, if the vision of the Medi\u00e6val Soul is painful\nin its blind staring and pathetic striving, grotesque in its senseless\ntortures, the Soul of the Modern is most amazing with its restless,\nnervous eyes, ever searching the corners of the universe, its restless,\nnervous hands ever reaching and grasping for some useless toil.\n\nAnd certainly the presence of things in abundance, things empty and\nthings vulgar and things absurd, as well as things convenient and\nuseful, has produced the desire for the possession of things, the\nexaltation of the possession of things. Go through the business street\nof any city, where the tilted edges of the strata of things are exposed\nto gaze, and look at the faces of the people as they pass,--not at the\nhungry and smitten ones who fringe the sidewalks and plaint dolefully\nfor alms, but at the crowd,--and see what idea is written on their\nfaces. On those of the women, from the ladies of the horse-shows to the\nshop girls out of the factory, there is a sickening vanity, a\nconsciousness of their clothes, as of some jackdaw in borrowed feathers.\nLook for the pride and glory of the free, strong, beautiful body,\nlithe-moving and powerful. You will not see it. You will see mincing\nsteps, bodies tilted to show the cut of a skirt, simpering, smirking\nfaces, with eyes cast about seeking admiration for the gigantic bow of\nribbon in the overdressed hair. In the caustic words of an acquaintance,\nto whom I once said, as we walked, \"Look at the amount of vanity on all\nthese women's faces,\" \"No: look at the little bit of womanhood showing\nout of all that vanity!\"\n\nAnd on the faces of the men, coarseness! Coarse desires for coarse\nthings, and lots of them: the stamp is set so unmistakably that \"the\nwayfarer though a fool need not err therein.\" Even the frightful anxiety\nand restlessness begotten of the creation of all this, is less\ndistasteful than the abominable expression of lust for the things\ncreated.\n\nSuch is the dominant idea of the western world, at least in these our\ndays. You may see it wherever you look, impressed plainly on things and\non men; very likely, if you look in the glass, you will see it there.\nAnd if some arch\u00e6ologist of a long future shall some day unbury the\nbones of our civilization, where ashes or flood shall have entombed it,\nhe will see this frightful idea stamped on the factory walls he shall\nuncover, with their rows and rows of square lightholes, their tons upon\ntons of toothed steel, grinning out of the skull of this our life; its\nacres of silk and velvet, its square miles of tinsel and shoddy. No\nglorious marbles of nymphs and fawns, whose dead images are yet so sweet\nthat one might wish to kiss them still; no majestic figures of winged\nhorses, with men's faces and lions' paws casting their colossal\nsymbolism in a mighty spell forward upon Time, as those old stone\nchimeras of Babylon yet do; but meaningless iron giants, of wheels and\nteeth, whose secret is forgotten, but whose business was to grind men\nup, and spit them out as housefuls of woven stuffs, bazaars of trash,\nwherethrough other men might wade. The statues he shall find will bear\nno trace of mythic dream or mystic symbol; they will be statues of\nmerchants and iron-masters and militiamen, in tailored coats and\npantaloons and proper hats and shoes.\n\nBut the dominant idea of the age and land does not necessarily mean the\ndominant idea of any single life. I doubt not that in those long gone\ndays, far away by the banks of the still Nile, in the abiding shadow of\nthe pyramids, under the heavy burden of other men's stolidity, there\nwent to and fro restless, active, rebel souls who hated all that the\nancient society stood for, and with burning hearts sought to overthrow\nit.\n\nI am sure that in the midst of all the agile Greek intellect created,\nthere were those who went about with downbent eyes, caring nothing for\nit all, seeking some higher revelation, willing to abandon the joys of\nlife, so that they drew near to some distant, unknown perfection their\nfellows knew not of. I am certain that in the dark ages, when most men\nprayed and cowered, and beat and bruised themselves, and sought\nafflictions, like that St. Teresa who said, \"Let me suffer, or die,\"\nthere were some, many, who looked on the world as a chance jest, who\ndespised or pitied their ignorant comrades, and tried to compel the\nanswers of the universe to their questionings, by the patient, quiet\nsearching which came to be Modern Science. I am sure there were\nhundreds, thousands of them, of whom we have never heard.\n\nAnd now, to-day, though the Society about us is dominated by\nThing-Worship, and will stand so marked for all time, that is no reason\nany single soul should be. Because the one thing seemingly worth doing\nto my neighbor, to all my neighbors, is to pursue dollars, that is no\nreason I should pursue dollars. Because my neighbors conceive they need\nan inordinate heap of carpets, furniture, clocks, china, glass,\ntapestries, mirrors, clothes, jewels--and servants to care for them, and\ndetectives to keep an eye on the servants, judges to try the thieves,\nand politicians to appoint the judges, jails to punish the culprits, and\nwardens to watch in the jails, and tax collectors to gather support for\nthe wardens, and fees for the tax collectors, and strong houses to hold\nthe fees, so that none but the guardians thereof can make off with\nthem,--and therefore, to keep this host of parasites, need other men to\nwork for them, and make the fees; because my neighbors want all this, is\nthat any reason I should devote myself to such a barren folly? and bow\nmy neck to serve to keep up the gaudy show?\n\nMust we, because the Middle Age was dark and blind and brutal, throw\naway the one good thing it wrought into the fibre of Man, that the\ninside of a human being was worth more than the outside? that to\nconceive a higher thing than oneself and live toward that is the only\nway of living worthily? The goal strived for should, and must, be a very\ndifferent one from that which led the medi\u00e6val fanatics to despise the\nbody and belabor it with hourly crucifixions. But one can recognize the\nclaims and the importance of the body without therefore sacrificing\ntruth, honor, simplicity, and faith, to the vulgar gauds of\nbody-service, whose very decorations debase the thing they might be\nsupposed to exalt.\n\nI have said before that the doctrine that men are nothing and\ncircumstances all, has been, and is, the bane of our modern social\nreform movements.\n\nOur youth, themselves animated by the spirit of the old teachers who\nbelieved in the supremacy of ideas, even in the very hour of throwing\naway that teaching, look with burning eyes to the social East, and\nbelieve that wonders of revolution are soon to be accomplished. In their\nenthusiasm they foreread the gospel of Circumstances to mean that very\nsoon the pressure of material development must break down the social\nsystem--they give the rotten thing but a few years to last; and then,\nthey themselves shall witness the transformation, partake in its joys.\nThe few years pass away and nothing happens; enthusiasm cools. Behold\nthese same idealists then, successful business men, professionals,\nproperty owners, money lenders, creeping into the social ranks they once\ndespised, pitifully, contemptibly, at the skirts of some impecunious\npersonage to whom they have lent money, or done some professional\nservice gratis; behold them lying, cheating, tricking, flattering,\nbuying and selling themselves for any frippery, any cheap little\npretense. The Dominant Social Idea has seized them, their lives are\nswallowed up in it; and when you ask the reason why, they tell you that\nCircumstances compelled them so to do. If you quote their lies to them,\nthey smile with calm complacency, assure you that when Circumstances\ndemand lies, lies are a great deal better than truth; that tricks are\nsometimes more effective than honest dealing; that flattering and duping\ndo not matter, if the end to be attained is desirable; and that under\nexisting \"Circumstances\" life isn't possible without all this; that it\nis going to be possible whenever Circumstances have made truth-telling\neasier than lying, but till then a man must look out for himself, by all\nmeans. And so the cancer goes on rotting away the moral fibre, and the\nman becomes a lump, a squash, a piece of slippery slime, taking all\nshapes and losing all shapes, according to what particular hole or\ncorner he wishes to glide into, a disgusting embodiment of the moral\nbankruptcy begotten by Thing-Worship.\n\nHad he been dominated by a less material conception of life, had his\nwill not been rotted by the intellectual reasoning of it out of its\nexistence, by its acceptance of its own nothingness, the unselfish\naspirations of his earlier years would have grown and strengthened by\nexercise and habit; and his protest against the time might have been\nenduringly written, and to some purpose.\n\nWill it be said that the Pilgrim fathers did not hew, out of the New\nEngland ice and granite, the idea which gathered them together out of\ntheir scattered and obscure English villages, and drove them in their\nfrail ships over the Atlantic in midwinter, to cut their way against all\nopposing forces? Were they not common men, subject to the operation of\ncommon law? Will it be said that Circumstances aided them? When death,\ndisease, hunger, and cold had done their worst, not one of those\nremaining was willing by an _easy lie_ to return to material comfort and\nthe possibility of long days.\n\nHad our modern social revolutionists the vigorous and undaunted\nconception of their own powers that these had, our social movements\nwould not be such pitiful abortions,--core-rotten even before the\noutward flecks appear.\n\n\"Give a labor leader a political job, and the system becomes all right,\"\nlaugh our enemies; and they point mockingly to Terence Powderly and his\nlike; and they quote John Burns, who as soon as _he_ went into\nParliament declared: \"The time of the agitator is past; the time of the\nlegislator has come.\" \"Let an Anarchist marry an heiress, and the\ncountry is safe,\" they sneer:--and they have the right to sneer. But\nwould they have that right, could they have it, if our lives were not in\nthe first instance dominated by more insistent desires than those we\nwould fain have others think we hold most dear?\n\nIt is the old story: \"Aim at the stars, and you may hit the top of the\ngatepost; but aim at the ground, and you will hit the ground.\"\n\nIt is not to be supposed that any one will attain to the full\nrealization of what he purposes, even when those purposes do not involve\nunited action with others; he _will_ fall short; he will in some measure\nbe overcome by contending or inert opposition. But something he will\nattain, if he continues to aim high.\n\nWhat, then, would I have? you ask. I would have men invest themselves\nwith the dignity of an aim higher than the chase for wealth; choose a\nthing to do in life outside of the making of things, and keep it in\nmind,--not for a day, nor a year, but for a lifetime. And then keep\nfaith with themselves! Not be a light-o'-love, to-day professing this\nand to-morrow that, and easily reading oneself out of both whenever it\nbecomes convenient; not advocating a thing to-day, and to-morrow kissing\nits enemies' sleeve, with that weak, coward cry in the mouth,\n\"Circumstances make me.\" Take a good look into yourself, and if you love\nThings and the power and the plenitude of Things better than you love\nyour own dignity, human dignity, Oh, say so, say so! Say it to yourself,\nand abide by it. But do not blow hot and cold in one breath. Do not try\nto be a social reformer and a respected possessor of Things at the same\ntime. Do not preach the straight and narrow way while going joyously\nupon the wide one. _Preach the wide one_, or do not preach at all; but\ndo not fool yourself by saying you would like to help usher in a free\nsociety, but you cannot sacrifice an armchair for it. Say honestly, \"I\nlove armchairs better than free men, and pursue them because I choose;\nnot because circumstances make me. I love hats, large, large hats, with\nmany feathers and great bows; and I would rather have those hats than\ntrouble myself about social dreams that will never be accomplished in my\nday. The world worships hats, and I wish to worship with them.\"\n\nBut if you choose the liberty and pride and strength of the single soul,\nand the free fraternization of men, as the purpose which your life is to\nmake manifest, then do not sell it for tinsel. Think that your soul is\nstrong and will hold its way; and slowly, through bitter struggle\nperhaps, the strength will grow. And the foregoing of possessions for\nwhich others barter the last possibility of freedom, will become easy.\n\nAt the end of life you may close your eyes, saying: \"I have not been\ndominated by the Dominant Idea of my Age; I have chosen mine own\nallegiance, and served it. I have proved by a lifetime that there is\nthat in man which saves him from the absolute tyranny of Circumstance,\nwhich in the end conquers and remoulds Circumstance,--the immortal fire\nof Individual Will, which is the salvation of the Future.\"\n\nLet us have Men, Men who will say a word to their souls and keep\nit--keep it not when it is easy, but keep it when it is hard--keep it\nwhen the storm roars and there is a white-streaked sky and blue thunder\nbefore, and one's eyes are blinded and one's ears deafened with the war\nof opposing things; and keep it under the long leaden sky and the gray\ndreariness that never lifts. Hold unto the last: that is what it means\nto have a Dominant Idea, where the same idea has been worked out by a\nwhole and unmake Circumstance.\n\n\n\n\nAnarchism\n\n\nThere are two spirits abroad in the world,--the spirit of\nCaution, the spirit of Dare, the spirit of Quiescence, the spirit\nof Unrest; the spirit of Immobility, the spirit of Change;\nthe spirit of Hold-fast-to-that-which-you-have, the spirit of\nLet-go-and-fly-to-that-which-you-have-not; the spirit of the slow\nand steady builder, careful of its labors, loath to part with any\nof its achievements, wishful to keep, and unable to discriminate\nbetween what is worth keeping and what is better cast aside, and\nthe spirit of the inspirational destroyer, fertile in creative\nfancies, volatile, careless in its luxuriance of effort, inclined\nto cast away the good together with the bad.\n\nSociety is a quivering balance, eternally struck afresh, between these\ntwo. Those who look upon Man, as most Anarchists do, as a link in the\nchain of evolution, see in these two social tendencies the sum of the\ntendencies of individual men, which in common with the tendencies of all\norganic life are the result of the action and counteraction of\ninheritance and adaptation. Inheritance, continually tending to repeat\nwhat has been, long, long after it is outgrown; adaptation continually\ntending to break down forms. The same tendencies under other names are\nobserved in the inorganic world as well, and anyone who is possessed by\nthe modern scientific mania for Monism can easily follow out the line\nto the vanishing point of human knowledge.\n\nThere has been, in fact, a strong inclination to do this among a portion\nof the more educated Anarchists, who having been working men first and\nAnarchists by reason of their instinctive hatred to the boss, later\nbecame students and, swept away by their undigested science, immediately\nconceived that it was necessary to fit their Anarchism to the\nrevelations of the microscope, else the theory might as well be given\nup. I remember with considerable amusement a heated discussion some five\nor six years since, wherein doctors and embryo doctors sought for a\njustification of Anarchism in the development of the amoeba, while a\nfledgling engineer searched for it in mathematical quantities.\n\nMyself at one time asserted very stoutly that no one could be an\nAnarchist and believe in God at the same time. Others assert as stoutly\nthat one cannot accept the spiritualist philosophy and be an Anarchist.\n\nAt present I hold with C. L. James, the most learned of American\nAnarchists, that one's metaphysical system has very little to do with\nthe matter. The chain of reasoning which once appeared so conclusive to\nme, namely, that Anarchism being a denial of authority over the\nindividual could not co-exist with a belief in a Supreme Ruler of the\nuniverse, is contradicted in the case of Leo Tolstoy, who comes to the\nconclusion that none has a right to rule another just because of his\nbelief in God, just because he believes that all are equal children of\none father, and therefore none has a right to rule the other. I speak of\nhim because he is a familiar and notable personage, but there have\nfrequently been instances where the same idea has been worked out by a\nwhole sect of believers, especially in the earlier (and persecuted)\nstages of their development.\n\nIt no longer seems necessary to me, therefore, that one should base his\nAnarchism upon any particular world conception; it is a theory of the\nrelations due to man and comes as an offered solution to the societary\nproblems arising from the existence of these two tendencies of which I\nhave spoken. No matter where those tendencies come from, all alike\nrecognize them as existent; and however interesting the speculation,\nhowever fascinating to lose oneself back, back in the molecular\nstorm-whirl wherein the figure of man is seen merely as a denser,\nfiercer group, a livelier storm centre, moving among others, impinging\nupon others, but nowhere separate, nowhere exempt from the same\nnecessity that acts upon all other centers of force,--it is by no means\nnecessary in order to reason oneself into Anarchism.\n\nSufficient are a good observant eye and a reasonably reflecting brain,\nfor anyone, lettered or unlettered, to recognize the desirability of\nAnarchistic aims. This is not to say that increased knowledge will not\nconfirm and expand one's application of this fundamental concept; (the\nbeauty of truth is that at every new discovery of fact we find how much\nwider and deeper it is than we at first thought it). But it means that\nfirst of all Anarchism is concerned with present conditions, and with\nthe very plain and common people; and is by no means a complex or\ndifficult proposition.\n\nAnarchism, alone, apart from any proposed economic reform, is just the\nlatest reply out of many the past has given, to that daring, breakaway,\nvolatile, changeful spirit which is never content. The society of which\nwe are part puts certain oppressions upon us,--oppressions which have\narisen out of the very changes accomplished by this same spirit,\ncombined with the hard and fast lines of old habits acquired and fixed\nbefore the changes were thought of. Machinery, which as our Socialistic\ncomrades continually emphasize, has wrought a revolution in Industry, is\nthe creation of the Dare Spirit; it has fought its way against ancient\ncustoms, privilege, and cowardice at every step, as the history of any\ninvention would show if traced backward through all its transformations.\nAnd what is the result of it? That a system of working, altogether\nappropriate to hand production and capable of generating no great\noppressions while industry remained in that state, has been stretched,\nstrained to fit production in mass, till we are reaching the bursting\npoint; once more the spirit of Dare must assert itself--claim new\nfreedoms, since the old ones are rendered null and void by the present\nmethods of production.\n\nTo speak in detail: in the old days of Master and Man--not so old but\nwhat many of the older workingmen can recall the conditions, the\nworkshop was a fairly easy-going place where employer and employed\nworked together, knew no class feelings, chummed it out of hours, as a\nrule were not obliged to rush, and when they were, relied upon the\nprinciple of common interest and friendship (not upon a slave-owner's\npower) for overtime assistance. The proportional profit on each man's\nlabor may even have been in general higher, but the total amount\npossible to be undertaken by one employer was relatively so small that\nno tremendous aggregations of wealth could arise. To be an employer gave\nno man power over another's incomings and outgoings, neither upon his\nspeech while at work, nor to force him beyond endurance when busy, nor\nto subject him to fines and tributes for undesired things, such as\nice-water, dirty spittoons, cups of undrinkable tea and the like; nor to\nthe unmentionable indecencies of the large factory. The individuality of\nthe workman was a plainly recognized quantity: his life was his own; he\ncould not be locked in and driven to death, like a street-car horse, for\nthe good of the general public and the paramount importance of Society.\n\nWith the application of steam-power and the development of Machinery,\ncame these large groupings of workers, this subdivision of work, which\nhas made of the employer a man apart, having interests hostile to those\nof his employes, living in another circle altogether, knowing nothing of\nthem but as so many units of power, to be reckoned with as he does his\nmachines, for the most part despising them, at his very best regarding\nthem as dependents whom he is bound in some respects to care for, as a\nhumane man cares for an old horse he cannot use. Such is his relation to\nhis employes; while to the general public he becomes simply an immense\ncuttle-fish with tentacles reaching everywhere,--each tiny\nprofit-sucking mouth producing no great effect, but in aggregate drawing\nup such a body of wealth as makes any declaration of equality or freedom\nbetween him and the worker a thing to laugh at.\n\nThe time is come therefore when the spirit of Dare calls loud through\nevery factory and workshop for a change in the relations of master and\nman. There must be some arrangement possible which will preserve the\nbenefits of the new production and at the same time restore the\nindividual dignity of the worker,--give back the bold independence of\nthe old master of his trade, together with such added freedoms as may\nproperly accrue to him as his special advantage from society's material\ndevelopments.\n\nThis is the particular message of Anarchism to the worker. It is not an\neconomic system; it does not come to you with detailed plans of how you,\nthe workers, are to conduct industry; nor systemized methods of\nexchange; nor careful paper organizations of \"the administration of\nthings.\" It simply calls upon the spirit of individuality to rise up\nfrom its abasement, and hold itself paramount in no matter what economic\nreorganization shall come about. Be men first of all, not held in\nslavery by the things you make; let your gospel be, \"Things for men, not\nmen for things.\"\n\nSocialism, economically considered, is a positive proposition for such\nreorganization. It is an attempt, in the main, to grasp at those great\nnew material gains which have been the special creation of the last\nforty or fifty years. It has not so much in view the reclamation and\nfurther assertion of the personality of the worker as it has a just\ndistribution of products.\n\nNow it is perfectly apparent that Anarchy, having to do almost entirely\nwith the relations of men in their thoughts and feelings, and not with\nthe positive organization of production and distribution, an Anarchist\nneeds to supplement his Anarchism by some economic propositions, which\nmay enable him to put in practical shape to himself and others this\npossibility of independent manhood. That will be his test in choosing\nany such proposition,--the measure in which individuality is secured. It\nis not enough for him that a comfortable ease, a pleasant and\nwell-ordered routine, shall be secured; free play for the spirit of\nchange--that is his first demand.\n\nEvery Anarchist has this in common with every other Anarchist, that the\neconomic system must be subservient to this end; no system recommends\nitself to him by the mere beauty and smoothness of its working; jealous\nof the encroachments of the machine, he looks with fierce suspicion upon\nan arithmetic with men for units, a society running in slots and\ngrooves, with the precision so beautiful to one in whom the love of\norder is first, but which only makes him sniff--\"Pfaugh! it smells of\nmachine oil.\"\n\nThere are, accordingly, several economic schools among Anarchists; there\nare Anarchist Individualists, Anarchist Mutualists, Anarchist Communists\nand Anarchist Socialists. In times past these several schools have\nbitterly denounced each other and mutually refused to recognize each\nother as Anarchists at all. The more narrow-minded on both sides still\ndo so; true, they do not consider it is narrow-mindedness, but simply a\nfirm and solid grasp of the truth, which does not permit of tolerance\ntowards error. This has been the attitude of the bigot in all ages, and\nAnarchism no more than any other new doctrine has escaped its bigots.\nEach of these fanatical adherents of either collectivism or\nindividualism believes that no Anarchism is possible without that\nparticular economic system as its guarantee, and is of course thoroughly\njustified from his own standpoint. With the extension of what Comrade\nBrown calls the New Spirit, however, this old narrowness is yielding to\nthe broader, kindlier and far more reasonable idea, that all these\neconomic conceptions may be experimented with, and there is nothing\nun-Anarchistic about any of them until the element of compulsion enters\nand obliges unwilling persons to remain in a community whose economic\narrangements they do not agree to. (When I say \"do not agree to\" I do\nnot mean that they have a mere distaste for, or that they think might\nwell be altered for some other preferable arrangement, but with which,\nnevertheless, they quite easily put up, as two persons each living in\nthe same house and having different tastes in decoration, will submit to\nsome color of window shade or bit of bric-a-brac which he does not like\nso well, but which nevertheless, he cheerfully puts up with for the\nsatisfaction of being with his friend. I mean serious differences which\nin their opinion threaten their essential liberties. I make this\nexplanation about trifles, because the objections which are raised to\nthe doctrine that men may live in society freely, almost always\ndegenerate into trivialities,--such as, \"what would you do if two ladies\nwanted the same hat?\" etc. We do not advocate the abolition of common\nsense, and every person of sense is willing to surrender his preferences\nat times, provided he is not _compelled_ to at all costs.)\n\nTherefore I say that each group of persons acting socially in freedom\nmay choose any of the proposed systems, and be just as thorough-going\nAnarchists as those who select another. If this standpoint be accepted,\nwe are rid of those outrageous excommunications which belong properly to\nthe Church of Rome, and which serve no purpose but to bring us into\ndeserved contempt with outsiders.\n\nFurthermore, having accepted it from a purely theoretical process of\nreasoning, I believe one is then in an attitude of mind to perceive\ncertain material factors in the problem which account for these\ndifferences in proposed systems, and which even demand such differences,\nso long as production is in its present state.\n\nI shall now dwell briefly upon these various propositions, and explain,\nas I go along, what the material factors are to which I have just\nalluded. Taking the last first, namely, Anarchist Socialism,--its\neconomic program is the same as that of political Socialism, in its\nentirety;--I mean before the working of practical politics has frittered\nthe Socialism away into a mere list of governmental ameliorations. Such\nAnarchist Socialists hold that the State, the Centralized Government,\nhas been and ever will be the business agent of the property-owning\nclass; that it is an expression of a certain material condition purely,\nand with the passing of that condition the State must also pass; that\nSocialism, meaning the complete taking over of all forms of property\nfrom the hands of men as the indivisible possession of Man, brings with\nit as a logical, inevitable result the dissolution of the State. They\nbelieve that every individual having an equal claim upon the social\nproduction, the incentive to grabbing and holding being gone, crimes\n(which are in nearly all cases the instinctive answer to some antecedent\ndenial of that claim to one's share) will vanish, and with them the last\nexcuse for the existence of the State. They do not, as a rule, look\nforward to any such transformations in the material aspect of society,\nas some of the rest of us do. A Londoner once said to me that he\nbelieved London would keep on growing, the flux and reflux of nations\nkeep on pouring through its serpentine streets, its hundred thousand\n'buses keep on jaunting just the same, and all that tremendous traffic\nwhich fascinates and horrifies continue rolling like a great flood up\nand down, up and down, like the sea-sweep,--after the realization of\nAnarchism, as it does now. That Londoner's name was John Turner; he\nsaid, on the same occasion, that he believed thoroughly in the economics\nof Socialism.\n\nNow this branch of the Anarchist party came out of the old Socialist\nparty, and originally represented the revolutionary wing of that party,\nas opposed to those who took up the notion of using politics. And I\nbelieve the material reason which accounts for their acceptance of that\nparticular economic scheme is this (of course it applies to all European\nSocialists) that the social development of Europe is a thing of\nlong-continued history; that almost from time immemorial there has been\na recognized class struggle; that no workman living, nor yet his father,\nnor his grandfather, nor his great-grandfather has seen the land of\nEurope pass in vast blocks from an unclaimed public inheritance into\nthe hands of an ordinary individual like himself, without a title or any\ndistinguishing mark above himself, as we in America have seen. The land\nand the land-holder have been to him always unapproachable\nquantities,--a recognized source of oppression, class, and\nclass-possession.\n\nAgain, the industrial development in town and city--coming as a means of\nescape from feudal oppression, but again bringing with it its own\noppressions, also with a long history of warfare behind it, has served\nto bind the sense of class fealty upon the common people of the\nmanufacturing towns; so that blind, stupid, and Church-ridden as they no\ndoubt are, there is a vague, dull, but very certainly existing feeling\nthat they must look for help in association together, and regard with\nsuspicion or indifference any proposition which proposes to help them by\nhelping their employers. Moreover, Socialism has been an ever recurring\ndream through the long story of revolt in Europe; Anarchists, like\nothers, are born into it. It is not until they pass over seas, and come\nin contact with other conditions, breathe the atmosphere of other\nthoughts, that they are able to see other possibilities as well.\n\nIf I may venture, at this point, a criticism of this position of the\nAnarchist Socialist, I would say that the great flaw in this conception\nof the State is in supposing it to be of _simple_ origin; the State is\nnot merely the tool of the governing classes; it has its root far down\nin the religious development of human nature; and will not fall apart\nmerely through the abolition of classes and property. There is other\nwork to be done. As to the economic program, I shall criticise that,\ntogether with all the other propositions, when I sum up.\n\nAnarchist Communism is a modification, rather an evolution, of\nAnarchist Socialism. Most Anarchist Communists, I believe, do look\nforward to great changes in the distribution of people upon the earth's\nsurface through the realization of Anarchism. Most of them agree that\nthe opening up of the land together with the free use of tools would\nlead to a breaking up of these vast communities called cities, and the\nformation of smaller groups or communes which shall be held together by\na free recognition of common interests only.\n\nWhile Socialism looks forward to a further extension of the modern\ntriumph of Commerce--which is that it has brought the products of the\nentire earth to your door-step--free Communism looks upon such a fever\nof exportation and importation as an unhealthy development, and expects\nrather a more self-reliant development of home resources, doing away\nwith the mass of supervision required for the systematic conduct of such\nworld exchange. It appeals to the plain sense of the workers, by\nproposing that they who now consider themselves helpless dependents upon\nthe boss's ability to give them a job, shall constitute themselves\nindependent producing groups, take the materials, do the work (they do\nthat now), deposit the products in the warehouses, taking what they want\nfor themselves, and letting others take the balance. To do this no\ngovernment, no employer, no money system is necessary. There is only\nnecessary a decent regard for one's own and one's fellow-worker's\nself-hood. It is not likely, indeed it is devoutly to be hoped, that no\nsuch large aggregations of men as now assemble daily in mills and\nfactories, will ever come together by mutual desire. (A factory is a\nhot-bed for all that is vicious in human nature, and largely because of\nits crowding only.)\n\nThe notion that men cannot work together unless they have a\ndriving-master to take a percentage of their product, is contrary both\nto good sense and observed fact.\n\nAs a rule bosses simply make confusion worse confounded when they\nattempt to mix in a workman's snarls, as every mechanic has had\npractical demonstration of; and as to social effort, why men worked in\ncommon while they were monkeys yet; if you don't believe it, go and\nwatch the monkeys. They don't surrender their individual freedom,\neither.\n\nIn short, the real workmen will make their own regulations, decide when\nand where and how things shall be done. It is not necessary that the\nprojector of an Anarchist Communist society shall say in what manner\nseparate industries shall be conducted, nor do they presume to. He\nsimply conjures the spirit of Dare and Do in the plainest workmen--says\nto them: \"It is you who know how to mine, how to dig, how to cut; you\nwill know how to organize your work without a dictator; we cannot tell\nyou, but we have full faith that you will find the way yourselves. You\nwill never be free men until you acquire that same self-faith.\"\n\nAs to the problem of the exact exchange of equivalents which so frets\nthe reformers of other schools, to him it does not exist. So there is\nenough, who cares? The sources of wealth remain indivisible forever; who\ncares if one has a little more or less, so all have enough? Who cares if\nsomething goes to waste? Let it waste. The rotted apple fertilizes the\nground as well as if it had comforted the animal economy first. And,\nindeed, you who worry so much about system and order and adjustment of\nproduction to consumption, you waste more human energy in making your\naccount than the precious calculation is worth. Hence money with all its\nretinue of complications and trickeries is abolished.\n\nSmall, independent, self-resourceful, freely cooperating communes--this\nis the economic ideal which is accepted by most of the Anarchists of the\nOld World to-day.\n\nAs to the material factor which developed this ideal among Europeans, it\nis the recollection and even some still remaining vestiges of the\nmedi\u00e6val village commune--those oases in the great Sahara of human\ndegradation presented in the history of the Middle Ages, when the\nCatholic Church stood triumphant upon Man in the dust. Such is the ideal\nglamored with the dead gold of a sun which has set, which gleams through\nthe pages of Morris and Kropotkin. We in America never knew the village\ncommune. White Civilization struck our shores in a broad tide-sheet and\nswept over the country inclusively; among us was never seen the little\ncommune growing up from a state of barbarism independently, out of\nprimary industries, and maintaining itself within itself. There was no\ngradual change from the mode of life of the native people to our own;\nthere was a wiping out and a complete transplantation of the latest form\nof European civilization. The idea of the little commune, therefore,\ncomes instinctively to the Anarchists of Europe,--particularly the\ncontinental ones; with them it is merely the conscious development of a\nsubmerged instinct. With Americans it is an importation.\n\nI believe that most Anarchist Communists avoid the blunder of the\nSocialists in regarding the State as the offspring of material\nconditions purely, though they lay great stress upon its being the tool\nof Property, and contend that in one form or another the State will\nexist so long as there is property at all.\n\nI pass to the extreme Individualists,--those who hold to the tradition\nof political economy, and are firm in the idea that the system of\nemployer and employed, buying and selling, banking, and all the other\nessential institutions of Commercialism, centering upon private\nproperty, are in themselves good, and are rendered vicious merely by the\ninterference of the State. Their chief economic propositions are: land\nto be held by individuals or companies for such time and in such\nallotments as they use only; redistribution to take place as often as\nthe members of the community shall agree; what constitutes use to be\ndecided by each community, presumably in town meeting assembled;\ndisputed cases to be settled by a so-called free jury to be chosen by\nlot out of the entire group; members not coinciding in the decisions of\nthe group to betake themselves to outlying lands not occupied, without\nlet or hindrance from any one.\n\nMoney to represent all staple commodities, to be issued by whomsoever\npleases; naturally, it would come to individuals depositing their\nsecurities with banks and accepting bank notes in return; such bank\nnotes representing the labor expended in production and being issued in\nsufficient quantity, (there being no limit upon any one's starting in\nthe business, whenever interest began to rise more banks would be\norganized, and thus the rate per cent would be constantly checked by\ncompetition), exchange would take place freely, commodities would\ncirculate, business of all kinds would be stimulated, and, the\ngovernment privilege being taken away from inventions, industries would\nspring up at every turn, bosses would be hunting men rather than men\nbosses, wages would rise to the full measure of the individual\nproduction, and forever remain there. Property, real property, would at\nlast exist, which it does not at the present day, because no man gets\nwhat he makes.\n\nThe charm in this program is that it proposes no sweeping changes in our\ndaily retinue; it does not bewilder us as more revolutionary\npropositions do. Its remedies are self-acting ones; they do not depend\nupon conscious efforts of individuals to establish justice and build\nharmony; competition in freedom is the great automatic valve which opens\nor closes as demands increase or diminish, and all that is necessary is\nto let well enough alone and not attempt to assist it.\n\nIt is sure that nine Americans in ten who have never heard of any of\nthese programs before, will listen with far more interest and approval\nto this than to the others. The material reason which explains this\nattitude of mind is very evident. In this country outside of the Negro\nquestion we have never had the historic division of classes; we are just\nmaking that history now; we have never felt the need of the associative\nspirit of workman with workman, because in our society it has been the\nindividual that did things; the workman of to-day was the employer\nto-morrow; vast opportunities lying open to him in the undeveloped\nterritory, he shouldered his tools and struck out single-handed for\nhimself. Even now, fiercer and fiercer though the struggle is growing,\ntighter and tighter though the workman is getting cornered, the line of\ndivision between class and class is constantly being broken, and the\nfirst motto of the American is \"the Lord helps him who helps himself.\"\nConsequently this economic program, whose key-note is \"let alone\",\nappeals strongly to the traditional sympathies and life habits of a\npeople who have themselves seen an almost unbounded patrimony swept up,\nas a gambler sweeps his stakes, by men who played with them at school or\nworked with them in one shop a year or ten years before.\n\nThis particular branch of the Anarchist party does not accept the\nCommunist position that Government arises from Property; on the\ncontrary, they hold Government responsible for the denial of real\nproperty (viz.: to the producer the exclusive possession of what he\nhas produced). They lay more stress upon its metaphysical origin in\nthe authority-creating Fear in human nature. Their attack is directed\ncentrally upon the idea of Authority; thus the material wrongs seem to\nflow from the spiritual error (if I may venture the word without fear\nof misconstruction), which is precisely the reverse of the Socialistic\nview.\n\nTruth lies not \"_between_ the two,\" but in a synthesis of the two\nopinions.\n\nAnarchist Mutualism is a modification of the program of Individualism,\nlaying more emphasis upon organization, co-operation and free federation\nof the workers. To these the trade union is the nucleus of the free\nco-operative group, which will obviate the necessity of an employer,\nissue time-checks to its members, take charge of the finished product,\nexchange with different trade groups for their mutual advantage through\nthe central federation, enable its members to utilize their credit, and\nlikewise insure them against loss. The mutualist position on the land\nquestion is identical with that of the Individualists, as well as their\nunderstanding of the State.\n\nThe material factor which accounts for such differences as there are\nbetween Individualists and Mutualists, is, I think, the fact that the\nfirst originated in the brains of those who, whether workmen or business\nmen, lived by so-called independent exertion. Josiah Warren, though a\npoor man, lived in an Individualist way and made his free-life social\nexperiment in small country settlements, far removed from the great\norganized industries. Tucker also, though a city man, has never had\npersonal association with such industries. They had never known directly\nthe oppressions of the large factory, nor mingled with workers'\nassociations. The Mutualists had; consequently their leaning towards a\ngreater Communism. Dyer D. Lum spent the greater part of his life in\nbuilding up workmen's unions, himself being a hand worker, a book-binder\nby trade.\n\nI have now presented the rough skeleton of four different economic\nschemes entertained by Anarchists. Remember that the point of agreement\nin all is: _no compulsion_. Those who favor one method have no intention\nof forcing it upon those who favor another, so long as equal tolerance\nis exercised toward themselves.\n\nRemember, also, that none of these schemes is proposed for its own sake,\nbut because through it, its projectors believe, liberty may be best\nsecured. Every Anarchist, as an Anarchist, would be perfectly willing to\nsurrender his own scheme directly, if he saw that another worked better.\n\nFor myself, I believe that all these and many more could be\nadvantageously tried in different localities; I would see the instincts\nand habits of the people express themselves in a free choice in every\ncommunity; and I am sure that distinct environments would call out\ndistinct adaptations.\n\nPersonally, while I recognize that liberty would be greatly extended\nunder any of these economies, I frankly confess that none of them\nsatisfies me.\n\nSocialism and Communism both demand a degree of joint effort and\nadministration which would beget more regulation than is wholly\nconsistent with Ideal Anarchism; Individualism and Mutualism, resting\nupon property, involve a development of the private policeman not at all\ncompatible with my notions of freedom.\n\nMy ideal would be a condition in which all natural resources would be\nforever free to all, and the worker individually able to produce for\nhimself sufficient for all his vital needs, if he so chose, so that he\nneed not govern his working or not working by the times and seasons of\nhis fellows. I think that time may come; but it will only be through the\ndevelopment of the modes of production and the taste of the people.\nMeanwhile we all cry with one voice for the freedom _to try_.\n\nAre these all the aims of Anarchism? They are just the beginning. They\nare an outline of what is demanded for the material producer. If as a\nworker, you think no further than how to free yourself from the horrible\nbondage of capitalism, then that is the measure of Anarchism for you.\nBut you yourself put the limit there, if there it is put. Immeasurably\ndeeper, immeasurably higher, dips and soars the soul which has come out\nof its casement of custom and cowardice, and dared to claim its Self.\n\nAh, once to stand unflinchingly on the brink of that dark gulf of\npassions and desires, once at last to send a bold, straight-driven gaze\ndown into the volcanic Me, once, and in that once, and in that once\n_forever_, to throw off the command to cover and flee from the knowledge\nof that abyss,--nay, to dare it to hiss and seethe if it will, and make\nus writhe and shiver with its force! Once and forever to realize that\none is not a bundle of well-regulated little reasons bound up in the\nfront room of the brain to be sermonized and held in order with\ncopy-book maxims or moved and stopped by a syllogism, but a bottomless,\nbottomless depth of all strange sensations, a rocking sea of feeling\nwherever sweep strong storms of unaccountable hate and rage, invisible\ncontortions of disappointment, low ebbs of meanness, quakings and\nshudderings of love that drives to madness and will not be controlled,\nhungerings and moanings and sobbing that smite upon the inner ear, now\nfirst bent to listen, as if all the sadness of the sea and the wailing\nof the great pine forests of the North had met to weep together there in\nthat silence audible to you alone. To look down into that, to know the\nblackness, the midnight, the dead ages in oneself, to feel the jungle\nand the beast within,--and the swamp and the slime, and the desolate\ndesert of the heart's despair--to see, to know, to feel to the\nuttermost,--and then to look at one's fellow, sitting across from one in\nthe street-car, so decorous, so well got up, so nicely combed and\nbrushed and oiled and to wonder what lies beneath that commonplace\nexterior,--to picture the cavern in him which somewhere far below has a\nnarrow gallery running into your own--to imagine the pain that racks him\nto the finger-tips perhaps while he wears that placid ironed-shirt-front\ncountenance--to conceive how he too shudders at himself and writhes and\nflees from the lava of his heart and aches in his prison-house not\ndaring to see himself--to draw back respectfully from the Self-gate of\nthe plainest, most unpromising creature, even from the most debased\ncriminal, because one knows the nonentity and the criminal in\noneself--to spare all condemnation (how much more trial and sentence)\nbecause one knows the stuff of which man is made and recoils at nothing\nsince all is in himself,--this is what Anarchism may mean to you. It\nmeans that to me.\n\nAnd then, to turn cloudward, starward, skyward, and let the dreams rush\nover one--no longer awed by outside powers of any order--recognizing\nnothing superior to oneself--painting, painting endless pictures,\ncreating unheard symphonies that sing dream sounds to you alone,\nextending sympathies to the dumb brutes as equal brothers, kissing the\nflowers as one did when a child, letting oneself go free, go free beyond\nthe bounds of what _fear_ and _custom_ call the \"possible,\"--this too\nAnarchism may mean to you, if you dare to apply it so. And if you do\nsome day,--if sitting at your work-bench, you see a vision of surpassing\nglory, some picture of that golden time when there shall be no prisons\non the earth, nor hunger, nor houselessness, nor accusation, nor\njudgment, and hearts open as printed leaves, and candid as fearlessness,\nif then you look across at your low-browed neighbor, who sweats and\nsmells and curses at his toil,--remember that as you do not know his\ndepth neither do you know his height. He too might dream if the yoke of\ncustom and law and dogma were broken from him. Even now you know not\nwhat blind, bound, motionless chrysalis is working there to prepare its\nwinged thing.\n\nAnarchism means freedom to the soul as to the body,--in every\naspiration, every growth.\n\nA few words as to the methods. In times past Anarchists have excluded\neach other on these grounds also; revolutionists contemptuously said\n\"Quaker\" of peace men; \"savage Communists\" anathematized the Quakers in\nreturn.\n\nThis too is passing. I say this: all methods are to the individual\ncapacity and decision.\n\nThere is Tolstoy,--Christian, non-resistant, artist. His method is to\npaint pictures of society as it is, to show the brutality of force and\nthe uselessness of it; to preach the end of government through the\nrepudiation of all military force. Good! I accept it in its entirety. It\nfits his character, it fits his ability. Let us be glad that he works\nso.\n\nThere is John Most--old, work-worn, with the weight of prison years upon\nhim,--yet fiercer, fiercer, bitterer in his denunciations of the ruling\nclass than would require the energy of a dozen younger men to\nutter--going down the last hills of life, rousing the consciousness of\nwrong among his fellows as he goes. Good! That consciousness must be\nawakened. Long may that fiery tongue yet speak.\n\nThere is Benjamin Tucker--cool, self-contained, critical,--sending his\nfine hard shafts among foes and friends with icy impartiality, hitting\nswift and cutting keen,--and ever ready to nail a traitor. Holding to\npassive resistance as most effective, ready to change it whenever he\ndeems it wise. That suits him; in his field he is alone, invaluable.\n\nAnd there is Peter Kropotkin appealing to the young, and looking with\nsweet, warm, eager eyes into every colonizing effort, and hailing with a\nchild's enthusiasm the uprisings of the workers, and believing in\nrevolution with his whole soul. Him too we thank.\n\nAnd there is George Brown preaching peaceable expropriation through the\nfederated unions of the workers; and this is good. It is his best place;\nhe is at home there; he can accomplish most in his own chosen field.\n\nAnd over there in his coffin cell in Italy, lies the man whose method\nwas to kill a king, and shock the nations into a sudden consciousness of\nthe hollowness of their law and order. Him too, him and his act, without\nreserve I accept, and bend in silent acknowledgement of the strength of\nthe man.\n\nFor there are some whose nature it is to think and plead, and yield and\nyet return to the address, and so make headway in the minds of their\nfellowmen; and there are others who are stern and still, resolute,\nimplacable as Judah's dream of God;--and those men strike--strike once\nand have ended. But the blow resounds across the world. And as on a\nnight when the sky is heavy with storm, some sudden great white flare\nsheets across it, and every object starts sharply out, so in the flash\nof Bresci's pistol shot the whole world for a moment saw the tragic\nfigure of the Italian people, starved, stunted, crippled, huddled,\ndegraded, murdered; and at the same moment that their teeth chattered\nwith fear, they came and asked the Anarchists to explain themselves.\nAnd hundreds of thousands of people read more in those few days than\nthey had ever read of the idea before.\n\nAsk a method? Do you ask Spring her method? Which is more necessary, the\nsunshine or the rain? They are contradictory--yes; they destroy each\nother--yes, but from this destruction the flowers result.\n\nEach choose that method which expresses your self-hood best, and condemn\nno other man because he expresses his Self otherwise.\n\n\n\n\nAnarchism and American Traditions\n\n\nAmerican traditions, begotten of religious rebellion, small\nself-sustaining communities, isolated conditions, and hard pioneer life,\ngrew during the colonization period of one hundred and seventy years\nfrom the settling of Jamestown to the outburst of the Revolution. This\nwas in fact the great constitution-making epoch, the period of charters\nguaranteeing more or less of liberty, the general tendency of which is\nwell described by Wm. Penn in speaking of the charter for Pennsylvania:\n\"I want to put it out of my power, or that of my successors, to do\nmischief.\"\n\nThe revolution is the sudden and unified consciousness of these\ntraditions, their loud assertion, the blow dealt by their indomitable\nwill against the counter force of tyranny, which has never entirely\nrecovered from the blow, but which from then till now has gone on\nremolding and regrappling the instruments of governmental power, that\nthe Revolution sought to shape and hold as defenses of liberty.\n\nTo the average American of to-day, the Revolution means the series of\nbattles fought by the patriot army with the armies of England. The\nmillions of school children who attend our public schools are taught to\ndraw maps of the siege of Boston and the siege of Yorktown, to know the\ngeneral plan of the several campaigns, to quote the number of prisoners\nof war surrendered with Burgoyne; they are required to remember the date\nwhen Washington crossed the Delaware on the ice; they are told to\n\"Remember Paoli,\" to repeat \"Molly Stark's a widow,\" to call General\nWayne \"Mad Anthony Wayne,\" and to execrate Benedict Arnold; they know\nthat the Declaration of Independence was signed on the Fourth of July,\n1776, and the Treaty of Paris in 1783; and then they think they have\nlearned the Revolution--blessed be George Washington! They have no idea\nwhy it should have been called a \"revolution\" instead of the \"English\nwar,\" or any similar title: it's the name of it, that's all. And\nname-worship, both in child and man, has acquired such mastery of them,\nthat the name \"American Revolution\" is held sacred, though it means to\nthem nothing more than successful force, while the name \"Revolution\"\napplied to a further possibility, is a spectre detested and abhorred. In\nneither case have they any idea of the content of the word, save that of\narmed force. That has already happened, and long happened, which\nJefferson foresaw when he wrote:\n\n\"The spirit of the times may alter, will alter. Our rulers will become\ncorrupt, our people careless. A single zealot may become persecutor, and\nbetter men be his victims. It can never be too often repeated that the\ntime for fixing every essential right, on a legal basis, is while our\nrulers are honest, ourselves united. _From the conclusion of this war we\nshall be going down hill._ It will not then be necessary to resort every\nmoment to the people for support. They will be forgotten, therefore, and\ntheir rights disregarded. They will forget themselves in the sole\nfaculty of making money, and will never think of uniting to effect a due\nrespect for their rights. The shackles, therefore, which shall not be\nknocked off at the conclusion of this war, will be heavier and heavier,\ntill our rights shall revive or expire in a convulsion.\"\n\nTo the men of that time, who voiced the spirit of that time, the battles\nthat they fought were the least of the Revolution; they were the\nincidents of the hour, the things they met and faced as part of the game\nthey were playing; but the stake they had in view, before, during, and\nafter the war, the real Revolution, was a change in political\ninstitutions which should make of government not a thing apart, a\nsuperior power to stand over the people with a whip, but a serviceable\nagent, responsible, economical, and trustworthy (but never so much\ntrusted as not to be continually watched), for the transaction of such\nbusiness as was the common concern, and to set the limits of the common\nconcern at the line where one man's liberty would encroach upon\nanother's.\n\nThey thus took their starting point for deriving a minimum of government\nupon the same sociological ground that the modern Anarchist derives the\nno-government theory; viz., that equal liberty is the political ideal.\nThe difference lies in the belief, on the one hand, that the closest\napproximation to equal liberty might be best secured by the rule of the\nmajority in those matters involving united action of any kind (which\nrule of the majority they thought it possible to secure by a few simple\narrangements for election), and, on the other hand, the belief that\nmajority rule is both impossible and undesirable; that any government,\nno matter what its forms, will be manipulated by a very small minority,\nas the development of the State and United States governments has\nstrikingly proved; that candidates will loudly profess allegiance to\nplatforms before elections, which as officials in power they will openly\ndisregard, to do as they please; and that even if the majority will\ncould be imposed, it would also be subversive of equal liberty, which\nmay be best secured by leaving to the voluntary association of those\ninterested in the management of matters of common concern, without\ncoercion of the uninterested or the opposed.\n\nAmong the fundamental likenesses between the Revolutionary Republicans\nand the Anarchists is the recognition that the little must precede the\ngreat; that the local must be the basis of the general; that there can\nbe a free federation only when there are free communities to federate;\nthat the spirit of the latter is carried into the councils of the\nformer, and a local tyranny may thus become an instrument for general\nenslavement. Convinced of the supreme importance of ridding the\nmunicipalities of the institutions of tyranny, the most strenuous\nadvocates of independence, instead of spending their efforts mainly in\nthe general Congress, devoted themselves to their home localities,\nendeavoring to work out of the minds of their neighbors and\nfellow-colonists the institutions of entailed property, of a\nState-Church, of a class-divided people, even the institution of African\nslavery itself. Though largely unsuccessful, it is to the measure of\nsuccess they did achieve that we are indebted for such liberties as we\ndo retain, and not to the general government. They tried to inculcate\nlocal initiative and independent action. The author of the Declaration\nof Independence, who in the fall of '76 declined a re-election to\nCongress in order to return to Virginia and do his work in his own local\nassembly, in arranging there for public education which he justly\nconsidered a matter of \"common concern,\" said his advocacy of public\nschools was not with any \"view to take its ordinary branches out of the\nhands of private enterprise, which manages _so much better_ the concerns\nto which it is equal\"; and in endeavoring to make clear the restrictions\nof the Constitution upon the functions of the general government, he\nlikewise said: \"Let the general government be reduced to foreign\nconcerns only, and let our affairs be disentangled from those of all\nother nations, except as to commerce, _which the merchants will manage\nthe better the more they are left free to manage for themselves_, and\nthe general government may be reduced to a very simple organization, and\na very inexpensive one; a few plain duties to be performed by a few\nservants.\" This then was the American tradition, that private enterprise\nmanages better all that to which it is equal. Anarchism declares that\nprivate enterprise, whether individual or co-operative, is equal to all\nthe undertakings of society. And it quotes the particular two instances,\nEducation and Commerce, which the governments of the States and of the\nUnited States have undertaken to manage and regulate, as the very two\nwhich in operation have done more to destroy American freedom and\nequality, to warp and distort American tradition, to make of government\na mighty engine of tyranny, than any other cause, save the unforeseen\ndevelopments of Manufacture.\n\nIt was the intention of the Revolutionists to establish a system of\ncommon education, which should make the teaching of history one of its\nprincipal branches; not with the intent of burdening the memories of our\nyouth with the dates of battles or the speeches of generals, nor to make\nof the Boston Tea Party Indians the one sacrosanct mob in all history,\nto be revered but never on any account to be imitated, but with the\nintent that every American should know to what conditions the masses of\npeople had been brought by the operation of certain institutions, by\nwhat means they had wrung out their liberties, and how those liberties\nhad again and again been filched from them by the use of governmental\nforce, fraud, and privilege. Not to breed security, laudation,\ncomplacent indolence, passive acquiescence in the acts of a government\nprotected by the label \"home-made,\" but to beget a wakeful jealousy, a\nnever-ending watchfulness of rulers, a determination to squelch every\nattempt of those entrusted with power to encroach upon the sphere of\nindividual action--this was the prime motive of the revolutionists in\nendeavoring to provide for common education.\n\n\"Confidence,\" said the revolutionists who adopted the Kentucky\nResolutions, \"is everywhere the parent of despotism; free government is\nfounded in jealousy, not in confidence; it is jealousy, not confidence,\nwhich prescribes limited constitutions to bind down those whom we are\nobliged to trust with power; our Constitution has accordingly fixed the\nlimits to which, and no further, our confidence may go. * * * In\nquestions of power, let no more be heard of confidence in man, but bind\nhim down from mischief by the chains of the Constitution.\"\n\nThese resolutions were especially applied to the passage of the Alien\nlaws by the monarchist party during John Adams' administration, and were\nan indignant call from the State of Kentucky to repudiate the right of\nthe general government to assume undelegated powers, for, said they, to\naccept these laws would be \"to be bound by laws made, not with our\nconsent, but by others against our consent--that is, to surrender the\nform of government we have chosen, and to live under one deriving its\npowers from its own will, and not from our authority.\" Resolutions\nidentical in spirit were also passed by Virginia, the following month;\nin those days the States still considered themselves supreme, the\ngeneral government subordinate.\n\nTo inculcate this proud spirit of the supremacy of the people over their\ngovernors was to be the purpose of public education! Pick up to-day any\ncommon school history, and see how much of this spirit you will find\ntherein. On the contrary, from cover to cover you will find nothing but\nthe cheapest sort of patriotism, the inculcation of the most\nunquestioning acquiescence in the deeds of government, a lullaby of\nrest, security, confidence,--the doctrine that the Law can do no wrong,\na Te Deum in praise of the continuous encroachments of the powers of the\ngeneral government upon the reserved rights of the States, shameless\nfalsification of all acts of rebellion, to put the government in the\nright and the rebels in the wrong, pyrotechnic glorifications of union,\npower, and force, and a complete ignoring of the essential liberties to\nmaintain which was the purpose of the revolutionists. The anti-Anarchist\nlaw of post-McKinley passage, a much worse law than the Alien and\nSedition acts which roused the wrath of Kentucky and Virginia to the\npoint of threatened rebellion, is exalted as a wise provision of our\nAll-Seeing Father in Washington.\n\nSuch is the spirit of government-provided schools. Ask any child what he\nknows about Shays's rebellion, and he will answer, \"Oh, some of the\nfarmers couldn't pay their taxes, and Shays led a rebellion against the\ncourt-house at Worcester, so they could burn up the deeds; and when\nWashington heard of it he sent over an army quick and taught 'em a good\nlesson\"--\"And what was the result of it?\" \"The result? Why--why--the\nresult was--Oh yes, I remember--the result was they saw the need of a\nstrong federal government to collect the taxes and pay the debts.\" Ask\nif he knows what was said on the other side of the story, ask if he\nknows that the men who had given their goods and their health and their\nstrength for the freeing of the country now found themselves cast into\nprison for debt, sick, disabled, and poor, facing a new tyranny for the\nold; that their demand was that the land should become the free communal\npossession of those who wished to work it, not subject to tribute, and\nthe child will answer \"No.\" Ask him if he ever read Jefferson's letter\nto Madison about it, in which he says:\n\n\"Societies exist under three forms, sufficiently distinguishable.\n1. Without government, as among our Indians. 2. Under government wherein\nthe will of every one has a just influence; as is the case in England in\na slight degree, and in our States in a great one. 3. Under government\nof force, as is the case in all other monarchies, and in most of the\nother republics. To have an idea of the curse of existence in these\nlast, they must be seen. It is a government of wolves over sheep. It is\na problem not clear in my mind that the first condition is not the best.\nBut I believe it to be inconsistent with any great degree of population.\nThe second state has a great deal of good in it.... It has its evils,\ntoo, the principal of which is the turbulence to which it is subject....\nBut even this evil is productive of good. It prevents the degeneracy of\ngovernment, and nourishes a general attention to public affairs. I hold\nthat a little rebellion now and then is a good thing.\"\n\nOr to another correspondent: \"God forbid that we should ever be twenty\nyears without such a rebellion!... What country can preserve its\nliberties if its rulers are not warned from time to time that the people\npreserve the spirit of resistance? Let them take up arms.... The tree of\nliberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots\nand tyrants. It is its natural manure.\" Ask any school child if he was\never taught that the author of the Declaration of Independence, one of\nthe great founders of the common school, said these things, and he will\nlook at you with open mouth and unbelieving eyes. Ask him if he ever\nheard that the man who sounded the bugle note in the darkest hour of the\nCrisis, who roused the courage of the soldiers when Washington saw only\nmutiny and despair ahead, ask him if he knows that this man also wrote,\n\"Government at best is a necessary evil, at worst an intolerable one,\"\nand if he is a little better informed than the average he will answer,\n\"Oh well, _he_ was an infidel!\" Catechize him about the merits of the\nConstitution which he has learned to repeat like a poll-parrot, and you\nwill find his chief conception is not of the powers withheld from\nCongress, but of the powers granted.\n\nSuch are the fruits of government schools. We, the Anarchists, point to\nthem and say: If the believers in liberty wish the principles of liberty\ntaught, let them never intrust that instruction to any government; for\nthe nature of government is to become a thing apart, an institution\nexisting for its own sake, preying upon the people, and teaching\nwhatever will tend to keep it secure in its seat. As the fathers said of\nthe governments of Europe, so say we of this government also after a\ncentury and a quarter of independence: \"The blood of the people has\nbecome its inheritance, and those who fatten on it will not relinquish\nit easily.\"\n\nPublic education, having to do with the intellect and spirit of a\npeople, is probably the most subtle and far-reaching engine for molding\nthe course of a nation; but commerce, dealing as it does with material\nthings and producing immediate effects, was the force that bore down\nsoonest upon the paper barriers of constitutional restriction, and\nshaped the government to its requirements. Here, indeed, we arrive at\nthe point where we, looking over the hundred and twenty-five years of\nindependence, can see that the simple government conceived by the\nrevolutionary republicans was a foredoomed failure. It was so because of\n(1) the essence of government itself; (2) the essence of human nature;\n(3) the essence of Commerce and Manufacture.\n\nOf the essence of government, I have already said, it is a thing apart,\ndeveloping its own interests at the expense of what opposes it; all\nattempts to make it anything else fail. In this Anarchists agree with\nthe traditional enemies of the Revolution, the monarchists, federalists,\nstrong government believers, the Roosevelts of to-day, the Jays,\nMarshalls, and Hamiltons of then,--that Hamilton, who, as Secretary of\nthe Treasury, devised a financial system of which we are the unlucky\nheritors, and whose objects were twofold: To puzzle the people and make\npublic finance obscure to those that paid for it; to serve as a machine\nfor corrupting the legislatures; \"for he avowed the opinion that man\ncould be governed by two motives only, force or interest;\" force being\nthen out of the question, he laid hold of interest, the greed of the\nlegislators, to set going an association of persons having an entirely\nseparate welfare from the welfare of their electors, bound together by\nmutual corruption and mutual desire for plunder. The Anarchist agrees\nthat Hamilton was logical, and understood the core of government; the\ndifference is, that while strong governmentalists believe this is\nnecessary and desirable, we choose the opposite conclusion, NO\nGOVERNMENT WHATEVER.\n\nAs to the essence of human nature, what our national experience has made\nplain is this, that to remain in a continually exalted moral condition\nis not human nature. That has happened which was prophesied: we have\ngone down hill from the Revolution until now; we are absorbed in \"mere\nmoney-getting.\" The desire for material ease long ago vanquished the\nspirit of '76. What was that spirit? The spirit that animated the people\nof Virginia, of the Carolinas, of Massachusetts, of New York, when they\nrefused to import goods from England; when they preferred (and stood by\nit) to wear coarse homespun cloth, to drink the brew of their own\ngrowths, to fit their appetites to the home supply, rather than submit\nto the taxation of the imperial ministry. Even within the lifetime of\nthe revolutionists the spirit decayed. The love of material ease has\nbeen, in the mass of men and permanently speaking, always greater than\nthe love of liberty. Nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a\nthousand are more interested in the cut of a dress than in the\nindependence of their sex; nine hundred and nine-nine men out of a\nthousand are more interested in drinking a glass of beer than in\nquestioning the tax that is laid on it; how many children are not\nwilling to trade the liberty to play for the promise of a new cap or a\nnew dress? This it is which begets the complicated mechanism of society;\nthis it is which, by multiplying the concerns of government, multiplies\nthe strength of government and the corresponding weakness of the people;\nthis it is which begets indifference to public concern, thus making the\ncorruption of government easy.\n\nAs to the essence of Commerce and Manufacture, it is this: to establish\nbonds between every corner of the earth's surface and every other\ncorner, to multiply the needs of mankind, and the desire for material\npossession and enjoyment.\n\nThe American tradition was the isolation of the States as far as\npossible. Said they: We have won our liberties by hard sacrifice and\nstruggle unto death. We wish now to be let alone and to let others\nalone, that our principles may have time for trial; that we may become\naccustomed to the exercise of our rights; that we may be kept free from\nthe contaminating influence of European gauds, pagents, distinctions. So\nrichly did they esteem the absence of these that they could in all\nfervor write: \"We shall see multiplied instances of Europeans coming to\nAmerica, but no man living will ever see an instance of an American\nremoving to settle in Europe, and continuing there.\" Alas! In less than\na hundred years the highest aim of a \"Daughter of the Revolution\" was,\nand is, to buy a castle, a title, and a rotten lord, with the money\nwrung from American servitude! And the commercial interests of America\nare seeking a world-empire!\n\nIn the earlier days of the revolt and subsequent independence, it\nappeared that the \"manifest destiny\" of America was to be an\nagricultural people, exchanging food stuffs and raw materials for\nmanufactured articles. And in those days it was written: \"We shall be\nvirtuous as long as agriculture is our principal object, which will be\nthe case as long as there remain vacant lands in any part of America.\nWhen we get piled upon one another in large cities, as in Europe, we\nshall become corrupt as in Europe, and go to eating one another as they\ndo there.\" Which we are doing, because of the inevitable development of\nCommerce and Manufacture, and the concomitant development of strong\ngovernment. And the parallel prophecy is likewise fulfilled: \"If ever\nthis vast country is brought under a single government, it will be one\nof the most extensive corruption, indifferent and incapable of a\nwholesome care over so wide a spread of surface.\" There is not upon the\nface of the earth to-day a government so utterly and shamelessly corrupt\nas that of the United States of America. There are others more cruel,\nmore tyrannical, more devastating; there is none so utterly venal.\n\nAnd yet even in the very days of the prophets, even with their own\nconsent, the first concession to this later tyranny was made. It was\nmade when the Constitution was made; and the Constitution was made\nchiefly because of the demands of Commerce. Thus it was at the outset a\nmerchant's machine, which the other interests of the country, the land\nand labor interests, even then foreboded would destroy their liberties.\nIn vain their jealousy of its central power made them enact the first\ntwelve amendments.\n\nIn vain they endeavored to set bounds over which the federal power dare\nnot trench. In vain they enacted into general law the freedom of speech,\nof the press, of assemblage and petition. All of these things we see\nridden rough-shod upon every day, and have so seen with more or less\nintermission since the beginning of the nineteenth century. At this day,\nevery police lieutenant considers himself, and rightly so, as more\npowerful than the General Law of the Union; and that one who told Robert\nHunter that he held in his fist something stronger than the\nConstitution, was perfectly correct. The right of assemblage is an\nAmerican tradition which has gone out of fashion; the police club is now\nthe mode. And it is so in virtue of the people's indifference to\nliberty, and the steady progress of constitutional interpretation\ntowards the substance of imperial government.\n\nIt is an American tradition that a standing army is a standing menace to\nliberty; in Jefferson's presidency the army was reduced to 3,000 men. It\nis American tradition that we keep out of the affairs of other nations.\nIt is American practice that we meddle with the affairs of everybody\nelse from the West to the East Indies, from Russia to Japan; and to do\nit we have a standing army of 83,251 men.\n\nIt is American tradition that the financial affairs of a nation should\nbe transacted on the same principles of simple honesty that an\nindividual conducts his own business; viz., that debt is a bad thing,\nand a man's first surplus earnings should be applied to his debts; that\noffices and office-holders should be few. It is American practice that\nthe general government should always have millions of debt, even if a\npanic or a war has to be forced to prevent its being paid off; and as to\nthe application of its income, office-holders come first. And within the\nlast administration it is reported that 99,000 offices have been\ncreated at an annual expense of $63,000,000. Shades of Jefferson! \"How\nare vacancies to be obtained? Those by deaths are few; by resignation\nnone.\" Roosevelt cuts the knot by making 99,000 new ones! And few will\ndie,--and none resign. They will beget sons and daughters, and Taft will\nhave to create 99,000 more! Verily, a simple and a serviceable thing is\nour general government.\n\nIt is American tradition that the Judiciary shall act as a check upon\nthe impetuosity of Legislatures, should these attempt to pass the bounds\nof constitutional limitation. It is American practice that the Judiciary\njustifies every law which trenches on the liberties of the people and\nnullifies every act of the Legislature by which the people seek to\nregain some measure of their freedom. Again, in the words of Jefferson:\n\"The Constitution is a mere thing of wax in the hands of the Judiciary,\nwhich they may twist and shape in any form they please.\" Truly, if the\nmen who fought the good fight for the triumph of simple, honest, free\nlife in that day, were now to look upon the scene of their labors, they\nwould cry out together with him who said: \"I regret that I am now to die\nin the belief that the useless sacrifice of themselves by the generation\nof '76 to acquire self-government and happiness to their country, is to\nbe thrown away by the unwise and unworthy passions of their sons, and\nthat my only consolation is to be that I shall not live to see it.\"\n\nAnd now, what has Anarchism to say to all this, this bankruptcy of\nrepublicanism, this modern empire that has grown up on the ruins of our\nearly freedom? We say this, that the sin our fathers sinned was that\nthey did not trust liberty wholly. They thought it possible to\ncompromise between liberty and government, believing the latter to be \"a\nnecessary evil\", and the moment the compromise was made, the whole\nmisbegotten monster of our present tyranny began to grow. Instruments\nwhich are set up to safeguard rights become the very whip with which the\nfree are struck.\n\nAnarchism says, Make no laws whatever concerning speech, and speech will\nbe free; so soon as you make a declaration on paper that speech shall be\nfree, you will have a hundred lawyers proving that \"freedom does not\nmean abuse, nor liberty license\"; and they will define and define\nfreedom out of existence. Let the guarantee of free speech be in every\nman's determination to use it, and we shall have no need of paper\ndeclarations. On the other hand, so long as the people do not care to\nexercise their freedom, those who wish to tyrannize will do so; for\ntyrants are active and ardent, and will devote themselves in the name of\nany number of gods, religious and otherwise, to put shackles upon\nsleeping men.\n\nThe problem then becomes, Is it possible to stir men from their\nindifference? We have said that the spirit of liberty was nurtured by\ncolonial life; that the elements of colonial life were the desire for\nsectarian independence, and the jealous watchfulness incident thereto;\nthe isolation of pioneer communities which threw each individual\nstrongly on his own resources, and thus developed all-around men, yet at\nthe same time made very strong such social bonds as did exist; and,\nlastly, the comparative simplicity of small communities.\n\nAll this has mostly disappeared. As to sectarianism, it is only by dint\nof an occasional idiotic persecution that a sect becomes interesting; in\nthe absence of this, outlandish sects play the fool's role, are anything\nbut heroic, and have little to do with either the name or the substance\nof liberty. The old colonial religious parties have gradually become the\n\"pillars of society,\" their animosities have died out, their offensive\npeculiarities have been effaced, they are as like one another as beans\nin a pod, they build churches and--sleep in them.\n\nAs to our communities, they are hopelessly and helplessly\ninterdependent, as we ourselves are, save that continuously diminishing\nproportion engaged in all around farming; and even these are slaves to\nmortgages. For our cities, probably there is not one that is provisioned\nto last a week, and certainly there is none which would not be bankrupt\nwith despair at the proposition that it produce its own food. In\nresponse to this condition and its correlative political tyranny,\nAnarchism affirms the economy of self-sustenance, the disintegration of\nthe great communities, the use of the earth.\n\nI am not ready to say that I see clearly that this _will_ take place;\nbut I see clearly that this _must_ take place if ever again men are to\nbe free. I am so well satisfied that the mass of mankind prefer material\npossessions to liberty, that I have no hope that they will ever, by\nmeans of intellectual or moral stirrings merely, throw off the yoke of\noppression fastened on them by the present economic system, to institute\nfree societies. My only hope is in the blind development of the economic\nsystem and political oppression itself. The great characteristic looming\nfactor in this gigantic power is Manufacture. The tendency of each\nnation is to become more and more a manufacturing one, an exporter of\nfabrics, not an importer. If this tendency follows its own logic, it\nmust eventually circle round to each community producing for itself.\nWhat then will become of the surplus product when the manufacturer shall\nhave no foreign market? Why, then mankind must face the dilemma of\nsitting down and dying in the midst of it, or confiscating the goods.\n\nIndeed, we are partially facing this problem even now; and so far we are\nsitting down and dying. I opine, however, that men will not do it\nforever; and when once by an act of general expropriation they have\novercome the reverence and fear of property, and their awe of\ngovernment, they may waken to the consciousness that things are to be\nused, and therefore men are greater than things. This may rouse the\nspirit of liberty.\n\nIf, on the other hand, the tendency of invention to simplify, enabling\nthe advantages of machinery to be combined with smaller aggregations of\nworkers, shall also follow its own logic, the great manufacturing plants\nwill break up, population will go after the fragments, and there will be\nseen not indeed the hard, self-sustaining, isolated pioneer communities\nof early America, but thousands of small communities stretching along\nthe lines of transportation, each producing very largely for its own\nneeds, able to rely upon itself, and therefore able to be independent.\nFor the same rule holds good for societies as for individuals,--those\nmay be free who are able to make their own living.\n\nIn regard to the breaking up of that vilest creation of tyranny, the\nstanding army and navy, it is clear that so long as men desire to fight,\nthey will have armed force in one form or another. Our fathers thought\nthey had guarded against a standing army by providing for the voluntary\nmilitia. In our day we have lived to see this militia declared part of\nthe regular military force of the United States, and subject to the same\ndemands as the regulars. Within another generation we shall probably see\nits members in the regular pay of the general government. Since any\nembodiment of the fighting spirit, any military organization, inevitably\nfollows the same line of centralization, the logic of Anarchism is that\nthe least objectionable form of armed force is that which springs up\nvoluntarily, like the minute-men of Massachusetts, and disbands as soon\nas the occasion which called it into existence is past: that the really\ndesirable thing is that all men--not Americans only--should be at\npeace; and that to reach this, all peaceful persons should withdraw\ntheir support from the army, and require that all who make war shall do\nso at their own cost and risk; that neither pay nor pensions are to be\nprovided for those who choose to make man-killing a trade.\n\nAs to the American tradition of non-meddling, Anarchism asks that it be\ncarried down to the individual himself. It demands no jealous barrier of\nisolation; it knows that such isolation is undesirable and impossible;\nbut it teaches that by all men's strictly minding their own business, a\nfluid society, freely adapting itself to mutual needs, wherein all the\nworld shall belong to all men, as much as each has need or desire, will\nresult.\n\nAnd when Modern Revolution has thus been carried to the heart of the\nwhole world--if it ever shall be, as I hope it will,--then may we hope\nto see a resurrection of that proud spirit of our fathers which put the\nsimple dignity of Man above the gauds of wealth and class, and held that\nto be an American was greater than to be a king.\n\nIn that day there shall be neither kings nor Americans,--only Men; over\nthe whole earth, MEN.\n\n\n\n\nAnarchism In Literature\n\n\nIn the long sweep of seventeen hundred years which witnessed the\nengulfment of a moribund Roman civilization, together with its borrowed\nGreek ideals, under the red tide of a passionate barbarism that leaped\nto embrace the idea of Triumph over Death, and spat upon the Grecian\nJoys of Life with the superb contempt of the Norse savage, there was,\nfor Europe and America, but one great animating Word in Art and\nLiterature--Christianity. It boots not here to inquire how close or how\nremote the Christian ideal as it developed was in comparison with the\nteachings of the Nazarene. Distorted, blackened, almost effaced, it was\nyet some faint echo from the hillsides of Olivet, some indistinct vision\nof the Cross, some dull perception of the white glory of renunciation,\nthat shaped the dreams of the evolving barbarian, and moulded all his\nwork, whether of stone or clay, upon canvas or parchment. Wherever we\nturn we find a general fixup or caste, an immovable solidity of orders\nbuilt upon orders, an unquestioning subordination of the individual,\nruling every effort of genius. Ascetic shadow upon all; nowhere does a\nsun-ray of self-expression creep, save as through water, thin and\nperturbed. The theologic pessimism which appealed to the fighting man as\na proper extension of his own superstition--perhaps hardly that, for\nHeaven was but a change of name for Valhalla,--fell heavily upon the\nman of dreams, whose creations must come forth, lifeless, after the\nuniform model, who must bless and ban not as he saw before his eyes but\nas the one eternal purpose demanded.\n\nAt last the barbarian is civilized; he has accomplished his own\nrefinement--and his own rottenness. Still he preaches (and practices)\ncontempt of death--when others do the dying! Still he preaches\nsubmission to the will of God--but that others may submit to him! Still\nhe proclaims the Cross--but that others may bear it. Where Rome was in\nthe glut of her vanity and her blood-drunkenness--limbs wound in cloth\nof gold suppurating with crime, head boastfully nodding as Jove and feet\nrocking upon slipping slime--there stand the Empires and Republics of\nthose whose forefathers slew Rome.\n\nAnd now for these three hundred years the Men of Dreams have been\nwatching the Christian Ideal go bankrupt. One by one as they have dared,\nand each according to his mood, they have spoken their minds; some have\nreasoned, and some have laughed, and some have appealed, logician,\nsatirist, and exhorter all feeling in their several ways that humanity\nstood in need of a new moral ideal. Consciously or unconsciously, within\nthe pale of the Church or without, this has been \"the spirit moving upon\nthe face of the waters\" within them, and at last the creation is come\nforth, the dream that is to touch the heart-strings of the World anew,\nand make it sing a stronger song than any it has sung of old. Mark you,\nit must be stronger, wider, deeper, or it cannot be at all. It must sing\nall that has been sung, and something more. Its mission is not to deny\nthe past but to reaffirm it and explain it, all of it; and to-day too,\nand to-morrow too.\n\nAnd this Ideal, the only one that has power to stir the moral pulses of\nthe world, the only Word that can quicken \"Dead Souls\" who wait this\nmoral resurrection, the only Word which can animate the dreamer, poet,\nsculptor, painter, musician, artist of chisel or pen, with power to\nfashion forth his dream, is =Anarchism=. For Anarchism means fulness of\nbeing. It means the return of Greek radiance of life, Greek love of\nbeauty, without Greek indifference to the common man; it means Christian\nearnestness and Christian Communism, without Christian fanaticism and\nChristian gloom and tyranny. It means this because it means perfect\nfreedom, material and spiritual freedom.\n\nThe light of Greek idealism failed because with all its love of life and\nthe infinite diversity of beauty, and all the glory of its free\nintellect, it never conceived of material freedom; to it the Helot was\nas eternal as the Gods. Therefore the Gods passed away, and their\neternity was as a little wave of time.\n\nThe Christian ideal has failed because with all its sublime Communism,\nits doctrine of universal equality, it was bound up with a spiritual\ntyranny seeking to mould into one pattern the thoughts of all humanity,\nstamping all men with the stamp of submission, throwing upon all the\ndark umber of _life lived for the purpose of death_, and fruitful of all\nother tyrannies.\n\nAnarchism will succeed because its message of freedom comes down the\nrising wind of social revolt first of all to the common man, the\nmaterial slave, and bids him know that he, too, should have an\nindependent will, and the free exercise thereof; that no philosophy, and\nno achievement, and no civilization is worth considering or achieving,\nif it does not mean that he shall be free to labor at what he likes and\nwhen he likes, and freely share all that free men choose to produce;\nthat he, the drudge of all the ages, is the cornerstone of the building\nwithout whose sure and safe position no structure can nor should\nendure. And likewise it comes to him who sits in fear of himself, and\nsays: \"Fear no more, neither what is without or within. Search fully and\nfreely your Self; hearken to all the voices that rise from that abyss\nfrom which you have been commanded to shrink. Learn for yourself what\nthese things are. Belike what they have told you is good, is bad; and\nthis cast mould of goodness, a vile prison-house. Learn to decide your\nown measure of restraint. Value for yourself the merits of selfishness\nand unselfishness; and strike you the balance between these two: for if\nthe first be all accredited you make slaves of others, and if the\nsecond, your own abasement raises tyrants over you; and none can decide\nthe matter for you so well as you for yourself; for even if you err you\nlearn by it, while if he errs the blame is his, and if he advises well\nthe credit is his, and you are nothing. _Be yourself_; and by\nself-expression learn self-restraint. The wisdom of the ages lies in the\nreassertion of all past positivisms, and the denial of all negations,\nthat is, all that has been claimed by the individual for himself is\ngood, but every denial of the freedom of another is bad; whereby it will\nbe seen that many things supposed to be claimed for oneself involve the\nfreedom of others and must be surrendered because they do not come\nwithin the sovereign limit, while many things supposed to be evil, since\nthey in nowise infringe upon the liberty of others are wholly good,\nbringing to dwarfed bodies and narrow souls the vigor and full growth of\nhealthy exercise, and giving a rich glow to life that had else paled out\nlike a lamp in a grave-vault.\"\n\nTo the sybarite it says, Learn to do your own share of hard work; you\nwill gain by it; to the \"Man with the Hoe,\" Think for yourself and\nboldly take your time for it. The division of labor which makes of one\nman a Brain and of another a Hand is evil. Away with it.\n\nThis is the ethical gospel of Anarchism to which these three hundred\nyears of intellectual ferment have been leading. He who will trace the\ncourse of literature for three hundred years will find innumerable bits\nof drift here and there, indicative of the moral and intellectual\nrevolt. Protestantism itself, in asserting the supremacy of the\nindividual conscience, fired the long train of thought which inevitably\nleads to the explosion of all forms of authority. The great political\nwriters of the eighteenth century, in asserting the right of\nself-government, carried the line of advance one step further. America\nhad her Jefferson declaring:\n\n\"Societies exist under three forms: 1. Without government as among the\nIndians. 2. Under governments wherein every one has a just influence. 3.\nUnder governments of force. It is a problem not clear in my mind that\nthe first condition is not the best.\"\n\nShe had, or she and England together had, her Paine, more mildly\nasserting:\n\n\"Governments are, at best, a necessary evil.\"\n\nAnd England had also Godwin, who, though still milder in manner and\nconsequently less effective during the troublous period in which he\nlived, was nevertheless more deeply radical than either, presaging that\napplication of the political ideal to economic concerns so distinctive\nof modern Anarchism.\n\n\"My neighbor,\" says he, \"has just as much right to put an end to my\nexistence with dagger or poison as to deny me that pecuniary assistance\nwithout which I must starve.\"\n\nNor did he stop here: he carried the logic of individual sovereignty\ninto the chiefest of social institutions, and declared that the sex\nrelation was a matter concerning the individuals sharing it only. Thus\nhe says:\n\n\"The institution of marriage is a system of fraud.... Marriage is law\nand the worst of all laws.... Marriage is an affair of property and the\nworst of all properties. So long as two human beings are forbidden by\npositive institution to follow the dictates of their own mind prejudice\nis alive and vigorous.... The abolition of marriage will be attended\nwith no evils. We are apt to consider it to ourselves as the harbinger\nof brutal lust and depravity; but it really happens in this, as in other\ncases, that the positive laws which are made to restrain our vices,\nirritate and multiply them.\"\n\nThe grave and judicial style of \"Political Justice\" prevented its\nattaining the great popularity of \"The Rights of Man,\" but the indirect\ninfluence of its author bloomed in the rich profusion of Shelleyan\nfancy, and in all that coterie of young litterateurs who gathered about\nGodwin as their revered teacher.\n\nNor was the principle of no-government without its vindication from one\nwho moved actively in official centers, and whose name has been\nalternately quoted by conservatives and radicals, now with veneration,\nnow with execration. In his essay \"On Government,\" Edmund Burke, the\ngreat political weathercock, aligned himself with the germinating\nmovement towards Anarchism when he exclaimed: \"They talk of the abuse of\ngovernment; the thing, the thing itself is the abuse!\" This aphoristic\nutterance will go down in history on its own merits, as the sayings of\ngreat men often do, stripped of its accompanying explanations. Men have\nalready forgotten to inquire how and why he said it; the words stand,\nand will continue a living message, long after the thousands of sheets\nof rhetoric which won him the epithet of \"the Dinner-bell of the House\"\nhave been relegated to the dust of museums.\n\nIn later days an essayist whose brilliancy of style and capacity for\ngetting on all sides of a question connect him with Burke in some manner\nas his spiritual offspring, has furnished the Anarchists with one of\ntheir most frequent quotations. In his essay on \"John Milton,\" Macaulay\ndeclares, \"The only cure for the evils of newly acquired liberty\nis--more liberty.\" That he nevertheless possessed a strong vein of\nconservatism, sat in parliament, and took part in legal measures, simply\nproves that he had his tether and could not go the length of his own\nlogic; that is no reason others should not. The Anarchists accept this\nfundamental declaration and proceed to its consequence.\n\nBut the world-thought was making way, not only in England, where,\nindeed, constitutional phlegmatism, though stirred beyond its wont by\nthe events of the close of the last century, acted frigidly upon it, but\nthroughout Europe. In France, Rabelais drew the idyllic picture of the\nAbbey of Thelemes, a community of persons agreeing to practise complete\nindividual freedom among themselves.\n\nRousseau, however erroneous his basis for the \"Social Contract,\" moved\nall he touched with his belief that humanity was innately good, and\ncapable of so manifesting itself in the absence of restrictions.\nFurthermore, his \"Confessions\" appears the most famous fore-runner of\nthe tendency now shaping itself in Literature--that of the free\nexpression of a whole man--not in his stage-character only, but in his\ndressing-room, not in his decent, scrubbed and polished moral clothes\nalone, but in his vileness and his meanness and his folly, too, these\nbeing indisputable factors in his moral life, and no solution but a\nfalse one to be obtained by hiding them and playing they are not there.\nThis truth, acknowledged in America, in our own times, by two powerful\nwriters of very different cast, is being approached by all the manifold\npaths of the soul's travel. \"I have in me the capacity for every crime,\"\nsays Emerson the transcendentalist. And Whitman, the stanch proclaimer\nof blood and sinew, and the gospel of the holiness of the body, makes\nhimself one with drunken revelers and the creatures of debauchery as\nwell as with the anchorite and the Christ-soul, that fulness of being\nmay be declared. In the genesis of these declarations we shall find the\n\"Confessions.\"\n\nIt is not the \"Social Contract\" alone that is open to the criticism of\nhaving reasoned from false premises; all the early political writers we\nhave named were equally mistaken, all suffering from a like\ninsufficiency of facts. Partly this was the result of the habit of\nthought fostered by the Church for seventeen hundred years,--which habit\nwas to accept by faith a sweeping generalization and fit all future\ndiscoveries of fact into it; but partly also it is in the nature of all\nidealism to offer itself, however vaguely in the mist of mind-struggle,\nand allow time to correct and sharpen the detail. Probably initial steps\nwill always be taken with blunders, while those who are not imaginative\nenough to perceive the half-shapen figure will nevertheless accept it\nlater and set it upon a firm foundation.\n\nThis has been the task of the modern historian, who, no less than the\npolitical writer, consciously or unconsciously, is swayed by the\nAnarchistic ideal and bends his services towards it. It is understood\nthat when we speak of history we do not allude to the unspeakable trash\ncontained in public school text-books (which in general resemble a\ncellar junk-shop of chronologies, epaulettes, bad drawings, and silly\ntales, and are a striking instance of the corrupting influence of State\nmanagement of education, by which the mediocre, nay the absolutely\nempty, is made to survive), history which is undertaken with the purpose\nof discovering the real course of the development of human society.\nAmong such efforts, the broken but splendid fragment of his stupendous\nproject, is Buckle's \"History of Civilization,\"--a work in which the\nauthor breaks away utterly from the old method of history writing, viz.\nthat of recording court intrigues, the doings of individuals in power as\na matter of personal interest, the processions of military pageant, to\ninquire into the real lives and conditions of the people, to trace their\ngreat upheavals, and in what consisted their progress. Gervinus in\nGermany, who, within only recent years, drew upon himself a prosecution\nfor treason, took a like method, and declared that progress consists in\na steady decline of centralized power and the development of local\nautonomy and the free federation.\n\nSupplementing the work of the historian proper, there has arisen a new\nclass of literature, itself the creation of the spirit of free inquiry,\nsince, up till that had asserted itself, such writings were impossible;\nit embraces a wide range of studies into the conditions and psychology\nof prehistoric Man, of which Sir John Lubbock's works will serve as the\ntype. From these, dark as the subject yet is, we are learning the true\nsources of all authority, and the agencies which are rendering it\nobsolete; moreover, a curious cycle of development reveals itself;\nnamely, that starting from the point of no authority unconsciously\naccepted, Man, in the several manifestations of his activity, evolves\nthrough stages of belief in many authorities to one authority, and\nfinally to _no authority_ again, but this time conscious and reasoned.\n\nCrowning the work of historian and prehistorian, comes the labor of the\nsociologist. Herbert Spencer, with infinite patience for detail and\nmarvelous power of classification and generalization, takes up the facts\nof the others, and deduces from them the great Law of Equal Freedom: \"A\nman should have the freedom to do whatsoever he wills, provided that in\nthe doing thereof he infringes not the equal freedom of every other\nman.\" The early edition of \"Social Statics\" is a logical, scientific,\nand bold statement of the great fundamental freedoms which Anarchists\ndemand.\n\nFrom the rather taxing study of authors like these, it is a relief to\nturn to those intermediate writers who dwell between them and the pure\nfictionists, whose writings are occupied with the facts of life as\nrelated to the affections and aspirations of humanity, among whom,\n\"representative men,\" we immediately select Emerson, Thoreau, Edward\nCarpenter. Now, indeed, we cease to reason upon the past evolution of\nliberty, and begin to feel it; begin to reach out after what it _shall_\nmean. None who are familiar with the thought of Emerson can fail to\nrecognize that it is spiritual Anarchism; from the serene heights of\nself-possession, the Ego looks out upon its possibilities, unawed by\naught without. And he who has dwelt in dream by Walden, charmed by that\npure life he has not himself led but wished that, like Thoreau, he might\nlead, has felt that call of the Anarchistic Ideal which pleads with men\nto renounce the worthless luxuries which enslave them and those who work\nfor them, that the buried soul which is doomed to mummy cloths by the\nrush and jangle of the chase for wealth, may answer the still small\nvoice of the Resurrection, there, in the silence, the solitude, the\nsimplicity of the free life.\n\nA similar note is sounded in Carpenter's \"Civilization: Its Cause and\nCure,\" a work which is likely to make the \"Civilizer\" see himself in a\nvery different light than that in which he usually beholds himself. And\nagain the same vibration shudders through \"The City of Dreadful Night,\"\nthe masterpiece of an obscure genius who was at once essayist and poet\nof too high and rare a quality to catch the ear stunned by strident\ncommonplaces, but loved by all who seek the violets of the soul, one\nThomson, known to literature as \"B. V.\" Similarly obscure, and similarly\nsympathetic is the \"English Peasant,\" by Richard Heath, a collection of\nessays so redolent of abounding love, so overflowing with understanding\nfor characters utterly contradictory, painted so tenderly and yet so\nstrongly, that none can read them without realizing that here is a man,\nwho, whatever he _believes_ he believes, in reality desires freedom of\nexpression for the whole human spirit, which implies for every separate\nunit of it.\n\nSomething of the Emersonian striving after individual attainment plus\nthe passionate sympathy of Heath is found in a remarkable book, which is\ntoo good to have obtained a popular hearing, entitled \"The Story of My\nHeart.\" No more daring utterance was ever given voice than this: \"I pray\nto find the Highest Soul,--greater than deity, better than God.\" In the\nconcluding pages of the tenth chapter of this wonderful little book\noccur the following lines:\n\n\"That any human being should dare to apply to another the epithet of\n'pauper' is to me the greatest, the vilest, the most unpardonable crime\nthat could be committed. Each human being, by mere birth, has a\nbirthright in this earth and all its productions; and if they do not\nreceive it, then it is they who are injured; and it is not the\n'pauper'--oh! inexpressibly wicked world!--it is the well-to-do who are\nthe criminals. It matters not in the least if the poor be improvident,\ndrunken, or evil in any way. Food and drink, roof and clothes, are the\ninalienable right of every child born into the light. If the world does\nnot provide it freely--not as a grudging gift, but as a right, as the\nson of the house sits down to breakfast,--then is the world mad. But the\nworld is not mad, only in ignorance.\"\n\nIn catholic sympathy like this, in heart-hunger after a wider\nrighteousness, a higher idea than God, does the Anarchistic ideal come\nto those who have lived through old phases of religious and social\nbeliefs and \"found them wanting.\" It is the Shelleyan outburst:\n\n \"More life and fuller life we want.\"\n\n_He_ was the Prometheus of the movement, he, the wild bird of song, who\nflew down into the heart of storm and night, singing unutterably sweet\nthe song of the free man and woman as he passed. Poor Shelley! Happy\nShelley! He died not knowing the triumph of his genius; but also he died\nwhile the white glow within was yet shining higher, higher! In the light\nof it, he smiled above the world; had he lived, he might have died\nalive, as Swinburne and as Tennyson whose old days belie their early\nstrength. Yet men will remember\n\n \"Slowly comes a hungry people as a lion drawing nigher.\n Glares at one who nods and winks beside a slowly dying fire.\"\n\nand\n\n \"Let the great World swing forever down the ringing grooves\n of Change.\"\n\nand\n\n \"Glory to Man in the highest for Man is the Master of Things\"\n\nand\n\n \"While three men hold together,\n The kingdoms are less by three\"\n\nuntil the end \"of kingdoms and of kings,\" though their authors \"take\nrefuge in the kingdom\" and quaver palsied hymns to royalty with their\ncracked voices and broken lutes. For this is the glory of the living\nideal, that all that is in accord with it lives, whether the mouthpiece\nthrough which it spoke would recall it or not. The manifold voice which\nis one speaks out through all the tongues of genius in its greatest\nmoments, whether it be a Heine writing, in supreme contempt,\n\n \"For the Law has got long arms,\n Priests and Parsons have long tongues\n And the People have long ears,\"\n\na Nekrassoff cursing the railroad built of men, a Hugo painting the\nbattle of the individual man \"with Nature, with the Law, with Society,\"\na Lowell crying:\n\n \"Law is holy ay, but what law? Is there nothing more divine\n Than the patched up broils of Congress,--venal, full of meat\n and wine?\n Is there, say you, nothing higher--naught, God save us, that\n transcends\n Laws of cotton texture wove by vulgar men for vulgar ends?\n Law is holy: but not your law, ye who keep the tablets whole\n While ye dash the Law in pieces, shatter it in life and soul.\"\n\nand again,\n\n \"One faith against a whole world's unbelief,\n One soul against the flesh of all mankind.\"\n\nNor do the master dramatists lag behind the lyric writers; they, too,\nfeel the intense pressure within, which is, quoting the deathword of\na man of far other stamp, \"germinal.\" Ibsen's drama, intensely real,\ncommon, accepting none of the received rules as to the conventional\nplot, but having to do with serious questions of the lives of the\nplain people, holds ever before us the supreme duty of truth to one's\ninner being in defiance of Custom and Law; it is so in Nora, who\nrenounces all notions of family duty to \"find herself\"; it is so in\nDr. Stockman, who maintains the rectitude of his own soul against\nthe authorities and against the mob; it should have been so in Mrs.\nAlving, who learns too late that her yielding to social custom has\nbrought a fore-ruined life into the world besides wrecking her own; the\nMaster Builder, John Gabriel Borkman, all his characters are created\nto vindicate the separate soul supreme within its sphere; those that\nare miserable and in evil condition are so because they have not\nlived true to themselves but in obedience to some social hypocrisy.\nGerhart Hauptmann likewise feels the new pulsation: he has no hero,\nno heroine, no intrigue; his picture is the image of the headless and\ntailless body of struggle,--the struggle of the common man. It begins\nin the middle, it ends in nothing--as yet. To end in defeat would be\nto premise surrender--a surrender humanity does not intend; to triumph\nwould be to anticipate the future, and paint life other than it is.\nHence it ends where it began, in murmurs. Thus his \"Weavers.\" Octave\nMirbeau, likewise, offers his criticism on a world of sheep in \"The\nBad Shepherds,\" and Sara Bernhardt plays it. In England and America we\nhave another phase of the rebel drama--the drama of the bad woman, as a\ndistinct figure in social creation with a right to be herself. Have we\nnot the \"Second Mrs. Tanqueray\" who comes to grief through an endeavor\nto conform to a moral standard that does not fit? And have we not Zaza,\nwho is worth a thousand of her respectable lover and his respectable\nwife? And does not all the audience go home in love with her? And begin\nto quest the libraries for literary justifications of their preference?\n\nAnd these are not hard to find, for it is in the novel particularly, the\nnovel which is the special creation of the last century, that the new\nideal is freest. In a recent essay in reply to Walter Besant, Henry\nJames pleads most Anarchistically for his freedom in the novel. All such\npleas will always come as justifications, for as to the freedom it is\nalready won, and all the formalists from Besant to the end of days will\nnever tempt the litterateurs into chains again. But the essay is well\nworth reading as a specimen of right reasoning on art. As in other modes\nof literary expression this tendency in the novel dates back; and it is\nstrange enough that out of the mouth of a toady like Walter Scott should\nhave spoken the free, devil-may-care, outlaw spirit (read notably\n\"Quentin Durward\"), which is, perhaps, the first phase of self-assertion\nthat has the initial strength to declare itself against the tyranny of\nCustom; this is why it happens that the fore-runners of social change\nare often shocking in their rudeness and contempt of manners, and, in\nfact, more or less uncomfortable persons to have to do with. But they\nhave their irresistible charm all the same, and Scott, who was a true\ngenius despite his toadyism, felt it and responded to it, by always\nmaking us love his outlaws best no matter how gently he dealt with\nkings. Another phase of the free man appears in George Borrow's\nrollicking, full-blooded, out-of-door gypsies who do not take the\ntrouble to despise law, but simply ignore it, live unconscious of it\naltogether. George Meredith, in another vein, develops the strong soul\nover-riding social barriers. Our own Hawthorne in his preface to the\n\"Scarlet Letter,\" and still more in the \"Marble Faun,\" depicts the\nvacuity of a life sucking a parasitic existence through government\norganization, and asserts over and over that the only strength is in him\nor her--and it is noteworthy that the strongest is in \"her\"--who\nresolutely chooses and treads an unbeaten path.\n\nFrom far away Africa, there speaks again the note of soul rebellion in\nthe exquisite \"Dreams\" of Olive Schreiner, wherethrough \"_The Hunter\nwalks alone_.\" Grant Allen, too, in numerous works, especially \"The\nWoman Who Did,\" voices the demand for self-hood. Morris gives us his\nidyllic \"News from Nowhere.\" Zola, the fertile creator of dungheaps\ncrowned with lilies, whose pages reek with the stench of bodies,\nlaboring, debauching, rotting, until the words of Christ cry loud in the\nears of him who would put the vision away, \"Whited sepulchres, full of\ndead men's bones and all uncleanliness\"--Zola was more than an\nunconscious Anarchist, he is a conscious one, did so proclaim himself.\nAnd close beside him, Maxim Gorki, Spokesman of the Tramp, Visionary of\nthe Despised, who whatever his personal political views may be, and\nnotwithstanding the condemnations he has visited upon the Anarchist, is\nstill an Anarchistic voice in literature. And over against these,\naustere, simple, but oh! so loving, the critic who shows the world its\nfaults but does not condemn, the man who first took the way of\nrenunciation and then _preached_ it, the Christian whom the Church casts\nout, the Anarchist whom the worst government in the world dares not\nslay, the author of \"Resurrection\" and \"The Slavery of Our Times.\"\n\nThey come together, from the side of passionate hate and limitless\nlove--the volcano and the sea--they come together in one demand, freedom\nfrom this wicked and debasing tyranny called Government, which makes\nindescribable brutes of all who feel its touch, but worse still of all\nwho touch it.\n\nAs for contemporaneous light literature, there are magazine articles and\npapers innumerable displaying here and there the grasp of the idea. Have\nwe not the _Philistine_ and its witty editor, boldly proclaiming in\nAnarchistic spelling, \"I am an Anarkist?\" By the way, he may now expect\na visitation of the Criminal Anarchy law. And a few years since, Julian\nHawthorne, writing in the Denver _Post_, inquired, \"Did you ever notice\nthat all the interesting people you meet are Anarchists?\" Reason why:\nthere is no other living dream to him who has character enough to be\ninteresting. It is the uninteresting, the dull, the ready-made minds who\ngo on accepting \"Dead limbs of gibbeted gods,\" as they accept their\ndinner and their bed, which someone else prepares. Let two names,\nstanding for strangely opposing appeals yet standing upon common ground,\nclose this sketch--two strong flashes of the prismatic fires which blent\ntogether in the white ray of our Ideal. The first, Nietzsche, he who\nproclaims \"the Overman,\" the receiver of the mantle of Max Stirner, the\nscintillant rhetorician, the pride of Young Germany, who would have the\nindividual acknowledge nothing, neither science, nor logic, nor any\nother creation of his thought, as having authority over him, its\ncreator. The last, Whitman, the great sympathetic, all-inclusive Quaker,\nwhose love knew no limits, who said to Society's most utterly despised\noutcast,\n\n \"Not until the sun excludes you, will I exclude you,\"\n\nand who, whether he be called poet, philosopher, or peasant was\nsupremely Anarchist, and in a moment of weariness with human slavery,\ncried:\n\n \"I think I could turn and live with animals, they seem so placid\n and self-contained,\n I stand and look at them long and long.\n They do not sweat and whine about their conditions,\n They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,\n They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;\n Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania\n of owning things;\n Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands\n of years ago,\n Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Making of an Anarchist\n\n\n\"Here was one guard, and here was the other at this end; I was here\nopposite the gate. You know those problems in geometry of the hare and\nthe hounds--they never run straight, but always in a curve, so, see? And\nthe guard was no smarter than the dogs; if he had run straight to the\ngate he would have caught me.\"\n\nIt was Peter Kropotkin telling of his escape from the Petro-Paulovsky\nfortress. Three crumbs on the table marked the relative position of the\noutwitted guards and the fugitive prisoner; the speaker had broken them\nfrom the bread on which he was lunching and dropped them on the table\nwith an amused smile. The suggested triangle had been the starting-point\nof the life-long exile of the greatest man, save Tolstoy alone, that\nRussia has produced; from that moment began the many foreign wanderings\nand the taking of the simple, love-given title \"Comrade,\" for which he\nhad abandoned the \"Prince,\" which he despises.\n\nWe were three together in the plain little home of a London\nworkingman--Will Wess, a one-time shoemaker--Kropotkin, and I. We had\nour \"tea\" in homely English fashion, with thin slices of buttered bread;\nand we talked of things nearest our hearts, which, whenever two or three\nAnarchists are gathered together, means present evidences of the growth\nof liberty and what our comrades are doing in all lands. And as what\nthey do and say often leads them into prisons, the talk had naturally\nfallen upon Kropotkin's experience and his daring escape, for which the\nRussian government is chagrined unto this day.\n\nPresently the old man glanced at the time, and jumped briskly to his\nfeet: \"I am late. Good-by, Voltairine; good-by, Will. Is this the way to\nthe kitchen? I must say good-by to Mrs. Turner and Lizzie.\" And out to\nthe kitchen he went, unwilling, late though he was, to leave without a\nhand-clasp to those who had so much as washed a dish for him. Such is\nKropotkin, a man whose personality is felt more than any other in the\nAnarchist movement--at once the gentlest, the most kindly, and the most\ninvincible of men. Communist as well as Anarchist, his very heart-beats\nare rhythmic with the great common pulse of work and life.\n\nCommunist am not I, though my father was, and his father before him\nduring the stirring times of '48, which is probably the remote reason\nfor my opposition to things as they are: at bottom convictions are\nmostly temperamental. And if I sought to explain myself on other\ngrounds, I should be a bewildering error in logic; for by early\ninfluences and education I should have been a nun, and spent my life\nglorifying Authority in its most concentrated form, as some of my\nschoolmates are doing at this hour within the mission houses of the\nOrder of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary. But the old ancestral spirit\nof rebellion asserted itself while I was yet fourteen, a schoolgirl at\nthe Convent of Our Lady of Lake Huron, at Sarnia, Ontario. How I pity\nmyself now, when I remember it, poor lonesome little soul, battling\nsolitary in the murk of religious superstition, unable to believe and\nyet in hourly fear of damnation, hot, savage, and eternal, if I do not\ninstantly confess and profess! How well I recall the bitter energy with\nwhich I repelled my teacher's enjoinder, when I told her that I did not\nwish to apologize for an adjudged fault, as I could not see that I had\nbeen wrong, and would not _feel_ my words. \"It is not necessary,\" said\nshe, \"that we should feel what we say, but it is always necessary that\nwe obey our superiors.\" \"I will not lie,\" I answered hotly, and at the\nsame time trembled lest my disobedience had finally consigned me to\ntorment!\n\nI struggled my way out at last, and was a freethinker when I left the\ninstitution, three years later, though I had never seen a book or heard\na word to help me in my loneliness. It had been like the Valley of the\nShadow of Death, and there are white scars on my soul yet, where\nIgnorance and Superstition burnt me with their hell-fire in those\nstifling days. Am I blasphemous? It is their word, not mine. Beside that\nbattle of my young days all others have been easy, for whatever was\nwithout, within my own Will was supreme. It has owed no allegiance, and\nnever shall; it has moved steadily in one direction, the knowledge and\nthe assertion of its own liberty, with all the responsibility falling\nthereon.\n\nThis, I am sure, is the ultimate reason for my acceptance of Anarchism,\nthough the specific occasion which ripened tendencies to definition was\nthe affair of 1886-7, when five innocent men were hanged in Chicago for\nthe act of one guilty who still remains unknown. Till then I believed\nin the essential justice of the American law and trial by jury. After\nthat I never could. The infamy of that trial has passed into history,\nand the question it awakened as to the possibility of justice under law\nhas passed into clamorous crying across the world. With this question\nfighting for a hearing at a time when, young and ardent, all questions\nwere pressing with a force which later life would in vain hear again,\nI chanced to attend a Paine Memorial Convention in an out-of-the-way\ncorner of the earth among the mountains and the snow-drifts of\nPennsylvania. I was a freethought lecturer at this time, and had spoken\nin the afternoon on the lifework of Paine; in the evening I sat in the\naudience to hear Clarence Darrow deliver an address on Socialism. It\nwas my first introduction to any plan for bettering the condition of\nthe working-classes which furnished some explanation of the course of\neconomic development, and I ran to it as one who has been turning about\nin darkness runs to the light. I smile now at how quickly I adopted the\nlabel \"Socialist\" and how quickly I cast it aside. Let no one follow\nmy example; but I was young. Six weeks later I was punished for my\nrashness, when I attempted to argue for my faith with a little Russian\nJew, named Mozersky, at a debating club in Pittsburgh. He was an\nAnarchist, and a bit of a Socrates. He questioned me into all kinds of\nholes, from which I extricated myself most awkwardly, only to flounder\ninto others he had smilingly dug while I was getting out of the first\nones. The necessity of a better foundation became apparent: hence\nbegan a course of study in the principles of sociology and of modern\nSocialism and Anarchism as presented in their regular journals. It was\nBenjamin Tucker's _Liberty_, the exponent of Individualist Anarchism,\nwhich finally convinced me that \"Liberty is not the Daughter but the\nMother of Order.\" And though I no longer hold the particular economic\ngospel advocated by Tucker, the doctrine of Anarchism itself, as then\nconceived, has but broadened, deepened, and intensified itself with\nyears.\n\nTo those unfamiliar with the movement, the various terms are confusing.\nAnarchism is, in truth, a sort of Protestantism, whose adherents are a\nunit in the great essential belief that all forms of external authority\nmust disappear to be replaced by self-control only, but variously\ndivided in our conception of the form of future society. Individualism\nsupposes private property to be the cornerstone of personal freedom;\nasserts that such property should consist in the absolute possession of\none's own product and of such share of the natural heritage of all as\none may actually use. Communist-Anarchism, on the other hand, declares\nthat such property is both unrealizable and undesirable; that the common\npossession and use of all the natural sources and means of social\nproduction can alone guarantee the individual against a recurrence of\ninequality, and its attendants, government and slavery. My personal\nconviction is that both forms of society, as well as many\nintermediations, would, in the absence of government, be tried in\nvarious localities, according to the instincts and material condition of\nthe people, but that well founded objections may be offered to both.\nLiberty and experiment alone can determine the best forms of society.\nTherefore I no longer label myself otherwise than as \"Anarchist\" simply.\n\nI would not, however, have the world think that I am an \"Anarchist by\ntrade.\" Outsiders have some very curious notions about us, one of them\nbeing that Anarchists never work. On the contrary, Anarchists are nearly\nalways poor, and it is only the rich who live without work. Not only\nthis, but it is our belief that every healthy human being will, by the\nlaws of his own activity, choose to work, though certainly not as now,\nfor at present there is little opportunity for one to find his true\nvocation. Thus I, who in freedom would have selected otherwise, am a\nteacher of language. Some twelve years since, being in Philadelphia and\nwithout employment, I accepted the proposition of a small group of\nRussian Jewish factory workers to form an evening class in the common\nEnglish branches. I know well enough that behind the desire to help me\nto make a living lay the wish that I might thus take part in the\npropaganda of our common cause. But the incidental became once more the\nprincipal, and a teacher of working men and women I have remained from\nthat day. In those twelve years that I have lived and loved and worked\nwith foreign Jews I have taught over a thousand, and found them, as a\nrule, the brightest, the most persistent and sacrificing students, and\nin youth dreamers of social ideals. While the \"intelligent American\" has\nbeen cursing him as the \"ignorant foreigner,\" while the short-sighted\nworkingman has been making life for the \"sheeny\" as intolerable as\npossible, silent and patient the despised man has worked his way against\nit all. I have myself seen such genuine heroism in the cause of\neducation practiced by girls and boys, and even by men and women with\nfamilies, as would pass the limits of belief to the ordinary mind. Cold,\nstarvation, self-isolation, all endured for years in order to obtain the\nmeans for study; and, worse than all, exhaustion of body even to\nemaciation--this is common. Yet in the midst of all this, so fervent is\nthe social imagination of the young that most of them find time besides\nto visit the various clubs and societies where radical thought is\ndiscussed, and sooner or later ally themselves either with the Socialist\nSections, the Liberal Leagues, the Single Tax Clubs, or the Anarchist\nGroups. The greatest Socialist daily in America is the Jewish\n_Vorwaerts_, and the most active and competent practical workers are\nJews. So they are among the Anarchists.\n\nI am no propagandist at all costs, or I would leave the story here; but\nthe truth compels me to add that as the years pass and the gradual\nfiltration and absorption of American commercial life goes on, my\nstudents become successful professionals, the golden mist of enthusiasm\nvanishes, and the old teacher must turn for comradeship to the new\nyouth, who still press forward with burning eyes, seeing what is lost\nforever to those whom common success has satisfied and stupified. It\nbrings tears sometimes, but as Kropotkin says, \"Let them go; we have had\nthe best of them.\" After all, who are the really old? Those who wear out\nin faith and energy, and take to easy chairs and soft living; not\nKropotkin, with his sixty years upon him, who has bright eyes and the\neager interest of a little child; not fiery John Most, \"the old\nwar-horse of the revolution,\" unbroken after his ten years of\nimprisonment in Europe and America; not grey-haired Louise Michel, with\nthe aurora of the morning still shining in her keen look which peers\nfrom behind the barred memories of New Caledonia; not Dyer D. Lum, who\nstill smiles in his grave, I think; nor Tucker, nor Turner, nor Theresa\nClairmunt, nor Jean Grave--not these. I have met them all, and felt the\nspringing life pulsating through heart and hand, joyous, ardent, leaping\ninto action. Not such are the old, but your young heart that goes\nbankrupt in social hope, dry-rotting in this stale and purposeless\nsociety. Would you be always young? Then be an Anarchist, and live with\nthe faith of hope, though you be old.\n\nI doubt if any other hope has the power to keep the fire alight as I saw\nit in 1897, when we met the Spanish exiles released from the fortress of\nMontjuich. Comparatively few persons in America ever knew the story of\nthat torture, though we distributed fifty thousand copies of the letters\nsmuggled from the prison, and some few newspapers did reprint them. They\nwere the letters of men incarcerated on mere suspicion for the crime of\nan unknown person, and subjected to tortures the bare mention of which\nmakes one shudder. Their nails were torn out, their heads compressed in\nmetal caps, the most sensitive portions of the body twisted between\nguitar strings, their flesh burned with red hot irons; they had been fed\non salt codfish after days of starvation, and refused water; Juan\nOll\u00e9, a boy nineteen years old, had gone mad; another had confessed\nto something he had never done and knew nothing of. This is no\nhorrible imagination. I who write have myself shaken some of those\nscarred hands. Indiscriminately, four hundred people of all sorts of\nbeliefs--Republicans, trade unionists, Socialists, Free Masons, as well\nas Anarchists--had been cast into dungeons and tortured in the infamous\n\"zero.\" Is it a wonder that most of them came out Anarchists? There were\ntwenty-eight in the first lot that we met at Euston Station that August\nafternoon,--homeless wanderers in the whirlpool of London, released\nwithout trial after months of imprisonment, and ordered to leave Spain\nin forty-eight hours! They had left it, singing their prison songs; and\nstill across their dark and sorrowful eyes one could see the eternal\nMaytime bloom. They drifted away to South America chiefly, where four or\nfive new Anarchist papers have since arisen, and several colonizing\nexperiments along Anarchist lines are being tried. So tyranny defeats\nitself, and the exile becomes the seed-sower of the revolution.\n\nAnd not only to the heretofore unaroused does he bring awakening, but\nthe entire character of the world movement is modified by this\ncirculation of the comrades of all nations among themselves. Originally\nthe American movement, the native creation which arose with Josiah\nWarren in 1829, was purely individualistic; the student of economy will\neasily understand the material and historical causes for such\ndevelopment. But within the last twenty years the communist idea has\nmade great progress, owing primarily to that concentration in capitalist\nproduction which has driven the American workingman to grasp at the\nidea of solidarity, and, secondly, to the expulsion of active communist\npropagandists from Europe. Again, another change has come within the\nlast ten years. Till then the application of the idea was chiefly\nnarrowed to industrial matters, and the economic schools mutually\ndenounced each other; to-day a large and genial tolerance is growing.\nThe young generation recognizes the immense sweep of the idea through\nall the realms of art, science, literature, education, sex relations and\npersonal morality, as well as social economy, and welcomes the accession\nto the ranks of those who struggle to realize the free life, no matter\nin what field. For this is what Anarchism finally means, the whole\nunchaining of life after two thousand years of Christian asceticism and\nhypocrisy.\n\nApart from the question of ideals, there is the question of method.\n\"How do you propose to get all this?\" is the question most frequently\nasked us. The same modification has taken place here. Formerly there\nwere \"Quakers\" and \"Revolutionists\"; so there are still. But while they\nneither thought well of the other, now both have learned that each has\nhis own use in the great play of world forces. No man is in himself a\nunit, and in every soul Jove still makes war on Christ. Nevertheless,\nthe spirit of peace grows; and while it would be idle to say that\nAnarchists in general believe that any of the great industrial problems\nwill be solved without the use of force, it would be equally idle to\nsuppose that they consider force itself a desirable thing, or that it\nfurnishes a final solution to any problem. From peaceful experiment\nalone can come final solution, and that the advocates of force know and\nbelieve as well as the Tolstoyans. Only they think that the present\ntyrannies provoke resistance. The spread of Tolstoy's \"War and Peace\"\nand \"The Slavery of Our Times,\" and the growth of numerous Tolstoy\nclubs having for their purpose the dissemination of the literature of\nnon-resistance, is an evidence that many receive the idea that it is\neasier to conquer war with peace. I am one of these. I can see no end\nof retaliations unless someone ceases to retaliate. But let no one\nmistake this for servile submission or meek abnegation; my right shall\nbe asserted no matter at what cost to me, and none shall trench upon it\nwithout my protest.\n\nGood-natured satirists often remark that \"the best way to cure an\nAnarchist is to give him a fortune.\" Substituting \"corrupt\" for \"cure,\"\nI would subscribe to this; and believing myself to be no better than the\nrest of mortals, I earnestly hope that as so far it has been my lot to\nwork, and work hard, and for no fortune, so I may continue to the end;\nfor let me keep the integrity of my soul, with all the limitations of my\nmaterial conditions, rather than become the spineless and ideal-less\ncreation of material needs. My reward is that I live with the young; I\nkeep step with my comrades; I shall die in the harness with my face to\nthe east--the East and the Light.\n\n\n\n\nThe Eleventh of November, 1887\n\nMemorial Oration[A]\n\n\nLet me begin my address with a confession. I make it sorrowfully and\nwith self-disgust; but in the presence of great sacrifice we learn\nhumility, and if my comrades could give their lives for their belief,\nwhy, let me give my pride. Yet I would not give it, for personal\nutterance is of trifling importance, were it not that I think at this\nparticular season it will encourage those of our sympathizers whom the\nrecent outburst of savagery may have disheartened, and perhaps lead some\nwho are standing where I once stood to do as I did later.\n\nThis is my confession: Fifteen years ago last May when the echoes of the\nHaymarket bomb rolled through the little Michigan village where I then\nlived, I, like the rest of the credulous and brutal, read one lying\nnewspaper headline, \"Anarchists throw a bomb in a crowd in the Haymarket\nin Chicago,\" and immediately cried out, \"They ought to be hung.\"--This,\nthough I had never believed in capital punishment for ordinary\ncriminals. For that ignorant, outrageous, bloodthirsty sentence I shall\nnever forgive myself, though I know the dead men would have forgiven\nme, though I know those who loved them forgive me. But my own voice, as\nit sounded that night, will sound so in my ears till I die,--a bitter\nreproach and shame. What had I done? Credited the first wild rumor of an\nevent of which I knew nothing, and, in my mind, sent men to the gallows\nwithout asking one word of defense! In one wild, unbalanced moment threw\naway the sympathies of a lifetime, and became an executioner at heart.\nAnd what I did that night millions did, and what I said millions said. I\nhave only one word of extenuation for myself and all those\npeople--ignorance. I did not know what Anarchism was. I had never seen\nit used save in histories, and there it was always synonymous with\nsocial confusion and murder. I believed the newspapers. I thought these\nmen had thrown that bomb, unprovoked, into a mass of men and women, from\na wicked delight in killing. And so thought all those millions of\nothers. But out of those millions there were some few thousand--I am\nglad I was one of them--who did not let the matter rest there.\n\nI know not what resurrection of human decency first stirred within me\nafter that,--whether it was an intellectual suspicion that may be I did\nnot know all the truth of the case and could not believe the newspapers,\nor whether it was the old strong undercurrent of sympathy which often\nprompts the heart to go out to the accused, without a reason; but this I\ndo know that though I was no Anarchist at the time of the execution, it\nwas long and long before that, that I came to the conclusion that the\naccusation was false, the trial a farce, that there was no warrant\neither in justice or in law for their conviction; and that the hanging,\nif hanging there should be, would be the act of a society composed of\npeople who had said what I said on the first night, and who had kept\ntheir eyes and ears fast shut ever since, determined to see nothing and\nto know nothing but rage and vengeance. Till the very end I hoped that\nmercy might intervene, though justice did not; and from the hour I knew\nneither would nor ever could again, I distrusted law and lawyers, judges\nand governors alike. And my whole being cried out to know what it was\nthese men had stood for, and why they were hanged, seeing it was not\nproven they knew anything about the throwing of the bomb.\n\nLittle by little, here and there, I came to know that what they had\nstood for was a very high and noble ideal of human life, and what they\nwere hanged for was preaching it to the common people,--the common\npeople who were as ready to hang them, in their ignorance, as the court\nand the prosecutor were in their malice! Little by little I came to know\nthat these were men who had a clearer vision of human right than most of\ntheir fellows; and who, being moved by deep social sympathies, wished to\nshare their vision with their fellows, and so proclaimed it in the\nmarket-place. Little by little I realized that the misery, the pathetic\nsubmission, the awful degradation of the workers, which from the time I\nwas old enough to begin to think had borne heavily upon my heart, (as\nthey must bear upon all who have hearts to feel at all), had smitten\ntheirs more deeply still,--so deeply that they knew no rest save in\nseeking a way out,--and that was more than I had ever had the sense to\nconceive. For me there had never been a hope there should be no more\nrich and poor; but a vague idea that there might not be so rich and so\npoor, if the workingmen by combining could exact a little better wages,\nand make their hours a little shorter. It was the message of these men,\n(and their death swept that message far out into ears that would never\nhave heard their living voices), that all such little dreams are folly.\nThat not in demanding little, not in striking for an hour less, not in\nmountain labor to bring forth mice, can any lasting alleviation come;\nbut in demanding, much,--all,--in a bold self-assertion of the worker to\ntoil any hours he finds sufficient, not that another finds for\nhim,--here is where the way out lies. That message, and the message of\nothers, whose works, associated with theirs, their death drew to my\nnotice, took me up, as it were, upon a mighty hill, wherefrom I saw the\nroofs of the workshops of the little world. I saw the machines, the\nthings that men had made to ease their burden, the wonderful things, the\niron genii, I saw them set their iron teeth in the living flesh of the\nmen who made them; I saw the maimed and crippled stumps of men go\nlimping away into the night that engulfs the poor, perhaps to be thrown\nup in the flotsam and jetsam of beggary for a time, perhaps to suicide\nin some dim corner where the black surge throws its slime.\n\nI saw the rose fire of the furnace shining on the blanched face of the\nman who tended it, and knew surely as I knew anything in life, that\nnever would a free man feed his blood to the fire like that.\n\nI saw swart bodies, all mangled and crushed, borne from the mouths of\nthe mines to be stowed away in a grave hardly less narrow and dark than\nthat in which the living form had crouched ten, twelve, fourteen hours a\nday; and I knew that in order that I might be warm--I, and you, and\nthose others who never do any dirty work--those men had slaved away in\nthose black graves, and been crushed to death at last.\n\nI saw beside city streets great heaps of horrible colored earth, and\ndown at the bottom of the trench from which it was thrown, so far down\nthat nothing else was visible, bright gleaming eyes, like a wild\nanimal's hunted into its hole. And I knew that free men never chose to\nlabor there, with pick and shovel in that foul, sewage-soaked earth, in\nthat narrow trench, in that deadly sewer gas ten, eight, even six hours\na day. Only slaves would do it.\n\nI saw deep down in the hull of the ocean liner the men who shoveled the\ncoal--burned and seared like paper before the grate; and I knew that\n\"the record\" of the beautiful monster, and the pleasure of the ladies\nwho laughed on the deck, were paid for with these withered bodies and\nsouls.\n\nI saw the scavenger carts go up and down, drawn by sad brutes driven by\nsadder ones; for never a man, a man in full possession of his self-hood,\nwould freely choose to spend all his days in the nauseating stench that\nforces him to swill alcohol to neutralize it.\n\nAnd I saw in the lead works how men were poisoned, and in the sugar\nrefineries how they went insane; and in the factories how they lost\ntheir decency; and in the stores how they learned to lie; and I knew it\nwas slavery made them do all this. I knew the Anarchists were\nright,--the whole thing must be changed, the whole thing was wrong,--the\nwhole system of production and distribution, the whole ideal of life.\n\nAnd I questioned the government then; they had taught me to question it.\nWhat have you done--you the keepers of the Declaration and the\nConstitution--what have you done about all this? What have you done to\npreserve the conditions of freedom to the people?\n\nLied, deceived, fooled, tricked, bought and sold and got gain! You have\nsold away the land, that you had no right to sell. You have murdered the\naboriginal people, that you might seize the land in the name of the\nwhite race, and then steal it away from them again, to be again sold by\na second and a third robber. And that buying and selling of the land has\ndriven the people off the healthy earth and away from the clean air\ninto these rot-heaps of humanity called cities, where every filthy thing\nis done, and filthy labor breeds filthy bodies and filthy souls. Our\nboys are decayed with vice before they come to manhood; our girls--ah,\nwell might John Harvey write:\n\n \"Another begetteth a daughter white and gold,\n She looks into the meadow land water, and the world\n Knows her no more; they have sought her field and fold\n But the City, the City hath bought her,\n It hath sold\n Her piecemeal, to students, rats, and reek of the graveyard\n mould.\"\n\nYou have done this thing, gentlemen who engineer the government; and not\nonly have you caused this ruin to come upon others; you yourselves are\nrotten with this debauchery. You exist for the purpose of granting\nprivileges to whoever can pay most for you, and so limiting the freedom\nof men to employ themselves that they must sell themselves into this\nfrightful slavery or become tramps, beggars, thieves, prostitutes, and\nmurderers. And when you have done all this, what then do you do to them,\nthese creatures of your own making? You, who have set them the example\nin every villainy? Do you then relent, and remembering the words of the\ngreat religious teacher to whom most of you offer lip service on the\nofficially religious day, do you go to these poor, broken, wretched\ncreatures and love them? Love them and help them, to teach them to be\nbetter? No: you build prisons high and strong, and there you beat, and\nstarve, and hang, finding by the working of your system human beings so\nunutterably degraded that they are willing to kill whomsoever they are\ntold to kill at so much monthly salary.\n\nThis is what the government is, has always been, the creator and\ndefender of privilege; the organization of oppression and revenge. To\nhope that it can ever become anything else is the vainest of delusions.\nThey tell you that Anarchy, the dream of social order without\ngovernment, is a wild fancy. The wildest dream that ever entered the\nheart of man is the dream that mankind can ever help itself through an\nappeal to law, or to come to any order that will not result in slavery\nwherein there is any excuse for government.\n\nIt was for telling the people this that these five men were killed. For\ntelling the people that the only way to get out of their misery was\nfirst to learn what their rights upon this earth were;--freedom to use\nthe land and all within it and all the tools of production--and then to\nstand all together and take them, themselves, and not to appeal to the\njugglers of the law. Abolish the law--that is abolish privilege,--and\ncrime will abolish itself.\n\nThey will tell you these men were hanged for advocating force. What!\nThese creatures who drill men in the science of killing, who put\nguns and clubs in hands they train to shoot and strike, who hail\nwith delight the latest inventions in explosives, who exult in the\nmachine that can kill the most with the least expenditure of energy,\nwho declare a war of extermination upon people who do not want their\ncivilization, who ravish, and burn, and garotte and guillotine, and\nhang, and electrocute, they have the impertinence to talk about the\nunrighteousness of force! True, these men did advocate the right to\nresist invasion by force. You will find scarcely one in a thousand\nwho does not believe in that right. The one will be either a real\nChristian or a non-resistant Anarchist. It will not be a believer in\nthe State. No, no; it was not for advocating forcible resistance on\nprinciple, but for advocating forcible resistance to their tyrannies,\nand for advocating a society which would forever make an end of riches\nand poverty, of governors and governed.\n\nThe spirit of revenge, which is always stupid, accomplished its brutal\nact. Had it lifted its eyes from its work, it might have seen in the\nbackground of the scaffold that bleak November morning the dawn-light of\nAnarchy whiten across the world.\n\nSo it came first,--a gleam of hope to the proletaire, a summons to rise\nand shake off his material bondage. But steadily, steadily the light has\ngrown, as year by year the scientist, the literary genius, the artist,\nand the moral teacher, have brought to it the tribute of their best\nwork, their unpaid work, the work they did for love. To-day it means not\nonly material emancipation, too; it comes as the summing up of all those\nlines of thought and action which for three hundred years have been\nmaking towards freedom; it means fulness of being, the free life.\n\nAnd I say it boldly, notwithstanding the recent outburst of\ncondemnation, notwithstanding the cry of lynch, burn, shoot, imprison,\ndeport, and the Scarlet Letter A to be branded low down upon the\nforehead, and the latest excuse for that fond esthetic decoration \"the\nbutton,\" that for two thousand years no idea has so stirred the world as\nthis,--none which had such living power to break down barriers of race\nand degree, to attract prince and proletaire, poet and mechanic, Quaker\nand Revolutionist. No other ideal but the free life is strong enough to\ntouch the man whose infinite pity and understanding goes alike to the\nhypocrite priest and the victim of Siberian whips; the loving rebel who\nstepped from his title and his wealth to labor with all the laboring\nearth; the sweet strong singer who sang\n\n \"No Master, high or low\";\n\nthe lover who does not measure his love nor reckon on return; the\nself-centered one who \"will not rule, but also will not ruled be\"; the\nphilosopher who chanted the Over-man; the devoted woman of the people;\nay, and these too,--these rebellious flashes from the vast cloud-hung\nominous obscurity of the anonymous, these souls whom governmental and\ncapitalistic brutality has whipped and goaded and stung to blind rage\nand bitterness, these mad young lions of revolt, these Winkelrieds who\noffer their hearts to the spears.\n\n[A] Delivered on November 11, 1901, in Chicago.\n\n\n\n\nCrime and Punishment\n\n\nMen are of three sorts: the turn backs, the rush-aheads, and the\nindifferents. The first and second are comparatively few in number. The\nreally conscientious conservative, eternally looking backward for his\nmodels and trying hard to preserve that which is, is almost as scarce an\narticle as the genuine radical, who is eternally attacking that which is\nand looking forward to some indistinct but glowing vision of a purified\nsocial life. Between them lies the vast nitrogenous body of the\nindifferents, who go through life with no large thoughts or intense\nfeelings of any kind, the best that can be said of them being that they\nserve to dilute the too fierce activities of the other two. Into the\ncallous ears of these indifferents, nevertheless, the opposing voices of\nconservative and radical are continually shouting; and for years, for\ncenturies, the conservative wins the day, not because he really touches\nthe consciences of the indifferent so much (though in a measure he does\nthat) as because his way causes his hearer the least mental trouble. It\nis easier to this lazy, inert mentality to nod its head and approve the\ncontinuance of things as they are, than to listen to proposals for\nchange, to consider, to question, to make an innovating decision. These\nrequire activity, application,--and nothing is so foreign to the\nhibernating social conscience of your ordinary individual.\n\nI say \"social\" conscience, because I by no means wish to say that these\nare conscienceless people; they have, for active use, sufficient\nconscience to go through their daily parts in life, and they think that\nis all that is required. Of the lives of others, of the effects of their\nattitude in cursing the existences of thousands whom they do not know,\nthey have no conception; they sleep; and they hear the voices of those\nwho cry aloud about these things, dimly, as in dreams; and they do not\nwish to awaken. Nevertheless, at the end of the centuries they always\nawaken. It is the radical who always wins at last. At the end of the\ncenturies institutions are reviewed by this aroused social conscience,\nare revised, sometimes are utterly rooted out.\n\nThus it is with the institutions of Crime and Punishment. The\nconservative holds that these things have been decided from all time;\nthat crime is a thing-in-itself, with no other cause than the\nviciousness of man; that punishment was decreed from Mt. Sinai, or\nwhatever holy mountain happens to be believed in in his country; that\nsociety is best served by strictness and severity of judgment and\npunishment. And he wishes only to make his indifferent brothers keepers\nof other men's consciences along these lines. He would have all men be\nhunters of men, that crime may be tracked down and struck down.\n\nThe radical says: All false, all false and wrong. Crime has not been\ndecided from all time: crime, like everything else, has had its\nevolution according to place, time, and circumstance. \"The demons of our\nsires become the saints that we adore,\"--and the saints, the saints and\nthe heroes of our fathers, are criminals according to our codes.\nAbraham, David, Solomon,--could any respectable member of society admit\nthat he had done the things they did? Crime is not a thing-in-itself,\nnot a plant without roots, not a something proceeding from nothing; and\nthe only true way to deal with it is to seek its causes as earnestly, as\npainstakingly, as the astronomer seeks the causes of the perturbations\nin the orbit of the planet he is observing, sure that there must be one,\nor many, somewhere. And Punishment, too, must be studied. The holy\nmountain theory is a failure. Punishment is a failure. And it is a\nfailure not because men do not hunt down and strike enough, but because\nthey hunt down and strike at all; because in the chase of those who do\nill, they do ill themselves; they brutalize their own characters, and so\nmuch the more so because they are convinced that this time the brutal\nact is done in accord with conscience. The murderous deed of the\ncriminal was _against_ conscience, the torture or the murder of the\ncriminal by the official is _with_ conscience. Thus the conscience is\ndiseased and perverted, and a new class of imbruted men created. We have\npunished and punished for untold thousands of years, and we have not\ngotten rid of crime, we have not diminished it. Let us consider then.\n\nThe indifferentist shrugs his shoulders and remarks to the conservative:\n\"What have I to do with it? I will hunt nobody and I will save nobody.\nLet every one take care of himself. I pay my taxes; let the judges and\nthe lawyers take care of the criminals. And as for you, Mr. Radical, you\nweary me. Your talk is too heroic. You want to play Atlas and carry the\nheavens on your shoulders. Well, do it if you like. But don't imagine I\nam going to act the stupid Hercules and transfer your burden to my\nshoulders. Rave away until you are tired, but let me alone.\"\n\n\"I will not let you alone. I am no Atlas. I am no more than a fly; but I\nwill annoy you, I will buzz in your ears; I will not let you sleep. You\nmust think about this.\"\n\nThat is about the height and power of my voice, or of any individual\nvoice, in the present state of the question. I do not deceive myself. I\ndo not imagine that the question of crime and punishment will be settled\ntill long, long after the memory of me shall be as completely swallowed\nup by time as last year's snow is swallowed by the sea. Two thousand\nyears ago a man whose soul revolted at punishment, cried out: \"Judge\nnot, that ye be not judged,\" and yet men and women who have taken his\nname upon their lips as holy, have for all those two thousand years gone\non judging as if their belief in what he said was only lip-belief; and\nthey do it to-day. And judges sit upon benches and send men to their\ndeath,--even judges who do not themselves believe in capital punishment;\nand prosecutors exhaust their eloquence and their tricks to get men\nconvicted; and women and men bear witness against sinners; and then they\nall meet in church and pray, \"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive\nthose who trespass against us!\"\n\nDo they mean anything at all by it?\n\nAnd I know that just as the voice of Jesus was not heard, and is not\nheard, save here and there; just as the voice of Tolstoy is not heard,\nsave here and there; and others great and small are lost in the great\necholess desert of indifferentism, having produced little perceptible\neffect, so my voice also will be lost, and barely a slight ripple of\nthought be propagated over that dry and fruitless expanse; even that the\nnext wind of trial will straighten and leave as unimprinted sand.\n\nNevertheless, by the continued and unintermitting action of forces\ninfinitesimal compared with the human voice, the greatest effects are at\nlength accomplished. A wave-length of light is but the fifty-thousandth\npart of an inch, yet by the continuous action of waves like these have\nbeen produced all the creations of light, the entire world of sight, out\nof masses irresponsive, dark, colorless. And doubt not that in time this\ncold and irresponsive mass of indifference will feel and stir and\nrealize the force of the great sympathies which will change the attitude\nof the human mind as a whole towards Crime and Punishment, and erase\nboth from the world.\n\nNot by lawyers and not by judges shall the final cause of the criminal\nbe tried; but lawyer and judge and criminal together shall be told by\nthe Social Conscience, \"Depart in peace.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nA great ethical teacher once wrote words like unto these: \"I have within\nme the capacity for every crime.\"\n\nFew, reading them, believe that he meant what he said. Most take it as\nthe sententious utterance of one who, in an abandonment of generosity,\nwished to say something large and leveling. But I think he meant exactly\nwhat he said. I think that with all his purity Emerson had within him\nthe turbid stream of passion and desire; for all his hard-cut granite\nfeatures he knew the instincts of the weakling and the slave; and for\nall the sweetness, the tenderness, and the nobility of his nature, he\nhad the tiger and the jackal in his soul. I think that within every bit\nof human flesh and spirit that has ever crossed the enigma bridge of\nlife, from the prehistoric racial morning until now, all crime and all\nvirtue were germinal. Out of one great soul-stuff are we sprung, you and\nI and all of us; and if in you the virtue has grown and not the vice, do\nnot therefore conclude that you are essentially different from him whom\nyou have helped to put in stripes and behind bars. Your balance may be\nmore even, you may be mixed in smaller proportions altogether, or the\noutside temptation has not come upon you.\n\nI am no disciple of that school whose doctrine is summed up in the\nteaching that Man's Will is nothing, his Material Surroundings all. I do\nnot accept that popular socialism which would make saints out of sinners\nonly by filling their stomachs. I am no apologist for characterlessness,\nand no petitioner for universal moral weakness. I believe in the\nindividual. I believe that the purpose of life (in so far as we can give\nit a purpose, and it has none save what we give it) is the assertion and\nthe development of strong, self-centered personality. It is therefore\nthat no religion which offers vicarious atonement for the misdoer, and\nno philosophy which rests on the cornerstone of irresponsibility, makes\nany appeal to me. I believe that immeasurable mischief has been wrought\nby the ceaseless repetition for the last two thousand years of the\nformula: \"Not through any merit of mine shall I enter heaven, but\nthrough the sacrifice of Christ.\"--Not through the sacrifice of Christ,\nnor any other sacrifice, shall any one attain strength, save in so far\nas he takes the spirit and the purpose of the sacrifice into his own\nlife and lives it. Nor do I see anything as the result of the teaching\nthat all men are the helpless victims of external circumstance and under\nthe same conditions will act precisely alike, than a lot of spineless,\nnerveless, bloodless crawlers in the tracks of stronger men,--too\ndesirous of ease to be honest, too weak to be successful rascals.\n\nLet this be put as strongly as it can now, that nothing I shall say\nhereafter may be interpreted as a gospel of shifting and shirking.\n\nBut the difference between us, the Anarchists, who preach\nself-government and none else, and Moralists who in times past and\npresent have asked for individual responsibility, is this, that while\nthey have always framed creeds and codes for the purpose of _holding\nothers to account_, we draw the line upon ourselves. Set the standard as\nhigh as you will; live to it as near as you can; and if you fail, try\nyourself, judge yourself, condemn yourself, if you choose. Teach and\npersuade your neighbor if you can; consider and compare his conduct if\nyou please; speak your mind if you desire; but if he fails to reach your\nstandard or his own, try him not, judge him not, condemn him not. He\nlies beyond your sphere; you cannot know the temptation nor the inward\nbattle nor the weight of the circumstances upon him. You do not know how\nlong he fought before he failed. Therefore you cannot be just. Let him\nalone.\n\nThis is the ethical concept at which we have arrived, not by revelation\nfrom any superior power, not through the reading of any inspired book,\nnot by special illumination of our inner consciousness; but by the study\nof the results of social experiment in the past as presented in the\nworks of historians, psychologists, criminologists, sociologists and\nlegalists.\n\nVery likely so many \"ists\" sound a little oppressive, and there may be\nthose to whom they may even have a savor of pedantry. It sounds much\nsimpler and less ostentatious to say \"Thus saith the Lord,\" or \"The Good\nBook says.\" But in the meat and marrow these last are the real\npresumptions, these easy-going claims of familiarity with the will and\nintent of Omnipotence. It may sound more pedantic to you to say, \"I have\nstudied the accumulated wisdom of man, and drawn certain deductions\ntherefrom,\" than to say \"I had a talk with God this morning and he said\nthus and so\"; but to me the first statement is infinitely more modest.\nMoreover there is some chance of its being true, while the other is\nhighly imaginative fiction.\n\nThis is not to impugn the honesty of those who inherit this survival of\nan earlier mental state of the race, and who accept it as they accept\ntheir appetites or anything else they find themselves born with. Nor is\nit to belittle those past efforts of active and ardent souls who claimed\ndirect divine inspiration as the source of their doctrines. All\nreligions have been, in their great general outlines, the intuitive\ngraspings of the race at truths which it had not yet sufficient\nknowledge to demonstrate,--rude and imperfect statements of ideas which\nwere yet but germinal, but which, even then, mankind had urgent need to\nconceive, and upon which it afterwards spent the efforts of generations\nof lives to correct and perfect. Thus the very ethical concept of which\nI have been speaking as peculiarly Anarchistic, was preached as a\nreligious doctrine by the fifteenth century Tolstoy, Peter Chilciky; and\nin the sixteenth century, the fanatical sect of the Anabaptists shook\nGermany from center to circumference by a doctrine which included the\ndeclaration that \"pleadings in courts of law, oaths, capital punishment,\nand all absolute power were incompatible with the Christian faith.\" It\nwas an imperfect illumination of the intellect, such only as was\npossible in those less enlightened days, but an illumination that\ndefined certain noble conceptions of justice. They appealed to all they\nhad, the Bible, the inner light, the best that they knew, to justify\ntheir faith. We to whom a wider day is given, who can appeal not to one\nbook but to thousands, who have the light of science which is free to\nall that can command the leisure and the will to know, shining white and\nopen on these great questions, dim and obscure in the days of Peter\nChilciky, we should be the last to cast a sneer at them for their heroic\nstruggle with tyranny and cruelty; though to-day the man who would claim\ntheir claims on their grounds would justly be rated atavist or\ncharlatan.\n\nNothing or next to nothing did the Anabaptists know of history. For\ngenuine history, history which records the growth of a whole people,\nwhich traces the evolution of its mind as seen in its works of\npeace,--its literature, its art, its constructions--is the creation of\nour own age. Only within the last seventy-five years has the purpose of\nhistory come to have so much depth as this. Before that it was a mere\nregister of dramatic situations, with no particular connection, a\nchronicle of the deeds of prominent persons, a list of intrigues,\nscandals, murders big and little; and the great people, the actual\nbuilders and preservers of the race, the immense patient, silent mass\nwho painfully filled up all the waste places these destroyers made,\nalmost ignored. And no man sought to discover the relations of even the\nrecorded acts to any general causes; no man conceived the notion of\ndiscovering what is political and moral growth or political and moral\nsuicide. That they did not do so is because writers of history, who are\nthemselves incarnations of their own time spirit, could not get beyond\nthe unscientific attitude of mind, born of ignorance and fostered by the\nChristian religion, that man is something entirely different from the\nrest of organized life; that he is a free moral agent, good if he\npleases and bad if he pleases, that is, according as he accepts or\nrejects the will of God; that every act is isolated, having no\nantecedent, morally, but the will of its doer. Nor until modern science\nhad fought its way past prisons, exilements, stakes, scaffolds, and\ntortures, to the demonstration that man is no free-will freak thrust by\nan omnipotent joker upon a world of cause and sequence to play havoc\ntherein, but just a poor differentiated bit of protoplasm as much\nsubject to the general processes of matter and mind as his ancient\nprogenitor in the depths of the Silurian sea, not until then was it\npossible for any real conception of the scope of history to begin. Not\nuntil then was it said: \"The actions of men are the effects of large and\ngeneral causes. Humanity as a whole has a regularity of movement as\nfixed as the movement of the tides; and given certain physical and\nsocial environments, certain developments may be predicted with the\ncertainty of a mathematical calculation.\" Thus crime, which for so many\nages men have gone on punishing more or less light-heartedly, so far\nfrom having its final cause in individual depravity, bears a steady and\ninvariable relation to the production and distribution of staple food\nsupplies, a thing over which society itself at times can have no control\n(as on the occasion of great natural disturbances), and in general does\nnot yet know how to manage wisely: how much less, then, the individual!\nThis regularity of the recurrence of crime was pointed out long before\nby the greatest statisticians of Europe, who, indeed, did not go so far\nas to question why it was so, nor to compare these regularities with\nother regularities, but upon whom the constant repetition of certain\nfigures in the statistics of murder, suicide, assault, etc., made a\nprofound impression. It was left to the new historians, the great\npioneer among whom was H. T. Buckle in England, to make the comparisons\nin the statistics, and show that individual crimes as well as virtues\nare always calculable from general material conditions.\n\nThis is the basis from which we argue, and it is a basis established by\nthe comparative history of civilizations. In no other way could it have\nbeen really established. It might have been guessed at, and indeed was.\nBut only when the figures are before us, figures obtained \"by millions\nof observations extending over different grades of civilization, with\ndifferent laws, different opinions, different habits, different morals\"\n(I am quoting Buckle), only then are we able to say surely that the\nhuman mind proceeds with a regularity of operation overweighing all the\ncreeds and codes ever invented, and that if we would begin to understand\nthe problem of the treatment of crime, we must go to something far\nlarger than the moral reformation of the criminal. No prayers, no legal\nenactments, will ever rid society of crime. If they would, there have\nbeen prayers enough and preachments enough and laws enough and prisons\nenough to have done it long ago. But pray that the attraction of\ngravitation shall cease. Will it cease? Enact that water shall freeze at\n100\u00b0 heat. Will it freeze? And no more will men be sane and honest and\njust when they are compelled to live in an insane, dishonest, and unjust\nsociety, when the natural operation of the very elements of their being\nis warred upon by statutes and institutions which must produce outbursts\ndestructive both to themselves and to others.\n\nAway back in 1835 Quetelet, the French statistician, wrote: \"Experience\ndemonstrates, in fact, by every possible evidence, this opinion, which\nmay seem paradoxical at first, that it is society which prepares the\ncrime, and that the guilty one is but the instrument which executes it.\"\nEvery crime, therefore, is a charge against society which can only be\nrightly replied to when society consents to look into its own errors and\nrectify the wrong it has done. This is one of the results which must, in\nthe end, flow from the labors of the real historians; one of the reasons\nwhy history was worth writing at all.\n\nNow the next point in the problem is the criminal himself. Admitting\nwhat cannot be impeached, that there is cause and sequence in the action\nof man; admitting the pressure of general causes upon all alike, what\nis the reason that one man is a criminal and another not?\n\nFrom the days of the Roman jurisconsults until now the legalists\nthemselves have made a distinction between crimes against the law of\nnature and crimes merely against the law of society. From the modern\nscientific standpoint no such distinction can be maintained. Nature\nknows nothing about crime, and nothing ever was a crime until the social\nConscience made it so. Neither is it easy when one reads their law\nbooks, even accepting their view-point, to understand why certain crimes\nwere catalogued as against the law of nature, and certain others as of\nthe more artificial character. But I presume what were in general\nclassed as crimes against nature were Acts of Violence committed against\npersons. Aside from these we have a vast, an almost interminable number\nof offenses big and little, which are in the main attacks upon the\ninstitution of property, concerning which some very different things\nhave to be said than concerning the first. As to these first there is no\ndoubt that these are real crimes, by which I mean simply anti-social\nacts. Any action which violates the life or liberty of any individual is\nan anti-social act, whether done by one person, by two, or by a whole\nnation. And the greatest crime that ever was perpetrated, a crime beside\nwhich all individual atrocities diminish to nothing, is War; and the\ngreatest, the least excusable of murderers are those who order it and\nthose who execute it. Nevertheless, this chiefest of murderers, the\nGovernment, its own hands red with the blood of hundreds of thousands,\nassumes to correct the individual offender, enacting miles of laws to\ndefine the varying degrees of his offense and punishment, and putting\nbeautiful building stone to very hideous purposes for the sake of caging\nand tormenting him therein.\n\nWe do get a fig from a thistle--sometimes! Out of this noisome\nthing, the prison, has sprung the study of criminology. It is\nvery new, and there is considerable painstaking nonsense about\nit. But the main results are interesting and should be known\nby all who wish to form an intelligent conception of what a\ncriminal is and how he should be treated. These men who are cool\nand quiet and who move among criminals and study them as Darwin\ndid his plants and animals, tell us that these prisoners are\nreducible to three types: The Born Criminal, the Criminaloid,\nand the Accidental Criminal. I am inclined to doubt a great\ndeal that is said about the born criminal. Prof. Lombroso gives\nus very exhaustive reports of the measurements of their skulls\nand their ears and their noses and their thumbs and their toes,\netc. But I suspect that if a good many respectable, decent,\nnever-did-a-wrong-thing-in-their-lives people were to go up for\nmeasurement, malformed ears and disproportionately long thumbs\nwould be equally found among them if they took the precaution\nto represent themselves as criminals first. Still, however few\nin number (and they are really very few), there are some born\ncriminals,--people who through some malformation or deficiency\nor excess of certain portions of the brain are constantly\nimpelled to violent deeds. Well, there are some born idiots and\nsome born cripples. Do you punish them for their idiocy or for\ntheir unfortunate physical condition? On the contrary, you pity\nthem, you realize that life is a long infliction to them, and\nyour best and tenderest sympathies go out to them. Why not to\nthe other, equally a helpless victim of an evil inheritance?\nGranting for the moment that you have the right to punish the\nmentally responsible, surely you will not claim the right to\npunish the mentally irresponsible!\n\nEven the law does not hold the insane man guilty. And the born criminal\nis irresponsible; he is a sick man, sick with the most pitiable chronic\ndisease; his treatment is for the medical world to decide, and the best\nof them,--not for the prosecutor, the judge, and the warden.\n\nIt is true that many criminologists, including Prof. Lombroso himself,\nare of opinion that the best thing to do with the born criminal is to\nkill him at once, since he can be only a curse to himself and others.\nVery heroic treatment. We may inquire, Is he to be exterminated at birth\nbecause of certain physical indications of his criminality? Such\nneo-Spartanism would scarcely commend itself to any modern society.\nMoreover the diagnosis might be wrong, even though we had a perpetual\nand incorruptible commission of the learned to sit in inquiry upon every\npink-skinned little suspect three days old! What then? Is he to be let\ngo, as he is now, until he does some violent deed and then be judged\nmore hardly because of his natural defect? Either proposition seems not\nonly heartless and wicked but,--what the respectable world is often more\nafraid of being than either,--ludicrous. If one is really a born\ncriminal he will manifest criminal tendencies in early life, and being\nso recognized should be cared for according to the most humane methods\nof treating the mentally afflicted.\n\nThe second, or criminaloid, class is the most numerous of the three.\nThese are criminals, first, because being endowed with strong desires\nand unequal reasoning powers they cannot maintain the uneven battle\nagainst a society wherein the majority of individuals must all the time\ndeny their natural appetites, if they are to remain unstained with\ncrime. They are, in short, the ordinary man (who, it must be admitted,\nhas a great deal of paste in him) plus an excess of wants of one sort\nand another, but generally physical. Society outside of prisons is full\nof these criminaloids, who sometimes have in place of the power of\ngenuine moral resistance a sneaking cunning by which they manage to\nsteer a shady course between the crime and the punishment.\n\nIt is true these people are not pleasant subjects to contemplate; but\nthen, through that very stage of development the whole human race has\nhad to pass in its progress from the beast to the man,--the stage, I\nmean, of overplus of appetite opposed by weak moral resistance; and if\nnow some, it is not certain that their number is very great, have\nreversed the proportion, it is only because they are the fortunate\ninheritors of the results of thousands of years of struggle and failure,\nstruggle and failure, but _struggle_ again. It is precisely these\ncriminaloids who are most sinned against by society, for they are the\npeople who need to have the right of doing things made easy, and who,\nwhen they act criminally, need the most encouragement to help the feeble\nand humiliated moral sense to rise again, to try again.\n\nThe third class, the Accidental or Occasional Criminals, are perfectly\nnormal, well balanced people, who, through tremendous stress of outward\ncircumstance, and possibly some untoward mental disturbance arising from\nthose very notions of the conduct of life which form part of their moral\nbeing, suddenly commit an act of violence which is at utter variance\nwith their whole former existence; such as, for instance, the murder of\na seducer by the father of the injured girl, or of a wife's paramour by\nher husband. If I believed in severity at all I should say that these\nwere the criminals upon whom society should look with most severity,\nbecause they are the ones who have most mental responsibility. But that\nalso is nonsense; for such an individual has within him a severer\njudge, a more pitiless jailer than any court or prison,--his conscience\nand his memory. Leave him to these; or no, in mercy take him away from\nthese whenever you can; he will suffer enough, and there is no fear of\nhis action being repeated.\n\nNow all these people are with us, and it is desirable that something be\ndone to help the case. What does Society do? Or rather what does\nGovernment do with them? Remember we are speaking now only of crimes of\nviolence. It hangs, it electrocutes, it exiles, it imprisons. Why? For\npunishment. And why punishment? \"Not,\" says Blackstone, \"by way of\natonement or expiation for the crime committed, for that must be left to\nthe just determination of the Supreme Being, but as a precaution against\nfuture offenses of the same kind.\" This is supposed to be effected in\nthree ways: either by reforming him, or getting rid of him altogether,\nor by deterring others by making an example of him.\n\nLet us see how these precautions work. Exile, which is still practised\nby some governments, and imprisonment are, according to the theory of\nlaw, for the purpose of reforming the criminal that he may no longer be\na menace to society. Logic would say that anyone who wished to\nobliterate cruelty from the character of another must himself show no\ncruelty; one who would teach regard for the rights of others must\nhimself be regardful. Yet the story of exile and prison is the story of\nthe lash, the iron, the chain and every torture that the fiendish\ningenuity of _the non-criminal class can devise by way of teaching\ncriminals to be good_! To teach men to be good, they are kept in airless\ncells, made to sleep on narrow planks, to look at the sky through iron\ngrates, to eat food that revolts their palates, and destroys their\nstomachs,--battered and broken down in body and soul; and this is what\nthey call reforming men!\n\nNot very many years ago the Philadelphia dailies told us (and while we\ncannot believe all of what they say, and are bound to believe that such\ncases are exceptional, yet the bare facts were true) that Judge Gordon\nordered an investigation into the workings of the Eastern Penitentiary\nofficials; and it was found that an insane man had been put into a cell\nwith two sane ones, and when he cried in his insane way and the two\nasked that he be put elsewhere, the warden gave them a strap to whip him\nwith; and they tied him in some way to the heater, with the strap, so\nthat his legs were burned when he moved; all scarred with the burns he\nwas brought into the court, and the other men frankly told what they had\ndone and why they had done it. This is the way they reform men.\n\nDo you think people come out of a place like that better? with more\nrespect for society? with more regard for the rights of their fellow\nmen? I don't. I think they come out of there with their hearts full of\nbitterness, much harder than when they went in. That this is often the\ncase is admitted by those who themselves believe in punishment, and\npractice it. For the fact is that out of the Criminaloid class there\ndevelops the Habitual Criminal, the man who is perpetually getting in\nprison; no sooner is he out than he does something else and gets in\nagain. The brand that at first scorched him has succeeded in searing. He\nno longer feels the ignominy. He is a \"jail-bird,\" and he gets to have a\ncynical pride in his own degradation. Every man's hand is against him,\nand his hand is against every man's. Such are the reforming effects of\npunishment. Yet there was a time when he, too, might have been touched,\nhad the right word been spoken. It is for society to find and speak\nthat word.\n\nThis for prison and exile. Hanging? electrocution? These of course are\nnot for the purpose of reforming the criminal. These are to deter others\nfrom doing as he did; and the supposition is that the severer the\npunishment the greater the deterrent effect. In commenting upon this\nprinciple Blackstone says: \"We may observe that punishments of\nunreasonable severity ... have less effect in preventing crimes and\namending the manners of a people than such as are more merciful in\ngeneral....\" He further quotes Montesquieu: \"For the excessive severity\nof laws hinders their execution; when the punishment surpasses all\nmeasure, the public will frequently, out of humanity, prefer impunity to\nit.\" Again Blackstone: \"It is a melancholy truth that among the variety\nof actions which men are daily liable to commit, no less than one\nhundred and sixty have been declared by act of Parliament to be felonies\n... worthy of instant death. So dreadful a list instead of diminishing\n_increases_ the number of offenders.\"\n\nRobert Ingersoll, speaking on \"Crimes Against Criminals\" before the New\nYork Bar Association, a lawyer addressing lawyers, treating of this same\nperiod of which Blackstone writes, says: \"There is something in\ninjustice, in cruelty, which tends to defeat itself. There never were so\nmany traitors in England as when the traitor was drawn and quartered,\nwhen he was tortured in every possible way,--when his limbs, torn and\nbleeding, were given to the fury of mobs, or exhibited pierced by pikes\nor hung in chains. The frightful punishments produced intense hatred of\nthe government, and traitors increased until they became powerful enough\nto decide what treason was and who the traitors were and to inflict the\nsame torments on others.\"\n\nThe fact that Blackstone was right and Ingersoll was right in saying\nthat severity of punishment increases crime, is silently admitted in the\nabrogation of those severities by acts of Parliament and acts of\nCongress. It is also shown by the fact that there are no more murders,\nproportionately, in States where the death penalty does not exist than\nin those where it does. Severity is therefore admitted by the State\nitself to have no deterrent influence on the intending criminal. And to\ntake the matter out of the province of the State, we have only to\ninstance the horrible atrocities perpetrated by white mobs upon negroes\ncharged with outrage. Nothing more fiendishly cruel can be imagined; yet\nthese outrages multiply. It would seem, then, that the notion of making\na horrible example of the misdoer is a complete failure. As a specific\nexample of this, Ingersoll (in this same lecture) instanced that \"a few\nyears before a man was hanged in Alexandria, Va. One who witnessed the\nexecution on that very day murdered a peddler in the Smithsonian grounds\nat Washington. He was tried and executed; and one who witnessed his\nhanging went home and on the same day murdered his wife.\" Evidently the\nbrute is rather aroused than terrified by scenes of execution.\n\nWhat then? If extreme punishments do not deter, and if what are\nconsidered mild punishments do not reform, is any measure of punishment\nconceivable or attainable which will better our case?\n\nBefore answering this question let us consider the class of crimes which\nso far has not been dwelt upon, but which nevertheless comprises\nprobably nine-tenths of all offenses committed. These are all the\nvarious forms of stealing,--robbery, burglary, theft, embezzlement,\nforgery, counterfeiting, and the thousand and one ramifications and\noffshoots of the act of taking what the law defines as another's. It is\nimpossible to consider crimes of violence apart from these, because the\nvast percentage of murders and assaults committed by the criminaloid\nclass are simply incidental to the commission of the so-called lesser\ncrime. A man often murders in order to escape with his booty, though\nmurder was no part of his original intention. Why, now, have we such a\ncontinually increasing percentage of stealing?\n\nWill you persistently hide your heads in the sand and say it is because\nmen grow worse as they grow wiser? that individual wickedness is the\nresult of all our marvelous labors to compass sea and land, and make the\nearth yield up her wealth to us? Dare you say that?\n\nIt is not so. =The reason men steal is because their rights are stolen\nfrom them before they are born.=\n\nA human being comes into the world; he wants to eat, he wants to\nbreathe, he wants to sleep; he wants to use his muscles, his brain; he\nwants to love, to dream, to create. These wants constitute him, the\nwhole man; he can no more help expressing these activities than water\ncan help running down hill. If the freedom to do any of these things is\ndenied him, then by so much he is a crippled creature, and his energy\nwill force itself into some abnormal channel or be killed altogether.\nNow I do not mean that he has a \"natural right\" to do these things\ninscribed on any lawbook of Nature. Nature knows nothing of rights, she\nknows power only, and a louse has as much natural right as a man to the\nextent of its power. What I do mean to say is that man, in common with\nmany other animals, has found that by associative life he conquers the\nrest of nature, and that this society is slowly being perfected; and\nthat this perfectionment consists in realizing that the solidarity and\nsafety of the whole arises from the freedom of the parts; that such\nfreedom constitutes Man's Social Right; and that any institution which\ninterferes with this right will be destructive of the association, will\nbreed criminals, will work its own ruin. This is the word of the\nsociologist, of the greatest of them, Herbert Spencer.\n\nNow do we see that all men eat,--eat well? You know we do not. Some have\nso much that they are sickened with the extravagance of dishes, and know\nnot where next to turn for a new palatal sensation. They cannot even\nwaste their wealth. Some, and they are mostly the hardest workers, eat\npoorly and fast, for their work allows them no time to enjoy even what\nthey have. Some,--I have seen them myself in the streets of New York\nthis winter, and the look of their wolfish eyes was not pleasant to\nsee--stand in long lines waiting for midnight and the plate of soup\ndealt out by some great newspaper office, stretching out, whole blocks\nof them, as other men wait on the first night of some famous star at the\ntheater! Some die because they cannot eat at all. Pray tell me what\nthese last have to lose by becoming thieves. And why shall they not\nbecome thieves? And is the action of the man who takes the necessities\nwhich have been denied to him really criminal? Is he morally worse than\nthe man who crawls in a cellar and dies of starvation? I think not. He\nis only a little more assertive. Cardinal Manning said: \"A starving man\nhas a natural right to his neighbor's bread.\" The Anarchist says: \"A\nhungry man has a social right to bread.\" And there have been whole\nsocieties and races among whom that right was never questioned. And\nwhatever were the mistakes of those societies, whereby they perished,\nthis was not a mistake, and we shall do well to take so much wisdom\nfrom the dead and gone, the simple ethics of the stomach which with all\nour achievement we cannot despise, or despising, shall perish as our\nreward.\n\n\"But,\" you will say, and say truly, \"to begin by taking loaves means to\nend by taking everything and murdering, too, very often.\" And in that\nyou draw the indictment against your own system. If there is no\nalternative between starving and stealing (and for thousands there is\nnone), then there is no alternative between society's murdering its\nmembers, or the members disintegrating society. Let Society consider its\nown mistakes, then: let it answer itself for all these people it has\nrobbed and killed: let it cease its own crimes first!\n\nTo return to the faculties of Man. All would breathe; and some do\nbreathe. They breathe the air of the mountains, of the seas, of the\nlakes,--even the atmosphere in the gambling dens of Monte Carlo, for a\nchange! Some, packed thickly together in closed rooms where men must\nsweat and faint to save tobacco, breathe the noisome reek that rises\nfrom the spittle of their consumptive neighbors. Some, mostly babies,\nlie on the cellar doors along Bainbridge street, on summer nights, and\nbathe their lungs in that putrid air where a thousand lungs have\nbreathed before, and grow up pale and decayed looking as the rotting\nvegetables whose exhalations they draw in. Some, far down underground,\nmeet the choke-damp, and--do not breathe at all! Do you expect healthy\nmorals out of all these poisoned bodies?\n\nSome sleep. They have so much time that they take all manner of\nexpensive drugs to try what sleeping it off a different way is like!\nSome sleep upon none too easy beds a few short hours, too few not to\nwaken more tired than ever, and resume the endless grind of waking\nlife. Some sleep bent over the books they are too tired to study, though\nthe mind clamors for food after the long day's physical toil. Some sleep\nwith hand upon the throttle of the engine, after twenty-six hours of\nduty, and--crash!--they have sleep enough!\n\nSome use their muscles: they use them to punch bags, and other\ngentlemen's stomachs when their heads are full of wine. Some use them to\nclub other men and women, at $2.50 a day. Some exhaust them welding them\ninto iron, or weaving them into wool, for ten or eleven hours a day. And\nsome become atrophied sitting at desks till they are mere specters of\nmen and women.\n\nSome love; and there is no end to the sensualities of their love,\nbecause all normal expressions have lost their savor through excess.\nSome love, and see their love tried and worn and threadbare, a skeleton\nof love, because the practicality of life is always there to repress the\npurely emotional. Some are stricken in health, so robbed of power to\nfeel, that they never love at all.\n\nAnd some dream, think, create; and the world is filled with the glory of\ntheir dreams. But who knows the glory of the dream that never was born,\nlost and dead and buried away somewhere there under the roofs where the\nexquisite brain was ruined by the heavy labor of life? And what of the\ndream that turned to madness and destroyed the thing it loved the best?\n\nThese are the things that make criminals, the perverted forces of man,\nturned aside by the institution of property, which is the giant social\nmistake to-day. It is your law which keeps men from using the sources\nand the means of wealth production unless they pay tribute to other men;\nit is this, and nothing else, which is responsible for all the second\nclass of crimes and all those crimes of violence incidentally committed\nwhile carrying out a robbery. Let me quote here a most sensible and\nappropriate editorial which recently appeared in the Philadelphia _North\nAmerican_, in comment upon the proposition of some foolish preacher to\nlimit the right of reproduction to rich families:\n\n\"The earth was constructed, made habitable, and populated without the\nadvice of a commission of superior persons, and until they appeared and\nbegan meddling with affairs, making laws and setting themselves up as\nrulers, poverty and its evil consequences were unknown to humanity. When\nsocial science finds a way to remove obstructions to the operation of\nnatural law and to the equitable distribution of the products of labor,\npoverty will cease to be the condition of the masses of people, and\nmisery, CRIME and problems of population will disappear.\"\n\nAnd they will never disappear until it does. All hunting down of men,\nall punishments, are but so many ineffective efforts to sweep back the\ntide with a broom. The tide will fling you, broom and all, against the\nidle walls that you have built to fence it in. Tear down those walls or\nthe sea will tear them down for you.\n\nHave you ever watched it coming in,--the sea? When the wind comes\nroaring out of the mist and a great bellowing thunders up from the\nwater? Have you watched the white lions chasing each other towards the\nwalls, and leaping up with foaming anger as they strike, and turn and\nchase each other along the black bars of their cage in rage to devour\neach other? And tear back? And leap in again? Have you ever wondered in\nthe midst of it all _which particular drops of water_ would strike the\nwall? If one could know all the factors one might calculate even that.\nBut who can know them all? Of one thing only we are sure: _some must\nstrike it_.\n\nThey are the criminals, those drops of water pitching against that silly\nwall and broken. Just why it was these particular ones we cannot know;\nbut some had to go. Do not curse them; you have cursed them enough. Let\nthe people free.\n\nThere is a class of crimes of violence which arises from another set of\ncauses than economic slavery--acts which are the result of an antiquated\nmoral notion of the true relations of men and women. These are the\nNemesis of the institution of property in love. If every one would learn\nthat the limit of his right to demand a certain course of conduct in sex\nrelations is himself; that the relation of his beloved ones to others is\nnot a matter for him to regulate, any more than the relations of those\nwhom he does not love; if the freedom of each is unquestioned, and\nwhatever moral rigors are exacted are exacted of oneself only; if this\nprinciple is accepted and followed, crimes of jealousy will cease. But\nreligions and governments uphold this institution and constantly tend to\ncreate the spirit of ownership, with all its horrible consequences.\n\nAh, you will say, perhaps it is true; perhaps when this better social\ncondition is evolved, and this freer social spirit, we shall be rid of\ncrime,--at least nine-tenths of it. But meanwhile must we not punish to\nprotect ourselves?\n\nThe protection does not protect. The violent man does not communicate\nhis intention; when he executes it, or attempts its execution, more\noften than otherwise it is some unofficial person who catches or stops\nhim. If he is a born criminal, or in other words an insane man, he\nshould, I reiterate, be treated as a sick person--not punished, not made\nto suffer. If he is one of the accidental criminals, his act will not be\nrepeated; his punishment will always be with him. If he is of the\nmiddle class, your punishment will not reform him, it will only harden\nhim; and it will not deter others.\n\nAs for thieves, the great thief is within the law, or he buys it; and as\nfor the small one, see what you do! To protect yourself against him, you\ncreate a class of persons who are sworn to the service of the club and\nthe revolver; a set of spies; a set whose business it is to deal\nconstantly with these unhappy beings, who in rare instances are softened\nthereby, but in the majority of cases become hardened to their work as\nbutchers to the use of the knife; a set whose business it is to serve\ncell and lock and key; and lastly, the lowest infamy of all, the\nhangman. Does any one want to shake his hand, the hand that kills for\npay?\n\nNow against all these persons individually there is nothing to be said:\nthey may probably be very humane, well-intentioned persons when they\nstart in; but the end of all this is imbrutement. One of our dailies\nrecently observed that \"the men in charge of prisons have but too often\nbeen men who ought themselves to have been prisoners.\" The Anarchist\ndoes not agree with that. He would have no prisons at all. But I am\nquite sure that if that editor himself were put in the prison-keeper's\nplace, he too would turn hard. And the opportunities of the official\ncriminal are much greater than those of the unofficial one. Lawyer and\ngovernmentalist as he was, Ingersoll said: \"It is safe to say that\ngovernments have committed far more crimes than they have prevented.\"\nThen why create a second class of parasites worse than the first? Why\nnot put up with the original one?\n\nMoreover, you have another thing to consider than the simple problem of\na wrong inflicted upon a guilty man. How many times has it happened that\nthe innocent man has been convicted! I remember an instance of a man so\nconvicted of murder in Michigan. He had served twenty-seven years in\nJackson penitentiary (for Michigan is not a hang-State) when the real\nmurderer, dying, confessed. And the State _pardoned_ that innocent man!\nBecause it was the quickest legal way to let him out! I hope he has been\nable to pardon the State.\n\nNot very long ago a man was hanged here in this city. He had killed his\nsuperintendent. Some doctors said he was insane; the government experts\nsaid he was not. They said he was faking insanity when he proclaimed\nhimself Jesus Christ. And he was hanged. Afterwards the doctors found\ntwo cysts in his brain. The State of Pennsylvania had killed a sick man!\nAnd as long as punishments exist, these mistakes will occur. If you\naccept the principle at all, you must accept with it the blood-guilt of\ninnocent men.\n\nNot only this, but you must accept also the responsibility for all the\nmisery which results to others whose lives are bound up with that of the\nconvict, for even he is loved by some one, much loved perhaps. It is a\nfoolish thing to turn adrift a house full of children, to become\ncriminals in turn, perhaps, in order to frighten some indefinite future\noffender by making an example of their father or mother. Yet how many\ntimes has it not happened!\n\nAnd this is speaking only from the practical, selfish side of the\nmatter. There is another, one from which I would rather appeal to you,\nand from which I think you would after all prefer to be appealed to. Ask\nyourselves, each of you, whether you are quite sure that you have\nfeeling enough, understanding enough, and _have you suffered_ enough, to\nbe able to weigh and measure out another man's life or liberty, no\nmatter what he has done? And if you have not yourself, are you able to\ndelegate to any judge the power which you have not? The great Russian\nnovelist, Dostoyevsky, in his psychological study of this same subject,\ntraces the sufferings of a man who had committed a shocking murder; his\nwhole body and brain are a continual prey to torture. He gives himself\nup, seeking relief in confession. He goes to prison, for in barbarous\nRussia they have not the barbarity of capital punishment for murderers,\nunless political ones. But he finds no relief. He remains for a year,\nbitter, resentful, a prey to all miserable feelings. But at last he is\ntouched by love, the silent, unobtrusive, all-conquering love of one who\nknew it all and forgave it all. And the regeneration of his soul began.\n\n\"The criminal slew,\" says Tolstoy: \"are you better, then, when you slay?\nHe took another's liberty; and is it the right way, therefore, for you\nto take his? Violence is no answer to violence.\"\n\n \"Have good will\n To all that lives, letting unkindness die,\n And greed and wrath; so that your lives be made\n As soft airs passing by.\"\n\nSo said Lord Buddha, the Light of Asia.\n\nAnd another said: \"Ye have heard that it hath been said 'an eye for an\neye, and a tooth for a tooth'; but I say unto you, resist not him that\nis evil.\"\n\nYet the vengeance that the great psychologist saw was futile, the\nviolence that the greatest living religious teacher and the greatest\ndead ones advised no man to wreak, that violence is done daily and\nhourly by every little-hearted prosecutor who prosecutes at so much a\nday, by every petty judge who buys his way into office with common\npoliticians' tricks, and deals in men's lives and liberties as a trader\ndeals in pins, by every neat-souled and cheap-souled member of the \"unco\nguid\" whose respectable bargain-counter maxims of morality have as much\neffect to stem the great floods and storms that shake the human will as\nthe waving of a lady's kid glove against the tempest. Those who have not\nsuffered cannot understand how to punish; those who have understanding\n_will_ not.\n\nI said at the beginning and I say again, I believe that in every one of\nus all things are germinal: in judge and prosecutor and prison-keeper\ntoo, and even in those small moral souls who cut out one undeviating\npattern for all men to fit, even in them there are the germs of passion\nand crime and sympathy and forgiveness. And some day things will stir in\nthem and accuse them and awaken them. And that awakening will come when\nsuddenly one day there breaks upon them with realizing force the sense\nof the unison of life, the irrevocable relationship of the saint to the\nsinner, the judge to the criminal; that all personalities are\nintertwined and rushing upon doom together. Once in my life it was given\nto me to see the outward manifestation of this unison. It was in 1897.\nWe stood upon the base of the Nelson monument in Trafalgar Square. Below\nwere ten thousand people packed together with upturned faces. They had\ngathered to hear and see men and women whose hands and limbs were\nscarred all over with the red-hot irons of the tortures in the fortress\nof Montjuich. For the crime of an unknown person these twenty-eight men\nand women, together with four hundred others, had been cast into that\nterrible den and tortured with the infamies of the inquisition to make\nthem reveal that of which they knew nothing. After a year of such\nsuffering as makes the decent human heart sick only to contemplate, with\nnothing proven against them, some even without trial, they were suddenly\nreleased with orders to leave the country within twenty-four hours. They\nwere then in Trafalgar Square, and to the credit of old England be it\nsaid, harlot and mother of harlots though she is, for there was not\nanother country among the great nations of the earth to which those\ntwenty-eight innocent people could go. For they were paupers\nimpoverished by that cruel State of Spain in the terrible battle for\ntheir freedom; they would not have been admitted to free America. When\nFrancesco Gana, speaking in a language which most of them did not\nunderstand, lifted his poor, scarred hands, the faces of those ten\nthousand people moved together like the leaves of a forest in the wind.\nThey waved to and fro, they rose and fell; the visible moved in the\nbreath of the invisible. It was the revelation of the action of the\nUnconscious, the fatalistic unity of man.\n\nSometimes, even now as I look upon you, it is as if the bodies that I\nsee were as transparent bubbles wherethrough the red blood boils and\nflows, a turbulent stream churning and tossing and leaping, and behind\nus and our generation, far, far back, endlessly backwards, where all the\nbubbles are broken and not a ripple remains, the silent pouring of the\nGreat Red River, the unfathomable River,--backwards through the unbroken\nforest and the untilled plain, backwards through the forgotten world of\nsavagery and animal life, back somewhere to its dark sources in deep Sea\nand old Night, the rushing River of Blood--no fancy--real, tangible\nblood, the blood that hurries in your veins while I speak, bearing with\nit the curses and the blessings of the Past. Through what infinite\nshadows has that river rolled! Through what desolate wastes has it not\nspread its ooze! Through what desperate passages has it been forced!\nWhat strength, what invincible strength is in that hot stream! You are\njust the bubble on its crest; where will the current fling you ere you\ndie? At what moment will the fierce impurities borne from its somber and\ntenebrous past be hurled up in you? Shall you then cry out for\npunishment if they are hurled up in another? if, flung against the\nmerciless rocks of the channel, while you swim easily in the midstream,\nthey fall back and hurt other bubbles?\n\nCan you not feel that\n\n \"Men are the heart-beats of Man, the plumes that feather his\n wings,\n Storm-worn since being began with the wind and the thunder\n of things.\n Things are cruel and blind; their strength detains and deforms.\n And the wearying wings of the mind still beat up the stream\n of their storms.\n Still, as one swimming up-stream, they strike out blind in the\n blast,\n In thunder of vision and dream, and lightning of future and\n past.\n We are baffled and caught in the current and bruised upon\n edges of shoals:\n As weeds or as reeds in the torrent of things are the wind-shaken\n souls.\n Spirit by spirit goes under, a foam-bell's bubble of breath,\n That blows and opens asunder and blurs not the mirror of\n Death.\"\n\nIs it not enough that \"things are cruel and blind\"? Must we also be\ncruel and blind? When the whole thing amounts to so little at the most,\nshall we embitter it more, and crush and stifle what must so soon be\ncrushed and stifled anyhow? Can we not, knowing what remnants of things\ndead and drowned are floating through us, haunting our brains with\nspecters of old deeds and scenes of violence, can we not learn to pardon\nour brother to whom the specters are more real, upon whom greater stress\nwas laid? Can we not, recalling all the evil things that we have done,\nor left undone only because some scarcely perceptible weight struck down\nthe balance, or because some kindly word came to us in the midst of our\nbitterness and showed that not all was hateful in the world; can we not\nunderstand him for whom the balance was not struck down, the kind word\nunspoken? Believe me, forgiveness is better than wrath,--better for the\nwrong-doer, who will be touched and regenerated by it, and better for\nyou. And you are wrong if you think it is hard: it is easy, far easier\nthan to hate. It may sound like a paradox, but the greater the injury\nthe easier the pardon.\n\nLet us have done with this savage idea of punishment, which is without\nwisdom. Let us work for the freedom of man from the oppressions which\nmake criminals, and for the enlightened treatment of all the sick. And\nthough we may never see the fruit of it, we may rest assured that the\ngreat tide of thought is setting our way, and that\n\n \"While the tired wave, vainly breaking,\n Seems here no painful inch to gain,\n Far back, through creeks and inlets making,\n Comes silent, flooding in, the main.\"\n\n\n\n\nIn Defense of Emma Goldman and the Right of Expropriation\n\n\nThe light is pleasant, is it not, my friends? It is good to look into\neach other's faces, to see the hands that clasp our own, to read the\neyes that search our thoughts, to know what manner of lips give\nutterance to our pleasant greetings. It is good to be able to wink\ndefiance at the Night, the cold, unseeing Night. How weird, how\ngruesome, how chilly it would be if I stood here in blackness, a shadow\naddressing shadows, in a house of blindness! Yet each would know that he\nwas not alone; yet might we stretch hands and touch each other, and feel\nthe warmth of human presence near. Yet might a sympathetic voice ring\nthro' the darkness, quickening the dragging moments.--The lonely\nprisoners in the cells of Blackwell's Island have neither light nor\nsound! The short day hurries across the sky, the short day still more\nshortened in the gloomy walls. The long chill night creeps up so early,\nweaving its sombre curtain before the imprisoned eyes. And thro' the\ncurtain comes no sympathizing voice, beyond the curtain lies the prison\nsilence, beyond that the cheerless, uncommunicating land, and still\nbeyond the icy, fretting river, black and menacing, ready to drown. A\nwall of night, a wall of stone, a wall of water! Thus has the great\nState of New York answered =Emma Goldman=; thus have the classes replied\nto the masses; thus do the rich respond to the poor; thus does the\nInstitution of Property give its ultimatum to Hunger!\n\n\"Give us work,\" said =Emma Goldman=; \"if you will not give us work, then\ngive us bread; if you do not give us either work or bread, then we shall\ntake bread.\" It wasn't a very wise remark to make to the State of New\nYork, that is--Wealth and its watch-dogs, the Police. But I fear me much\nthat the apostles of liberty, the fore-runners of revolt, have never\nbeen very wise. There is a record of a seditious person, who once upon a\ntime went about with a few despised followers in Palestine, taking corn\nout of other people's corn-fields, (on the Sabbath day, too). That same\nperson, when he wished to ride into Jerusalem told his disciples to go\nforward to where they would find a young colt tied, to unloose it and\nbring it to him, and if any one interfered or said anything to them,\nwere to say: \"My master hath need of it.\" That same person said: \"Give\nto him that asketh of thee, and from him that taketh away thy goods ask\nthem not back again.\" That same person once stood before the hungry\nmultitudes of Galilee and taught them, saying: \"The Scribes and the\nPharisees sit in Moses' seat; therefore whatever they bid you observe,\nthat observe and do. But do not ye after their works, for they say, and\ndo not. For they bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay\nthem on men's shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one\nof their fingers. But all their works they do to be seen of men; they\nmake broad their phylacteries, and enlarge the borders of their\ngarments: and love the uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in\nthe synagogues, and greeting in the markets, and to be called of men,\n'Rabbi, Rabbi.'\" And turning to the Scribes and the Pharisees, he\ncontinued: \"Woe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye\ndevour widows' houses, and for a pretense make long prayers: therefore\nshall ye receive the greater damnation. Woe unto you Scribes and\nPharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint, and anise, and cummin,\nand have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgement, and mercy,\nand faith: these ought ye to have done and not left the other undone. Ye\nblind guides, that strain at a gnat and swallow a camel! Woe unto you,\nScribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make clean the outside of the\ncup and platter, but within they are full of extortion and excess. Woe\nunto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye are like unto whited\nsepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but within are full\nof dead men's bones and all uncleanness. Even so ye outwardly appear\nrighteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.\nWoe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! Because ye build the\ntombs of the prophets and garnish the sepulchres of the righteous; and\nsay 'If we had been in the days of our fathers we would not have been\npartakers with them in the blood of the prophets'. Wherefore ye be\nwitnesses unto yourselves that ye are the children of them which killed\nthe prophets. Fill ye up then the measure of your fathers! Ye serpents!\nYe generation of vipers! How can ye escape the damnation of hell!\"\n\nYes; these are the words of the outlaw who is alleged to form the\nfoundation stone of modern civilization, to the authorities of his day.\nHypocrites, extortionists, doers of iniquity, robbers of the poor,\nblood-partakers, serpents, vipers, fit for hell!\n\nIt wasn't a very wise speech, from beginning to end. Perhaps he knew it\nwhen he stood before Pilate to receive his sentence, when he bore his\nheavy crucifix up Calvary, when nailed upon it, stretched in agony, he\ncried: \"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!\"\n\nNo, it wasn't wise--but it was very grand.\n\nThis grand, foolish person, this beggar-tramp, this thief who justified\nthe action of hunger, this man who set the Right of Property beneath his\nfoot, this Individual who defied the State, do you know why he was so\nfeared and hated, and punished? Because, as it is said in the record,\n\"the common people heard him gladly\"; and the accusation before Pontius\nPilate was, \"we found this fellow perverting the whole nation. He\nstirreth up the people, teaching throughout all Jewry.\"\n\nAh, the dreaded \"common people\"!\n\nWhen Cardinal Manning wrote: \"Necessity knows no law, and a starving\nman has a natural right to a share of his neighbor's bread,\" who\nthought of arresting Cardinal Manning? His was a carefully written\narticle in the _Fortnightly Review_. Who read it? Not the people who\nneeded bread. Without food in their stomachs, they had not fifty cents\nto spend for a magazine. It was not the voice of the people themselves\nasserting their rights. No one for one instant imagined that Cardinal\nManning would put himself at the head of ten thousand hungry men to\nloot the bakeries of London. It was a piece of ethical hair-splitting\nto be discussed in after-dinner speeches by the wine-muddled gentlemen\nwho think themselves most competent to consider such subjects when\ntheir dress-coats are spoiled by the vomit of gluttony and drunkenness.\nBut when =Emma Goldman= stood in Union Square and said, \"If they do\nnot give you work or bread, take bread,\" the common people heard her\ngladly; and as of old the wandering carpenter of Nazareth addressed\nhis own class, teaching throughout all Jewry, stirring up the people\nagainst the authorities, so the dressmaker of New York addressing the\nunemployed working-people of New York was the menace of the depths\nof society, crying in its own tongue. The authorities heard and were\nafraid: therefore the triple wall.\n\nIt is the old, old story. When Thomas Paine, one hundred years ago,\npublished the first part of \"The Rights of Man,\" the part in which he\ndiscusses principles only, the edition was a high-priced one, reaching\ncomparatively few readers. It created only a literary furore. When the\nsecond part appeared, the part in which he treats of the application of\nprinciples, in which he declares that \"men should not petition for\nrights but take them,\" it came out in a cheap form, so that one hundred\nthousand copies were sold in a few weeks. That brought down the\nprosecution of the government. It had reached the people that might act,\nand prosecution followed prosecution till Botany Bay was full of the\nbest men of England. Thus were the limitations of speech and press\ndeclared, and thus will they ever be declared so long as there are\nantagonistic interests in human society.\n\nUnderstand me clearly. I believe that the term \"constitutional right of\nfree speech\" is a meaningless phrase, for this reason: the Constitution\nof the United States, and the Declaration of Independence, and\nparticularly the latter, were, in their day, progressive expressions of\nprogressive ideals. But they are, throughout, characterized by the\nmetaphysical philosophy which dominated the thought of the last century.\nThey speak of \"inherent rights,\" \"inalienable rights,\" \"natural rights,\"\netc. They declare that men are equal because of a supposed metaphysical\nsomething-or-other, called equality, existing in some mysterious way\napart from material conditions, just as the philosophers of the\neighteenth century accounted for water being wet by alleging a\nmetaphysical wetness, existing somehow apart from matter. I do not say\nthis to disparage those grand men who dared to put themselves against\nthe authorities of the monarchy, and to conceive a better ideal of\nsociety, one which they certainly thought would secure equal rights to\nmen; because I realize fully that no one can live very far in advance of\nthe time-spirit, and I am positive in my own mind that, unless some\ncataclysm destroys the human race before the end of the twentieth\ncentury, the experience of the next hundred years will explode many of\nour own theories. But the experience of this age has proven that\nmetaphysical quantities do not exist apart from materials, and hence\nhumanity can not be made equal by declarations on paper. Unless the\nmaterial conditions for equality exist, it is worse than mockery to\npronounce men equal. And unless there is equality (and by equality I\nmean equal chances for every one to make the most of himself), unless, I\nsay, these equal chances exist, freedom, either of thought, speech, or\naction, is equally a mockery.\n\nI once read that one million angels could dance at the same time on the\npoint of a needle; possibly one million angels might be able to get a\ndecent night's lodging by virtue of their constitutional rights; one\nsingle tramp couldn't. And whenever the tongues of the non-possessing\nclass threaten the possessors, whenever the disinherited menace the\nprivileged, that moment you will find that the Constitution isn't made\nfor you. Therefore I think Anarchists make a mistake when they contend\nfor their constitutional rights. As a prominent lawyer, Mr. Thomas Earle\nWhite, of Philadelphia, himself an Anarchist, said to me not long\nsince: \"What are you going to do about it? Go into the courts, and fight\nfor your legal rights? Anarchists haven't got any.\" \"Well,\" says the\ngovernmentalist, \"you can't consistently claim any. You don't believe in\nconstitutions and laws.\" Exactly so; and if any one will right my\nconstitutional wrongs, I will willingly make him a present of my\nconstitutional rights. At the same time I am perfectly sure no one will\never make this exchange; nor will any help ever come to the wronged\nclass from the outside. Salvation on the vicarious plan isn't worth\ndespising. Redress of wrongs will not come by petitioning \"the powers\nthat be.\" \"He has rights who dare maintain them.\" \"The Lord helps them\nwho help themselves.\" (And when one is able to help himself, I don't\nthink he is apt to trouble the Lord much for his assistance.) As long as\nthe working people fold hands and pray the gods in Washington to give\nthem work, so long they will not get it. So long as they tramp the\nstreets, whose stones they lay, whose filth they clean, whose sewers\nthey dig, yet upon which they must not stand too long lest the policeman\nbid them \"move on\"; so long as they go from factory to factory, begging\nfor the opportunity to be a slave, receiving the insults of bosses and\nforemen, getting the old \"No,\" the old shake of the head, in these\nfactories which they build, whose machines they wrought; so long as they\nconsent to herd like cattle, in the cities, driven year after year, more\nand more, off the mortgaged land, the land they cleared, fertilized,\ncultivated, rendered of value; so long as they stand shivering, gazing\nthrough plate glass windows at overcoats, which they made but cannot\nbuy, starving in the midst of food they produced but cannot have; so\nlong as they continue to do these things vaguely relying upon some power\noutside themselves, be it god, or priest, or politician, or employer,\nor charitable society, to remedy matters, so long deliverance will be\ndelayed. When they conceive the possibility of a complete international\nfederation of labor, whose constituent groups shall take possession of\nland, mines, factories, all the instruments of production, issue their\nown certificates of exchange, and, in short, conduct their own industry\nwithout regulative interference from law-makers or employers, then we\nmay hope for the only help which counts for aught--self-help; the only\ncondition which can guarantee free speech (and no paper guarantee\nneeded).\n\nBut meanwhile, while we are waiting, for there is yet much grist of the\nmiddle class to be ground between the upper and nether millstones of\neconomic evolution; while we await the formation of the international\nlabor trust; while we watch for the day when there are enough of people\nwith nothing in their stomachs and desperation in their heads, to go\nabout the work of expropriation; what shall those do who are starving\nnow?\n\nThat is the question which =Emma Goldman= had to face; and she answered\nit by saying: \"Ask, and if you do not receive, take--take bread.\"\n\nI do not give you that advice. Not because I do not think the bread\nbelongs to you; not because I do not think you would be morally right in\ntaking it; not that I am not more shocked and horrified and embittered\nby the report of one human being starving in the heart of plenty, than\nby all the Pittsburgs, and Chicagos, and Homesteads, and Tennessees, and\nCoeur d'Alenes, and Buffalos, and Barcelonas, and Parises; not that I\ndo not think one little bit of sensitive human flesh is worth all the\nproperty rights in New York city; not that I do not think the world will\never be saved by the sheep's virtue of going patiently to the shambles;\nnot that I do not believe the expropriation of the possessing classes is\ninevitable, and that that expropriation will begin by just such acts as\n=Emma Goldman= advised, viz.: the taking possession of wealth already\nproduced; not that I think you owe any consideration to the conspirators\nof Wall Street, or those who profit by their operations, as such, nor\never will till they are reduced to the level of human beings having\nequal chances with you to earn their share of social wealth, and no\nmore.\n\nI have said that I do not give you the advice given by =Emma Goldman=,\nnot that I would have you forget the consideration the expropriators\nhave shown to you; that they have advised lead for strikers, strychnine\nfor tramps, bread and water as good enough for working people; not\nthat I cannot hear yet in my ears the words of one who said to me of\nthe Studebaker Wagon Works' strikers, \"If I had my way I'd mow them\ndown with Gatling guns\", not that I would have you forget the electric\nwire of Fort Frick, nor the Pinkertons, nor the militia, nor the\nprosecutions for murder and treason; not that I would have you forget\nthe 4th of May, when your constitutional right of free speech was\nvindicated, nor the 11th of November when it was assassinated; not that\nI would have you forget the single dinner at Delmonico's which Ward\nMcAllister tells us cost ten thousand dollars! Would I have you forget\nthat the wine in the glasses was your children's blood? It must be a\nrare drink--children's blood! I have read of the wonderful sparkle on\ncostly champagne--I have never seen it. If I did I think it would look\nto me like mothers' tears over the little, white, wasted forms of dead\nbabies--dead because there was no milk in their breasts! Yes, I want\nyou to remember that these rich are blood-drinkers, tearers of human\nflesh, gnawers of human bones! Yes, if I had the power I would burn\nyour wrongs upon your hearts in characters that should glow like coals\nin the night!\n\nI have not a tongue of fire as =Emma Goldman= has; I cannot \"stir the\npeople\"; I must speak in my own cold, calculated way. (Perhaps that is\nthe reason I am allowed to speak at all.) But if I had the power, my\nwill is good enough. You know how Shakespeare's Marc Antony addressed\nthe populace at Rome:\n\n \"I am no orator, as Brutus is,\n But as you know me well, a plain blunt man\n That love my friend. And that they know full well\n That gave me public leave to speak of him.\n For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,\n Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech\n To stir men's blood. I only speak right on.\n I tell you that which you yourselves do know,\n Show you sweet C\u00e6sar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,\n And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus\n And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony\n Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue\n In every wound of C\u00e6sar's, that should move\n The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.\"\n\nIf, therefore, I do not give you the advice which =Emma Goldman= gave,\nlet not the authorities suppose it is because I have any more respect\nfor their constitution and their law than she has, or that I regard\nthem as having any rights in the matter.\n\nNo! My reasons for not giving that advice are two. First, if I were\ngiving advice at all, I would say: \"My friends, that bread belongs to\nyou. It is you who toiled and sweat in the sun to sow and reap the\nwheat; it is you who stood by the thresher, and breathed the\nchaff-filled atmosphere in the mills, while it was ground to flour; it\nis you who went into the eternal night of the mine and risked drowning,\nfire damp, explosion, and cave-in, to get the fuel for the fire that\nbaked it; it is you who stood in the hell-like heat, and struck the\nblows that forged the iron for the ovens wherein it is baked; it is you\nwho stand all night in the terrible cellar shops, and tend the machines\nthat knead the flour into dough; it is you, you, you, farmer, miner,\nmechanic, who make the bread; but you haven't the power to take it. At\nevery transformation wrought by toil, some one who didn't toil has taken\npart from you; and now he has it all, and you haven't the power to take\nit back! You are told you have the power because you have the numbers.\nNever make so silly a blunder as to suppose that power resides in\nnumbers. One good, level-headed policeman with a club, is worth ten\nexcited, unarmed men; one detachment of well-drilled militia has a power\nequal to that of the greatest mob that could be raised in New York City.\nDo you know I admire compact, concentrated power. Let me give you an\nillustration. Out in a little town in Illinois there is a certain\ncapitalist, and if ever a human creature sweat and ground the grist of\ngold from the muscle of man, it is he. Well, once upon a time, his\nworkmen, (not his slaves, his workmen,) were on strike; and fifteen\nhundred muscular Polacks armed with stones, brick-bats, red-hot pokers,\nand other such crude weapons as a mob generally collects, went up to his\nhouse for the purpose of smashing the windows, and so forth; possibly to\ndo as those people in Italy did the other day with the sheriff who\nattempted to collect the milk tax. He alone, one man, met them on the\nsteps of his porch, and for two mortal hours, by threats, promises,\ncajoleries held those fifteen hundred Poles at bay. And finally they\nwent away, without smashing a pane of glass or harming a hair of his\nhead. Now that was power; and you can't help but admire it, no matter if\nit was your enemy who displayed it; and you must admit that so long as\nnumbers can be overcome by such relative quantity, power does not reside\nin numbers. Therefore, if I were giving advice, I would not say, \"take\nbread,\" but take counsel with yourselves how to get the power to take\nbread.\n\nThere is no doubt but that power is latently in you; there is no doubt\nit can be developed; there is no doubt the authorities know this,\nand fear it, and are ready to exert as much force as is necessary to\nrepress any signs of its development. And this is the explanation of\n=Emma Goldman='s imprisonment. The authorities do not fear you as you\nare; they only fear what you may become. The dangerous thing was \"the\nvoice crying in the wilderness\", foretelling the power which was to\ncome after it. You should have seen how they feared it in Philadelphia.\nThey got out a whole platoon of police and detectives, and executed a\nmilitary manoeuvre to catch the woman who had been running around under\ntheir noses for three days. And when she walked up to them, then they\nsurrounded and captured her, and guarded the city hall where they kept\nher over night, and put a detective in the next cell to make notes. Why\nso much fear? Did they shrink from the stab of the dressmaker's needle?\nOr did they dread some stronger weapon?\n\nAh! the accusation before the New York Pontius Pilate was: \"She stirreth\nup the people.\" And Pilate sentenced her to the full limit of the law,\nbecause, he said, \"You are more than ordinarily intelligent.\" Why is\nintelligence dealt thus harshly with? Because it is the beginning of\npower. Strive, then, for power.\n\nMy second reason for not repeating =Emma Goldman='s words is, that\nI, as an Anarchist, have no right to advise another to do anything\ninvolving a risk to himself; nor would I give a fillip for an action\ndone by the advice of some one else, unless it is accompanied by\na well-argued, well settled conviction on the part of the person\nacting, that it really is the best thing to do. Anarchism, to me,\nmeans not only the denial of authority, not only a new economy, but\na revision of the principles of morality. It means the development\nof the individual, as well as the assertion of the individual. It\nmeans self-responsibility, and not leader-worship. I say it is your\nbusiness to decide whether you will starve and freeze in sight of food\nand clothing, outside of jail, or commit some overt act against the\ninstitution of property and take your place beside =Timmermann= and\n=Goldman=. And in saying this I mean to cast no reflection whatever\nupon =Miss Goldman= for doing otherwise. She and I hold many different\nviews on both Economy and Morals; and that she is honest in hers\nshe has proved better than I have proved mine. =Miss Goldman= is a\nCommunist; I am an Individualist. She wishes to destroy the right\nof property; I wish to assert it. I make my war upon privilege and\nauthority, whereby the right of property, the true right in that\nwhich is proper to the individual, is annihilated. She believes\nthat co-operation would entirely supplant competition; I hold that\ncompetition in one form or another will always exist, and that it is\nhighly desirable it should. But whether she or I be right, or both\nof us be wrong, of one thing I am sure: _the spirit which animates\nEmma Goldman is the only one which will emancipate the slave from his\nslavery, the tyrant from his tyranny--the spirit which is willing to\ndare and suffer_.\n\nThat which dwells in the frail body in the prison-room to-night is not\nthe New York dressmaker alone. Transport yourselves there in thought a\nmoment; look steadily into those fair, blue eyes, upon the sun-brown\nhair, the sea-shell face, the restless hands, the woman's figure; look\nsteadily till in place of the person, the individual of time and place,\nyou see that which transcends time and place, and flits from house to\nhouse of life, mocking at death. Swinburne in his magnificent \"Before a\nCrucifix,\" says:\n\n \"With iron for thy linen bands,\n And unclean cloths for winding-sheet,\n They bind the people's nail-pierced hands,\n They hide the people's nail-pierced feet:\n And what man, or what angel known\n Shall roll back the sepulchral stone?\"\n\nPerhaps in the presence of this untrammeled spirit we shall feel that\nsomething has rolled back the sepulchral stone; and up from the cold\nwind of the grave is borne the breath that animated =Anaxagoras=,\n=Socrates=, =Christ=, =Hypatia=, =John Huss=, =Bruno=, =Robert Emmet=,\n=John Brown=, =Sophia Perovskaya=, =Parsons=, =Fischer=, =Engel=,\n=Spies=, =Lingg=, =Berkman=, =Pallas=; and all those, known and unknown,\nwho have died by tree, and axe, and fagot, or dragged out forgotten\nlives in dungeons, derided, hated, tortured by men. Perhaps we shall\nknow ourselves face to face with that which leaps from the throat of the\nstrangled when the rope chokes, which smokes up from the blood of the\nmurdered when the axe falls; that which has been forever hunted,\nfettered, imprisoned, exiled, executed, and never conquered. Lo, from\nits many incarnations it comes forth again, the immortal Race-Christ of\nthe Ages! The gloomy walls are glorified thereby, the prisoner is\ntransfigured, and we say, reverently we say:\n\n \"O sacred Head, O desecrate,\n O labor-wounded feet and hands,\n O blood poured forth in pledge to fate\n Of nameless lives in divers lands!\n O slain, and spent, and sacrificed\n People! The grey-grown, speechless Christ.\"\n\n\n\n\nDirect Action\n\n\nFrom the standpoint of one who thinks himself capable of discerning an\nundeviating route for human progress to pursue, if it is to be progress\nat all, who, having such a route on his mind's map, has endeavored to\npoint it out to others; to make them see it as he sees it; who in so\ndoing has chosen what appeared to him clear and simple expressions to\nconvey his thoughts to others,--to such a one it appears matter for\nregret and confusion of spirit that the phrase \"Direct Action\" has\nsuddenly acquired in the general mind a circumscribed meaning, not at\nall implied in the words themselves, and certainly never attached to it\nby himself or his co-thinkers.\n\nHowever, this is one of the common jests which Progress plays on those\nwho think themselves able to set metes and bounds for it. Over and over\nagain, names, phrases, mottoes, watchwords, have been turned inside out,\nand upside down, and hindside before, and sideways, by occurrences out\nof the control of those who used the expressions in their proper sense;\nand still, those who sturdily held their ground, and insisted on being\nheard, have in the end found that the period of misunderstanding and\nprejudice has been but the prelude to wider inquiry and understanding.\n\nI rather think this will be the case with the present misconception of\nthe term Direct Action, which through the misapprehension, or else the\ndeliberate misrepresentation, of certain journalists in Los Angeles, at\nthe time the McNamaras pleaded guilty, suddenly acquired in the popular\nmind the interpretation, \"Forcible Attacks on Life and Property.\" This\nwas either very ignorant or very dishonest of the journalists; but it\nhas had the effect of making a good many people curious to know all\nabout Direct Action.\n\nAs a matter of fact, those who are so lustily and so inordinately\ncondemning it, will find on examination that they themselves have on\nmany occasions practised direct action, and will do so again.\n\nEvery person who ever thought he had a right to assert, and went boldly\nand asserted it, himself, or jointly with others that shared his\nconvictions, was a direct actionist. Some thirty years ago I recall that\nthe Salvation Army was vigorously practising direct action in the\nmaintenance of the freedom of its members to speak, assemble, and pray.\nOver and over they were arrested, fined, and imprisoned; but they kept\nright on singing, praying, and marching, till they finally compelled\ntheir persecutors to let them alone. The Industrial Workers are now\nconducting the same fight, and have, in a number of cases, compelled the\nofficials to let them alone by the same direct tactics.\n\nEvery person who ever had a plan to do anything, and went and did it, or\nwho laid his plan before others, and won their co-operation to do it\nwith him, without going to external authorities to please do the thing\nfor them, was a direct actionist. All co-operative experiments are\nessentially direct action.\n\nEvery person who ever in his life had a difference with any one to\nsettle, and went straight to the other persons involved to settle it,\neither by a peaceable plan or otherwise, was a direct actionist.\nExamples of such action are strikes and boycotts; many persons will\nrecall the action of the housewives of New York who boycotted the\nbutchers, and lowered the price of meat; at the present moment a butter\nboycott seems looming up, as a direct reply to the price-makers for\nbutter.\n\nThese actions are generally not due to any one's reasoning overmuch on\nthe respective merits of directness or indirectness, but are the\nspontaneous retorts of those who feel oppressed by a situation. In other\nwords, all people are, most of the time, believers in the principle of\ndirect action, and practisers of it. However, most people are also\nindirect or political actionists. And they are both these things at the\nsame time, without making much of an analysis of either. There are only\na limited number of persons who eschew political action under any and\nall circumstances; but there is nobody, nobody at all, who has ever been\nso \"impossible\" as to eschew direct action altogether.\n\nThe majority of thinking people are really opportunists, leaning, some,\nperhaps, more to directness, some more to indirectness, as a general\nthing, but ready to use either means when opportunity calls for it. That\nis to say, there are those who hold that balloting governors into power\nis essentially a wrong and foolish thing; but who, nevertheless, under\nstress of special circumstance, might consider it the wisest thing to\ndo, to vote some individual into office at that particular time. Or\nthere are those who believe that, in general, the wisest way for people\nto get what they want is by the indirect method of voting into power\nsome one who will make what they want legal; yet who, all the same, will\noccasionally, under exceptional conditions, advise a strike; and a\nstrike, as I have said, is direct action.\n\nOr they may do as the Socialist Party agitators, who are mostly\ndeclaiming now against direct action, did last summer, when the police\nwere holding up their meetings. They went in force to the\nmeeting-places, prepared to speak whether-or-no; and they made the\npolice back down. And while that was not logical on their part, thus to\noppose the legal executors of the majority's will, it was a fine,\nsuccessful piece of direct action.\n\nThose who, by the essence of their belief, are committed to Direct\nAction only are--just who? Why, the non-resistants; precisely those who\ndo not believe in violence at all! Now do not make the mistake of\ninferring that I say direct action means non-resistance; not by any\nmeans. Direct action may be the extreme of violence, or it may be as\npeaceful as the waters of the Brook of Siloa that go softly. What I say\nis, that the real non-resistants can believe in direct action only,\nnever in political action. For the basis of all political action is\ncoercion; even when the State does good things, it finally rests on a\nclub, a gun, or a prison, for its power to carry them through.\n\nNow every school child in the United States has had the direct action of\ncertain non-resistants brought to his notice by his school history. The\ncase which every one instantly recalls is that of the early Quakers who\ncame to Massachusetts. The Puritans had accused the Quakers of\n\"troubling the world by preaching peace to it.\" They refused to pay\nchurch taxes; they refused to bear arms; they refused to swear\nallegiance to any government. (In so doing, they were direct actionists;\nwhat we may call negative direct actionists.) So the Puritans, being\npolitical actionists, passed laws to keep them out, to deport, to fine,\nto imprison, to mutilate, and finally, to hang them. And the Quakers\njust kept on coming (which was positive direct action); and history\nrecords that after the hanging of four Quakers, and the flogging of\nMargaret Brewster at the cart's tail through the streets of Boston, \"the\nPuritans gave up trying to silence the new missionaries\"; that \"Quaker\npersistence and Quaker non-resistance had won the day.\"\n\nAnother example of direct action in early colonial history, but this\ntime by no means of the peaceable sort, was the affair known as Bacon's\nRebellion. All our historians certainly defend the action of the rebels\nin that matter, as reason is, for they were right. And yet it was a case\nof violent direct action against lawfully constituted authority. For the\nbenefit of those who have forgotten the details, let me briefly remind\nthem that the Virginia planters were in fear of a general attack by the\nIndians; with reason. Being political actionists, they asked, or Bacon\nas their leader asked, that the governor grant him a commission to raise\nvolunteers in their own defense. The governor feared that such a company\nof armed men would be a threat to him; also with reason. He refused the\ncommission. Whereupon the planters resorted to direct action. They\nraised the volunteers without the commission, and successfully fought\noff the Indians. Bacon was pronounced a traitor by the governor; but the\npeople being with him, the governor was afraid to proceed against him.\nIn the end, however, it came so far that the rebels burned Jamestown;\nand but for the untimely death of Bacon, much more might have been done.\nOf course the reaction was very dreadful, as it usually is where a\nrebellion collapses, or is crushed. Yet even during the brief period of\nsuccess, it had corrected a good many abuses. I am quite sure that the\npolitical-action-at-all-costs advocates of those times, after the\nreaction came back into power, must have said: \"See to what evils\ndirect action brings us! Behold, the progress of the colony has been set\nback twenty-five years\"; forgetting that if the colonists had not\nresorted to direct action, their scalps would have been taken by the\nIndians a year sooner, instead of a number of them being hanged by the\ngovernor a year later.\n\nIn the period of agitation and excitement preceding the revolution,\nthere were all sorts and kinds of direct action from the most peaceable\nto the most violent; and I believe that almost everybody who studies\nUnited States history finds the account of these performances the most\ninteresting part of the story, the part which dents into his memory most\neasily.\n\nAmong the peaceable moves made, were the non-importation agreements, the\nleagues for wearing homespun clothing and the \"committees of\ncorrespondence.\" As the inevitable growth of hostility progressed,\nviolent direct action developed; e. g., in the matter of destroying the\nrevenue stamps, or the action concerning the tea-ships, either by not\npermitting the tea to be landed, or by putting it in damp storage, or by\nthrowing it into the harbor, as in Boston, or by compelling a tea-ship\nowner to set fire to his own ship, as at Annapolis. These are all\nactions which our commonest text-books record, certainly not in a\ncondemnatory way, not even in an apologetic one, though they are all\ncases of direct action against legally constituted authority and\nproperty rights. If I draw attention to them, and others of like nature,\nit is to prove to unreflecting repeaters of words that _direct action\nhas always been used, and has the historical sanction of the very people\nnow reprobating it_.\n\nGeorge Washington is said to have been the leader of the Virginia\nplanters' non-importation league: he would now be \"enjoined,\" probably,\nby a court, from forming any such league; and if he persisted, he would\nbe fined for contempt.\n\nWhen the great quarrel between the North and the South was waxing hot\nand hotter, it was again direct action which preceded and precipitated\npolitical action. And I may remark here that political action is never\ntaken, nor even contemplated, until slumbering minds have first been\naroused by direct acts of protest against existing conditions.\n\nThe history of the anti-slavery movement and the Civil War is one of\nthe greatest of paradoxes, although history is a chain of paradoxes.\nPolitically speaking, it was the slave-holding States that stood for\ngreater political freedom, for the autonomy of the single State against\nthe interference of the United States; politically speaking, it was\nthe non-slave-holding States that stood for a strong centralized\ngovernment, which, Secessionists said, and said truly, was bound\nprogressively to develop into more and more tyrannical forms. Which\nhappened. From the close of the Civil War on, there has been continuous\nencroachment of the federal power upon what was formerly the concern of\nthe States individually. The wage-slaves, in their struggles of to-day,\nare continually thrown into conflict with that centralized power,\nagainst which the slave-holder protested (with liberty on his lips but\ntyranny in his heart). Ethically speaking, it was the non-slave-holding\nStates that, in a general way, stood for greater human liberty, while\nthe Secessionists stood for race-slavery. In a general way only;\nthat is, the majority of northerners, not being accustomed to the\nactual presence of negro slavery about them, thought it was probably\na mistake; yet they were in no great ferment of anxiety to have it\nabolished. The Abolitionists only, and they were relatively few,\nwere the genuine ethicals, to whom slavery itself--not secession or\nunion--was the main question. In fact, so paramount was it with them,\nthat a considerable number of them were themselves for the dissolution\nof the union, advocating that the North take the initiative in the\nmatter of dissolving, in order that the northern people might shake off\nthe blame of holding negroes in chains.\n\nOf course, there were all sorts of people with all sorts of temperaments\namong those who advocated the abolition of slavery. There were Quakers\nlike Whittier (indeed it was the peace-at-all-costs Quakers who had\nadvocated abolition even in early colonial days); there were moderate\npolitical actionists, who were for buying off the slaves, as the\ncheapest way; and there were extremely violent people, who believed and\ndid all sorts of violent things.\n\nAs to what the politicians did, it is one long record of\n\"how-not-to-do-it,\" a record of thirty years of compromising, and\ndickering, and trying to keep what was as it was, and to hand sops to\nboth sides when new conditions demanded that something be done, or be\npretended to be done. But \"the stars in their courses fought against\nSisera\"; the system was breaking down from within, and the direct\nactionists from without, as well, were widening the cracks\nremorselessly.\n\nAmong the various expressions of direct rebellion was the organization\nof the \"underground railroad.\" Most of the people who belonged to it\nbelieved in both sorts of action; but however much they theoretically\nsubscribed to the right of the majority to enact and enforce laws, they\ndidn't believe in it on that point. My grandfather was a member of the\n\"underground\"; many a fugitive slave he helped on his way to Canada. He\nwas a very patient, law-abiding man, in most respects, though I have\noften thought he probably respected it because he didn't have much to do\nwith it; always leading a pioneer life, law was generally far from him,\nand direct action imperative. Be that as it may, and law-respecting as\nhe was, he had no respect whatever for slave laws, no matter if made by\nten times of a majority; and he conscientiously broke every one that\ncame in his way to be broken.\n\nThere were times when in the operation of the \"underground\", violence\nwas required, and was used. I recollect one old friend relating to me\nhow she and her mother kept watch all night at the door, while a slave\nfor whom a posse was searching hid in the cellar; and though they were\nof Quaker descent and sympathies, there was a shot-gun on the table.\nFortunately it did not have to be used that night.\n\nWhen the fugitive slave law was passed, with the help of the political\nactionists of the North who wanted to offer a new sop to the\nslave-holders, the direct actionists took to rescuing recaptured\nfugitives. There was the \"rescue of Shadrach,\" and the \"rescue of\nJerry,\" the latter rescuers being led by the famous Gerrit Smith; and a\ngood many more successful and unsuccessful attempts. Still the\npoliticals kept on pottering and trying to smooth things over, and the\nAbolitionists were denounced and decried by the ultra-law-abiding\npacificators, pretty much as Wm. D. Haywood and Frank Bohn are being\ndenounced by their own party now.\n\nThe other day I read a communication in the Chicago _Daily Socialist_\nfrom the secretary of the Louisville local, Socialist Party, to\nthe national secretary, requesting that some safe and sane speaker\nbe substituted for Bohn, who had been announced to speak there. In\nexplaining why, Mr. Dobbs, secretary, makes this quotation from Bohn's\nlecture: \"Had the McNamaras been successful in defending the interests\nof the working class, they would have been right, just as John Brown\nwould have been right, had he been successful in freeing the slaves.\nIgnorance was the only crime of John Brown, and ignorance was the only\ncrime of the McNamaras.\"\n\nUpon this Mr. Dobbs comments as follows: \"We dispute emphatically the\nstatements here made. The attempt to draw a parallel between the\nopen--if mistaken--revolt of John Brown on the one hand, and the secret\nand murderous methods of the McNamaras on the other, is not only\nindicative of shallow reasoning, but highly mischievous in the logical\nconclusions which may be drawn from such statements.\"\n\nEvidently Mr. Dobbs is very ignorant of the life and work of John Brown.\nJohn Brown was a man of violence; he would have scorned anybody's\nattempt to make him out anything else. And when once a person is a\nbeliever in violence, it is with him only a question of the most\neffective way of applying it, which can be determined only by a\nknowledge of conditions and means at his disposal. John Brown did not\nshrink at all from conspiratical methods. Those who have read the\nautobiography of Frederick Douglas and the Reminiscences of Lucy Colman,\nwill recall that one of the plans laid by John Brown was to organize a\nchain of armed camps in the mountains of West Virginia, North Carolina,\nand Tennessee, send secret emissaries among the slaves inciting them to\nflee to these camps, and there concert such measures as times and\nconditions made possible for further arousing revolt among the negroes.\nThat this plan failed was due to the weakness of the desire for liberty\namong the slaves themselves, more than anything else.\n\nLater on, when the politicians in their infinite deviousness contrived a\nfresh proposition of how-not-to-do-it, known as the Kansas-Nebraska Act,\nwhich left the question of slavery to be determined by the settlers, the\ndirect actionists on both sides sent bogus settlers into the territory,\nwho proceeded to fight it out. The pro-slavery men, who got in first,\nmade a constitution recognizing slavery, and a law punishing with death\nany one who aided a slave to escape; but the Free Soilers, who were a\nlittle longer in arriving, since they came from more distant States,\nmade a second constitution, and refused to recognize the other party's\nlaws at all. And John Brown was there, mixing in all the violence,\nconspiratical or open; he was \"a horse-thief and a murderer,\" in the\neyes of decent, peaceable, political actionists. And there is no doubt\nthat he stole horses, sending no notice in advance of his intention to\nsteal them, and that he killed pro-slavery men. He struck and got away a\ngood many times before his final attempt on Harper's Ferry. If he did\nnot use dynamite, it was because dynamite had not yet appeared as a\npractical weapon. He made a great many more intentional attacks on life\nthan the two brothers Secretary Dobbs condemns for their \"murderous\nmethods.\" And yet, history has not failed to understand John Brown.\nMankind knows that though he was a violent man, with human blood upon\nhis hands, who was guilty of high treason and hanged for it, yet his\nsoul was a great, strong, unselfish soul, unable to bear the frightful\ncrime which kept 4,000,000 people like dumb beasts, and thought that\nmaking war against it was a sacred, a God-called duty, (for John Brown\nwas a very religious man--a Presbyterian).\n\nIt is by and because of the direct acts of the fore-runners of social\nchange, whether they be of peaceful or warlike nature, that the Human\nConscience, the conscience of the mass, becomes aroused to the need for\nchange. It would be very stupid to say that no good results are ever\nbrought about by political action; sometimes good things do come about\nthat way. But never until individual rebellion, followed by mass\nrebellion, has forced it. Direct action is always the clamorer, the\ninitiator, through which the great sum of indifferentists become aware\nthat oppression is getting intolerable.\n\nWe have now an oppression in the land,--and not only in this land, but\nthroughout all those parts of the world which enjoy the very mixed\nblessings of Civilization. And just as in the question of chattel\nslavery, so this form of slavery has been begetting both direct action\nand political action. A certain per cent. of our population (probably a\nmuch smaller per cent. than politicians are in the habit of assigning at\nmass meetings) is producing the material wealth upon which all the rest\nof us live; just as it was the 4,000,000 chattel blacks who supported\nall the crowd of parasites above them. These are the _land workers_ and\nthe _industrial workers_.\n\nThrough the unprophesied and unprophesiable operation of institutions\nwhich no individual of us created, but found in existence when he came\nhere, these workers, the most absolutely necessary part of the whole\nsocial structure, without whose services none can either eat, or clothe,\nor shelter himself, are just the ones who get the least to eat, to wear,\nand to be housed withal--to say nothing of their share of the other\nsocial benefits which the rest of us are supposed to furnish, such as\neducation and artistic gratifications.\n\nThese workers have, in one form or another, mutually joined their forces\nto see what betterment of their condition they could get; primarily by\ndirect action, secondarily through political action. We have had the\nGrange, the Farmers' Alliance, Co-operative Associations, Colonization\nExperiments, Knights of Labor, Trade Unions, and Industrial Workers of\nthe World. All of them have been organized for the purpose of wringing\nfrom the masters in the economic field a little better price, a little\nbetter conditions, a little shorter hours; or on the other hand, to\nresist a reduction in price, worse conditions, or longer hours. None of\nthem has attempted a final solution of the social war. None of them,\nexcept the Industrial Workers, has recognized that there is a social\nwar, inevitable so long as present legal-social conditions endure. They\naccepted property institutions as they found them. They were made up of\naverage men, with average desires, and they undertook to do what\nappeared to them possible and very reasonable things. They were not\ncommitted to any particular political policy when they were organized,\nbut were associated for direct action of their own initiation, either\npositive or defensive.\n\nUndoubtedly there were, and are, among all these organizations, members\nwho looked beyond immediate demands; who did see that the continuous\ndevelopment of forces now in operation was bound to bring about\nconditions to which it is impossible that life continue to submit, and\nagainst which, therefore, it will protest, and violently protest; that\nit will have no choice but to do so; that it must do so, or tamely die;\nand since it is not the nature of life to surrender without struggle, it\nwill not tamely die. Twenty-two years ago I met Farmers' Alliance people\nwho said so, Knights of Labor who said so, Trade Unionists who said so.\nThey wanted larger aims than those to which their organizations were\nlooking; but they had to accept their fellow members as they were, and\ntry to stir them to work for such things as it was possible to make them\nsee. And what they could see was better prices, better wages, less\ndangerous or tyrannical conditions, shorter hours. At the stage of\ndevelopment when these movements were initiated, the land workers could\nnot see that their struggle had anything to do with the struggle of\nthose engaged in the manufacturing or transporting service; nor could\nthese latter see that theirs had anything to do with the movement of the\nfarmers. For that matter very few of them see it yet. They have yet to\nlearn that there is one common struggle against those who have\nappropriated the earth, the money, and the machines.\n\nUnfortunately the great organization of the farmers frittered itself\naway in a stupid chase after political power. It was quite successful in\ngetting the power in certain States; but the courts pronounced its laws\nunconstitutional, and there was the burial hole of all its political\nconquests. Its original program was to build its own elevators, and\nstore the products therein, holding these from the market till they\ncould escape the speculator. Also, to organize labor exchanges, issuing\ncredit notes upon products deposited for exchange. Had it adhered to\nthis program of direct mutual aid, it would, to some extent, for a time\nat least, have afforded an illustration of how mankind may free itself\nfrom the parasitism of the bankers and the middlemen. Of course, it\nwould have been overthrown in the end, unless it had so revolutionized\nmen's minds by the example as to force the overthrow of the legal\nmonopoly of land and money; but at least it would have served a great\neducational purpose. As it was, it \"went after the red herring,\" and\ndisintegrated merely from its futility.\n\nThe Knights of Labor subsided into comparative insignificance, not\nbecause of failure to use direct action, nor because of its tampering\nwith politics, which was small, but chiefly because it was a\nheterogeneous mass of workers who could not associate their efforts\neffectively.\n\nThe Trade Unions grew strong about as the K. of L. subsided, and have\ncontinued slowly but persistently to increase in power. It is true the\nincrease has fluctuated; that there have been set-backs; that great\nsingle organizations have been formed and again dispersed. But on the\nwhole, trade unions have been a growing power. They have been so\nbecause, poor as they are, inefficient as they are, they have been a\nmeans whereby a certain section of the workers have been able to bring\ntheir united force to bear directly upon their masters, and so get for\nthemselves some portion of what they wanted,--of what their conditions\ndictated to them they must try to get. The strike is their natural\nweapon, that which they themselves forged. It is the direct blow of the\nstrike which nine times out of ten the boss is afraid of. (Of course\nthere are occasions when he is glad of one, but that's unusual.) And the\nreason he dreads a strike is not so much because he thinks he cannot win\nout against it, but simply and solely because he does not want an\ninterruption of his business. The ordinary boss isn't in much dread of a\n\"class-conscious vote\"; there are plenty of shops where you can talk\nSocialism or any other political program all day long; but if you begin\nto talk Unionism, you may forthwith expect to be discharged, or at best\nwarned to shut up. Why? Not because the boss is so wise as to know that\npolitical action is a swamp in which the workingman gets mired, or\nbecause he understands that political Socialism is fast becoming a\nmiddle-class movement; not at all. He thinks Socialism is a very bad\nthing; but it's a good way off! But he knows that if his shop is\nunionized, he will have trouble right away. His hands will be\nrebellious, he will be put to expense to improve his factory conditions,\nhe will have to keep workingmen that he doesn't like, and in case of\nstrike he may expect injury to his machinery or his buildings.\n\nIt is often said, and parrot-like repeated, that the bosses are\n\"class-conscious,\" that they stick together for their class interest,\nand are willing to undergo any sort of personal loss rather than be\nfalse to those interests. It isn't so at all. The majority of business\npeople are just like the majority of workingmen; they care a whole lot\nmore about their individual loss or gain than about the gain or loss of\ntheir class. And it is his individual loss the boss sees, when\nthreatened by a union.\n\nNow everybody knows that a strike of any size means violence. No matter\nwhat any one's ethical preference for peace may be, he knows it will not\nbe peaceful. If it's a telegraph strike, it means cutting wires and\npoles, and getting fake scabs in to spoil the instruments. If it is a\nsteel rolling mill strike, it means beating up the scabs, breaking the\nwindows, setting the gauges wrong, and ruining the expensive rollers\ntogether with tons and tons of material. If it's a miners' strike, it\nmeans destroying tracks and bridges, and blowing up mills. If it is a\ngarment workers' strike, it means having an unaccountable fire, getting\na volley of stones through an apparently inaccessible window, or\npossibly a brickbat on the manufacturer's own head. If it's a street-car\nstrike, it means tracks torn up or barricaded with the contents of\nash-carts and slop-carts, with overturned wagons or stolen fences, it\nmeans smashed or incinerated cars and turned switches. If it is a\nsystem federation strike, it means \"dead\" engines, wild engines,\nderailed freights, and stalled trains. If it is a building trades\nstrike, it means dynamited structures. And always, everywhere, all the\ntime, fights between strike-breakers and scabs against strikers and\nstrike-sympathizers, between People and Police.\n\nOn the side of the bosses, it means search-lights, electric wires,\nstockades, bull-pens, detectives and provocative agents, violent\nkidnapping and deportation, and every device they can conceive for\ndirect protection, besides the ultimate invocation of police, militia,\nState constabulary, and federal troops.\n\nEverybody knows this; everybody smiles when union officials protest\ntheir organizations to be peaceable and law-abiding, because everybody\nknows they are lying. They know that violence is used, both secretly and\nopenly; and they know it is used because the strikers cannot do any\nother way, without giving up the fight at once. Nor do they mistake\nthose who thus resort to violence under stress for destructive\nmiscreants who do what they do out of innate cussedness. The people in\ngeneral understand that they do these things, through the harsh logic of\na situation which they did not create, but which forces them to these\nattacks in order to make good in their struggle to live, or else go down\nthe bottomless descent into poverty, that lets Death find them in the\npoorhouse hospital, the city street, or the river-slime. This is the\nawful alternative that the workers are facing; and this is what makes\nthe most kindly disposed human beings,--men who would go out of their\nway to help a wounded dog, or bring home a stray kitten and nurse it, or\nstep aside to avoid walking on a worm--resort to violence against their\nfellow-men. They know, for the facts have taught them, that this is the\nonly way to win, if they can win at all. And it has always appeared to\nme one of the most utterly ludicrous, absolutely irrelevant things that\na person can do or say, when approached for relief or assistance by a\nstriker who is dealing with an immediate situation, to respond with,\n\"Vote yourself into power!\" when the next election is six months, a\nyear, or two years away.\n\nUnfortunately, the people who know best how violence is used in union\nwarfare, cannot come forward and say: \"On such a day, at such a place,\nsuch and such a specific action was done, and as the result such and\nsuch a concession was made, or such and such a boss capitulated.\" To do\nso would imperil their liberty, and their power to go on fighting.\nTherefore those that know best must keep silent, and sneer in their\nsleeves, while those that know little prate. Events, not tongues, must\nmake their position clear.\n\nAnd there has been a very great deal of prating these last few weeks.\nSpeakers and writers, honestly convinced, I believe, that political\naction, and political action only, can win the workers' battle, have\nbeen denouncing what they are pleased to call \"direct action\" (what they\nreally mean is conspiratical violence) as the author of mischief\nincalculable. One Oscar Ameringer, as an example, recently said at a\nmeeting in Chicago that the Haymarket bomb of '86 had set back the\neight-hour movement twenty-five years, arguing that the movement would\nhave succeeded then but for the bomb. It's a great mistake. No one can\nexactly measure in years or months the effect of a forward push or a\nreaction. No one can demonstrate that the eight-hour movement could have\nbeen won twenty-five years ago. We know that the eight-hour day was put\non the statute books of Illinois in 1871, by political action, and has\nremained a dead letter. That the direct action of the workers could\nhave won it, then, can not be proved; but it can be shown that many more\npotent factors than the Haymarket bomb worked against it. On the other\nhand, if the reactive influence of the bomb was really so powerful, we\nshould naturally expect labor and union conditions to be worse in\nChicago than in the cities where no such thing happened. On the\ncontrary, bad as they are, the general conditions of labor are better in\nChicago than in most other large cities, and the power of the unions is\nmore developed there than in any other American city except San\nFrancisco. So if we are to conclude anything for the influence of the\nHaymarket bomb, keep these facts in mind. Personally I do not think its\ninfluence on the labor movement, as such, was so very great.\n\nIt will be the same with the present furore about violence. Nothing\nfundamental has been altered. Two men have been imprisoned for what they\ndid (twenty-four years ago they were hanged for what they did not do);\nsome few more may yet be imprisoned. But the forces of life will\ncontinue to revolt against their economic chains. There will be no\ncessation in that revolt, no matter what ticket men vote or fail to\nvote, until the chains are broken.\n\nHow will the chains be broken?\n\nPolitical actionists tell us it will be only by means of working-class\nparty action at the polls; by voting themselves into possession of the\nsources of life and the tools; by voting that those who now command\nforests, mines, ranches, waterways, mills and factories, and likewise\ncommand the military power to defend them, shall hand over their\ndominion to the people.\n\nAnd meanwhile?\n\nMeanwhile be peaceable, industrious, law-abiding, patient, and frugal\n(as Madero told the Mexican peons to be, after he had sold them to Wall\nStreet)! Even if some of you are disfranchised, don't rise up even\nagainst that, for it might \"set back the party.\"\n\nWell, I have already stated that some good is occasionally accomplished\nby political action,--not necessarily working-class party action either.\nBut I am abundantly convinced that the occasional good accomplished is\nmore than counterbalanced by the evil; just as I am convinced that\nthough there are occasional evils resulting from direct action, they are\nmore than counterbalanced by the good.\n\nNearly all the laws which were originally framed with the intention of\nbenefiting the workers, have either turned into weapons in their\nenemies' hands, or become dead letters, unless the workers through their\norganizations have directly enforced the observance. So that in the end,\nit is direct action that has to be relied on anyway. As an example of\ngetting the tarred end of a law, glance at the anti-trust law, which was\nsupposed to benefit the people in general, and the working class in\nparticular. About two weeks since, some 250 union leaders were cited to\nanswer to the charge of being trust formers, as the answer of the\nIllinois Central to its strikers.\n\nBut the evil of pinning faith to indirect action is far greater than any\nsuch minor results. The main evil is that it destroys initiative,\nquenches the individual rebellious spirit, teaches people to rely on\nsome one else to do for them what they should do for themselves, what\nthey alone can do for themselves; finally renders organic the anomalous\nidea that by massing supineness together until a majority is acquired,\nthen, through the peculiar magic of that majority, this supineness is to\nbe transformed into energy. That is, people who have lost the habit of\nstriking for themselves as individuals, who have submitted to every\ninjustice while waiting for the majority to grow, are going to become\nmetamorphosed into human high-explosives by a mere process of packing!\n\nI quite agree that the sources of life, and all the natural wealth of\nthe earth, and the tools necessary to co-operative production, must\nbecome free of access to all. It is a positive certainty to me that\nunionism must widen and deepen its purposes, or it will go under; and I\nfeel sure that the logic of the situation will force them to see it\ngradually. They must learn that the workers' problem can never be solved\nby beating up scabs, so long as their own policy of limiting their\nmembership by high initiation fees and other restrictions helps to make\nscabs. They must learn that the course of growth is not so much along\nthe line of higher wages, but shorter hours, which will enable them to\nincrease membership, to take in everybody who is willing to come into\nthe union. They must learn that if they want to win battles, all allied\nworkers must act together, act quickly (serving no notice on bosses),\nand retain their freedom so to do at all times. And finally they must\nlearn that even then (when they have a complete organization), they can\nwin nothing permanent unless they strike for everything,--not for a\nwage, not for a minor improvement, but for the whole natural wealth of\nthe earth. And proceed to the direct expropriation of it all!\n\nThey must learn that their power does not lie in their voting strength,\nthat their power lies in their ability to stop production. It is a great\nmistake to suppose that the wage-earners constitute a majority of the\nvoters. Wage-earners are here to-day and there to-morrow, and that\nhinders a large number from voting; a great percentage of them in this\ncountry are foreigners without a voting right. The most patent proof\nthat Socialist leaders know this is so, is that they are compromising\ntheir propaganda at every point to win the support of the business\nclass, the small investor. Their campaign papers proclaimed that their\ninterviewers had been assured by Wall Street bond purchasers that they\nwould be just as ready to buy Los Angeles bonds from a socialist as a\ncapitalist administration; that the present Milwaukee administration has\nbeen a boon to the small investor; their reading notices assure their\nreaders in this city that we need not go to the great department stores\nto buy,--buy rather of So-and-so on Milwaukee Avenue, who will satisfy\nus quite as well as a \"big business\" institution. In short, they are\nmaking every desperate effort to win the support, and to prolong the\nlife, of that middle-class which socialistic economy says must be ground\nto pieces, because they know they cannot get a majority without them.\n\nThe most that a working-class party could do, even if its politicians\nremained honest, would be to form a strong faction in the legislatures,\nwhich might, by combining its vote with one side or the other, win\ncertain political or economic palliatives.\n\nBut what the working-class can do, when once they grow into a solidified\norganization, is to show the possessing classes, through a sudden\ncessation of all work, that the whole social structure rests on them;\nthat the possessions of the others are absolutely worthless to them\nwithout the workers' activity; that such protests, such strikes, are\ninherent in the system of property, and will continually recur until the\nwhole thing is abolished,--and having shown that, effectively, proceed\nto expropriate.\n\n\"But the military power,\" says the political actionist; \"we must get\npolitical power, or the military will be used against us!\"\n\nAgainst a real General Strike, the military can do nothing. Oh, true,\nif you have a Socialist Briand in power, he may declare the workers\n\"public officials\" and try to make them serve against themselves! But\nagainst the solid wall of an immobile working-mass, even a Briand would\nbe broken.\n\nMeanwhile, until this international awakening, the war will go on as it\nhas been going, in spite of all the hysteria which well-meaning people,\nwho do not understand life and its necessities, may manifest; in spite\nof all the shivering that timid leaders have done; in spite of all the\nreactionary revenges that may be taken; in spite of all the capital\npoliticians make out of the situation. It will go on because Life cries\nto live, and Property denies its freedom to live; and Life will not\nsubmit.\n\nAnd should not submit.\n\nIt will go on until that day when a self-freed Humanity is able to chant\nSwinburne's Hymn of Man:\n\n \"Glory to Man in the highest,\n For Man is the master of Things.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Paris Commune\n\n\nThe Paris Commune, like other spectacular events in human history, has\nbecome the clinging point for many legends, alike among its enemies and\namong its friends. Indeed, one must often question which was the real\nCommune, the legend or the fact,--what was actually lived, or the\nconception of it which has shaped itself in the world-mind during those\nforty odd years that have gone since the 18th of March, 1871.\n\nIt is thus with doctrines, it is thus with personalities, it is thus\nwith events.\n\nWhich is the real Christianity, the simple doctrine attributed to Christ\nor the practical preaching and realizing of organized Christianity?\nWhich is the real Abraham Lincoln,--the clever politician who\nemancipated the chattel slaves as an act of policy, or the legendary\napostle of human liberty, who rises like a gigantic figure of\niconoclastic right smiting old wrongs and receiving the martyr's crown\ntherefor?\n\nWhich is the real Commune,--the thing that was, or the thing our orators\nhave painted it? Which will be the influencing power in the days that\nare to come? Our Commune commemorators are wont to say, and surely they\nbelieve, that the declaration of the Commune was the spontaneous\nassertion of independence by the Parisian masses, consciously alive to\nthe fact that the national government of France had treated them most\noutrageously in the matter of defense against the Prussian army. They\nbelieve that the farce of the situation in which the city found itself,\nhad opened the eyes of the general populace to the fact that the\nnational government, so far from serving the supposed prime purpose of\ngovernment, viz., as a means of defense against a foreign invader, was\nin reality a thing so apart from them and their interests that it\npreferred to leave them to the mercy of the Prussians, to endangering\nits own supremacy by assisting in their defense, or permitting them to\ndefend themselves.\n\nIt is a pity that this legendary figure of Awakened Paris is not a true\none. The Commune, in fact, was not the work of the whole people of\nParis, nor of a majority of the people of Paris. The Commune was really\nestablished by a comparatively small number of able, nay brilliant, and\nsupremely devoted men and women from _every_ walk in life, but with a\nrelatively high percentage of military men, engineers, and political\njournalists, some of whom had time and again been in prison before for\nseditious writing or acts of rebellion. They flocked in from their exile\nin the neighboring countries, thinking that now they saw the opportunity\nfor retrieving former errors, and arousing the people to renew and to\nextend the struggle of 1848. It is true that there were also teachers,\nartists, designers, architects and builders, skilled craftsmen of every\nsort. And perhaps no chapter in the whole story is more inspiring than\nthe description of the gatherings of the workers, which took place night\nafter night in every quarter of the beleaguered city, previous to the\n18th of March and thereafter. To such meetings went those who burned\nwith fervor of faith in what the people might and would accomplish, and,\nwith the radiant vision of a new social day shining in their eyes,\nendeavored to make it clear to those who listened. One almost catches\nthe redolence of outbursting faith, that rising of the sap of hope and\ncourage and daring, like an incense of spring; almost feels himself\nthere, partaking in the work, the danger, the glorious, mistaken\nassurance which was theirs.\n\nAnd yet the truth must have been that these apostles of the Commune were\nblinded by their own enthusiasm, deafened by the enthusiasm they evoked\nin others, to the fact that the great unvoiced majority who did not\nattend public meetings, who sat within their houses or kept silent in\nthe shops, were not converted or affected by their teachings.\n\nWe are told by those who should know, the survivors among the Communards\nthemselves, that the actual number of persons who were aggressive,\nmoving spirits in the great uprising was not greatly above 2,000. The\nmass of the people were, as they would probably be in this city to-day\nunder like circumstances, indifferent as to what went on over their\nheads, so that the peace and quiet of their individual lives was\nrestored, so that the siege of the Prussians was raised, and themselves\npermitted to go about their business. If the Commune could assure that,\ngood luck to it! They were tired of the siege; and they longed for their\nold familiar miseries to which they were in some respect accustomed;\nthey hardly dreamed of anything better.\n\nBut, as is usually the case when strategic moments arise, these same\nplain, stolid, indifferent people, who neither know nor care about fine\ntheories of political right, municipal sovereignty, and so forth, see\nmore directly into the logic of a situation than those who have confused\ntheir minds with much theorizing. Likewise the people of Paris in\ngeneral, when the Commune had become an established fact, saw that the\nonly consequent proceeding would be to make war economically as well as\npolitically, to cut off any source of supply to the national army which\nlay within the city. Instead of doing that, the government of the\nCommune, anxious to prove itself more law-abiding than the old regime,\nstupidly defended the property right of its enemies, and continued to\nlet the Bank of France furnish supplies to those who were financing the\narmy of Versailles, the very army which was to cut their throats.\n\nNaturally, the plain people grew disgusted with so senseless a program,\nand in the main took no part in the final struggle with the Versailles\ntroops, nor even opposed the idea of their entrance into the city.\nProbably a goodly number even drew a sigh of relief at the prospect of a\nreturn to the smaller evil of the two. Little enough did they dream that\nthe way back lay through their own blood, and that they, who had never\nlifted hand or voice for the Commune, would become its martyrs. Little\ndid they conceive the wild revenge of Law and Order upon Rebellion, the\nsaturnalia of restored Power.\n\nDid they sleep, I wonder, on the night before the 20th of May, when that\ndark thunder of vengeance was gathering to break? Many slept well the\nnext night, and still sleep; for \"then began a murder grim and\ngreat,\"--a murder whose painted image, even after these forty years have\nrisen and sunk upon it, sends the blood shuddering backward, and sets\nthe teeth in uttermost horror and hate. MacMahon placarded the streets\nwith peace and sent his troops to make it; in the name of that Peace,\nGallifet, an incarnation of hell, set his men the example and rode up\nand down the streets of Paris, dashing out children's brains. Did a hand\nappear at a shutter, the window was riddled with bullets. Did a cry of\nprotest escape from any throat, the house was invaded, its inhabitants\ndriven out, lined against the walls, and shot where they stood. The\ndoctors and the nurses at the bedsides of the wounded, the very sick in\nthe hospitals, themselves were slaughtered where they lay. Such was\nMacMahon's peace.\n\nAfter the street massacres, the organized massacres at the bastions, the\nstakes of Satory, the huddled masses of prisoners, the grim visitor with\nthe lantern, the ghastly call to rise and follow, the trenches dug by\nthe condemned in the slippery, blood-soaked ground for their own corpses\nto fall in. Thirty thousand people butchered! Butchered by the sateless\nvengeance of authority and the insane blood-lust of the professional\nsoldier! Butchered without a pretence of reason, a shadow of inquiry,\nmerely as the gust of insensate rage blew!\n\nAfter the orgy of fury, the orgy of the inquisition. The gathering of\nthe prisoners in cellar holes, where they must squat or lie upon damp\nearth, and see the light daily only for some short half hour when an\nunexpellable sun ray shot through some unstopped crevice. The shifting\nof them day and night across the country, sometimes in stock yard\nwagons, stifled, starved, and jammed together, as even our butchering\ncivilization is ashamed to jam pigs for the slaughter; sometimes by\ndreadful marches, mostly by night, often with the rain beating on them,\nthe butts of the soldiers' muskets striking them, as they lagged through\nweakness or through lameness.\n\nThen the detention prisons, with their long-drawn agonies of hunger,\ncold, vermin, and disease, and the ever-looming darkness of waiting\ndeath. Follow the tortures of friends and relatives of Communards or\nsuspected Communards, to make them betray the whereabouts of their\nfriends.\n\nCould they who had seen these things \"forgive and forget\"? They who had\nseen ten year old children lashed to make them tell where their fathers\nwere? Women driven mad before the terrible choice of giving up their\nsons who had fought, or their daughters who had not, to the brutality of\nthe soldiery.\n\nAfter the tortures of the hunt, the tortures of the trials, solemn\nfarces, cat-like cruelties. Then the long hopeless line of exiles\nmarching from the prison to the port, crowded on the transport ships,\nwatched like caged animals, forbidden to speak, the cannon always\nthreatening above them, and so drifted away, away to exile lands, to\nbarren islands and fever shores--there to waste away in loneliness, in\nuselessness, in futile dreams of freedom that ended in chains upon the\nankles or death on the coral reefs--all this was the Mercy and the\nWisdom shown by the national government to the rebel city whose works\nare the glory of France, and whose beauty is the Beauty of the World.\nWhatever other lesson we have to learn, this one is certain: the\nglutless revenge of restored Authority. If ever one rebels, let him\nrebel to the end; there is no hope so futile as hope in either the\njustice or the mercy of a power against which a rebellion has been\nraised. No faith so simple or so foolish as faith in the discrimination,\nthe judgement, or the wisdom of a reconquering government.\n\nWhether at that time the essential principle of the independent Commune\ncould have been realized or not, through a general response of the other\ncities of France by like action (in case Paris had continued to maintain\nthe struggle some months longer), I am not historian enough, nor\nhistoric prophet enough, to say. I incline to think not. But certainly\nthe struggle would have been far other, far more fruitful in its\nresults, both then and later, (even if finally overthrown), had it\nreally been a movement of all those people who were so indiscriminately\nmurdered for it, so vilely tortured, so mercilessly exiled. For had it\nreally been the deliberate expression of a million people's will to be\nfree, they would have seized whatever supplies were being furnished the\nenemy from within their own gates; they would have repudiated property\nrights created by the very power they were seeking to overthrow. They\nwould have seen what was necessary, and done it.\n\nHad the real Communards themselves seen the logic of their own effort,\nand understood that to overset the political system of dependence which\nenslaves the Communes they must overset the economic institutions which\nbeget the centralized State; had they proclaimed a general\ncommunalization of the city's resources they might have won the people\nto full faith in the struggle and aroused a ten-fold effort to win out.\nIf that again had been followed by a like contagion in the other cities\nof France, (which was a possibility) the flame might have caught\nthroughout Latin Europe, and those countries might now be giving a\npractical example of the extension of a modified Socialism and local\nautonomy. This is what is likely to happen at the next similar outbreak,\nif politicians are so impolitic as to provoke the like. There are those\namong the best social students who feel sure that such will be the\ncourse of progress.\n\nI frankly say that I cannot see the path of future progress,--my vision\nis not large enough, nor my viewpoint high enough. Where others perhaps\nbehold the morning sunlight, I can discern only mists--blowing dust and\nmoving glooms which obscure the future. I do not know where the path\nleads nor how it goes. Only when looking backward, I can catch glimpses\nof that long, terrible, toilsome way by which humanity has gone forward;\neven that I do not see clearly,--just stretches of it here and there.\nBut I see enough of it to know that never has it been a straight,\nundeviating line. Always the path winds and returns, and even in the\nmoment of gaining something, there is something lost.\n\nAgainst the onslaught of Nature, Man collects his social strength, and\nloses thereby the freedom of his more isolated condition. Against the\ninconveniences of primitive society, he hurls his inventive\ngenius,--compasses land, sea, and air,--and by the very act of\nconquering his limitations binds fresh fetters on himself, creating a\nwealth which he enslaves himself to produce!\n\nAnd this is the Path of Progress, which there was no foreseeing!\n\nWhat waits them? And what hope is there? And what help is there?\n\nWhat waits? The Unknown waits, as it has always waited,--dark, vague,\nimmense, impenetrable--the Mystery which allures the young and strong\nsaying, \"Come and cope with me\"; the Mystery from which the old and wise\nshrink back, saying, \"Better to endure the evils that we have than fly\nto others that we know not of\"; the old and wise, but alas! the\ncold-blooded! The Mystery of the still unbound strengths of earth, sun,\nand depths, the loosing of any one of which may so alter the face of all\nthat has been done that what now we think a guarantee of liberty may\nbecome the very chain of slavery, as has been the case before with\nfreedoms laboriously won by act, and then set down in words for unborn\nmen to abide by. And yet--It waits.\n\nAre you strong and courageous? The Unknown invites you to the struggle,\ndares you to its conquering. Nay, it is perhaps your future beloved,\nwaiting to reward your daring passion with the fervors of fresh\ncreation. Are you feeble and timid of spirit? Bow your head to the\nground. Still you must meet the future; still you must go in the track\nof the others. You may hinder them, you may make them lag; you cannot\nstop them, nor yourself.\n\nStruggle waits--abortive struggle, crushed struggle, mistaken struggle,\nlong and often. And worse than all this, _Waiting waits_,--the long\ndead-level of inaction, when no one does anything, when even the daring\ncan only move in self-returning circles; when no one knows what to do,\nexcept to endure the ever-tightening pressure of intolerable conditions,\nhow to better which he knows not; when living appears a monotonous\njourney through a featureless wilderness, wherein the same pitiless word\n\"Useless\" stares at one from every aimless path one seeks to follow in\nthe despairing search for a way out. And happier is he who perishes in\nthe mistaken struggle than he who, with a hot and chafing soul, but with\nclear discernment, sees that he is doomed to go on indefinitely in\nsubmission to the wrongs that are.\n\nWhat hope is there? That the increasing pressure of conditions may\nquicken intelligences; that even out of mistaken struggle, frustrate\nstruggle, unforeseen good consequences may flow, just as out of\nundeniable improvements in material life, unforeseeable ill results are\nconsequent.\n\nThe Commune hoped to free Paris, and by so setting an example free many\nother cities. It went down in utter defeat, and no city was freed\nthereby. But out of this defeat the knowledge and skill of craftsmanship\nof its people went abroad over other lands, both into civilized centers\nand to wild waste places; and wherever its art went, its idea went also,\nso that the \"Commune,\" the idealized Commune, has become a watchword\nthrough the workshops of the world, wherever there are even a few\nworkers seeking to awaken their fellows.\n\nThere are those who have definite hopes; those who think they know\nprecisely how overwork and underwork and poverty, and all their\nconsequences of spiritual enslavement, are to be abolished. Such are\nthey who think they can see the way of progress broad and clear through\nthe slit in a ballot box. I fear their works will have some uncalculated\nconsequences also, if ever they execute them; I fear their narrowly\nenclosed view deceives them much. Climbing a hill is a different affair\nfrom voting oneself at the top.\n\nNo matter: Man always hopes; Life always hopes. When a definite object\ncannot be outlined, the indomitable spirit of hope still impels the\nliving mass to move toward something--something that shall somehow be\nbetter.\n\nWhat help is there? No help from outside power; no help from overhead;\nno help from the Sky, pray to it ever so much; no help from the strong\nhand of wise men, nor of good men, however wise or good. Such help\nalways ends in despotism. Nor yet is there help in the abnegation of\ngenerous fanatics whose efforts end in deplorable fiasco, as did the\nCommune. Help lies only in the general will of those who do the work to\nsay how, when, and where they shall do it.\n\nThe force of the lesson of the Commune is that people cannot be made\nfree who have not conceived freedom; yet through such examples they may\nlearn to conceive it. It cannot be bestowed as a gift; it must be taken\nby those who want it. Let us hope that those who would have given it,\nbought that much by their sacrifice, that they touched the unseeing eyes\nof the somnambulist proletariat with a light which has made them dream,\nat least, of waking.\n\n\n\n\nThe Mexican Revolution\n\n\nThat a nation of people considering themselves enlightened, informed,\nalert to the interests of the hour, should be so generally and so\nprofoundly ignorant of a revolution taking place in their backyard, so\nto speak, as the people of the United States are ignorant of the present\nrevolution in Mexico, can be due only to profoundly and generally acting\ncauses. That people of revolutionary principles and sympathies should be\nso, is inexcusable.\n\nIt is as one of such principles and sympathies that I address you,--as\none interested in every move the people make to throw off their chains,\nno matter where, no matter how,--though naturally my interest is\ngreatest where the move is such as appears to me to be most in\nconsonance with the general course of progress, where the tyranny\nattacked is what appears to me the most fundamental, where the method\nfollowed is to my thinking most direct and unmistakable. And I add that\nthose of you who have such principles and sympathies are in the logic of\nyour own being bound, first, to inform yourselves concerning so great a\nmatter as the revolt of millions of people--what they are struggling\nfor, what they are struggling against, and how the struggle stands--from\nday to day, if possible; if not, from week to week, or month to month,\nas best you can; and second, to spread this knowledge among others, and\nendeavor to do what little you can to awaken the consciousness and\nsympathy of others.\n\nOne of the great reasons why the mass of the American people know\nnothing of the Revolution in Mexico, is, that they have altogether a\nwrong conception of what \"revolution\" means. Thus ninety-nine out of a\nhundred persons to whom you broach the subject will say, \"Why, I thought\nthat ended long ago. That ended last May\"; and this week the press, even\nthe _Daily Socialist,_ reports, \"A _new_ revolution in Mexico.\" It isn't\na new revolution at all; it is the same revolution, which did not begin\nwith the armed rebellion of last May, which has been going on steadily\never since then, and before then, and is bound to go on for a long time\nto come, if the other nations keep their hands off and the Mexican\npeople are allowed to work out their own destiny.\n\nWhat is _a_ revolution? and what is _this_ revolution?\n\nA revolution means some great and subversive change in the social\ninstitutions of a people, whether sexual, religious, political, or\neconomic.\n\nThe movement of the Reformation was a great religious revolution; a\nprofound alteration in human thought--a refashioning of the human mind.\nThe general movement towards political change in Europe and America\nabout the close of the eighteenth century, was a revolution. The\nAmerican and the French revolutions were only prominent individual\nincidents in it, culminations of the teachings of the Rights of Man. The\npresent unrest of the world in its economic relations, as manifested\nfrom day to day in the opposing combinations of men and money, in\nstrikes and bread-riots, in literature and movements of all kinds\ndemanding a readjustment of the whole or of parts of our wealth-owning\nand wealth-distributing system,--this unrest is the revolution of our\ntime, the economic _revolution,_ which is seeking social change, and\nwill go on until it is accomplished. We are in it; at any moment of our\nlives it may invade our own homes with its stern demand for\nself-sacrifice and suffering. Its more violent manifestations are in\nLiverpool and London to-day, in Barcelona and Vienna to-morrow, in New\nYork and Chicago the day after. Humanity is a seething, heaving mass of\nunease, tumbling like surge over a slipping, sliding, shifting bottom;\nand there will never be any ease until a rock bottom of economic justice\nis reached.\n\nThe Mexican revolution is one of the prominent manifestations of this\nworld-wide economic revolt. It possibly holds as important a place in\nthe present disruption and reconstruction of economic institutions, as\nthe great revolution of France held in the eighteenth century movement.\nIt did not begin with the odious government of Diaz nor end with his\ndownfall, any more than the revolution in France began with the\ncoronation of Louis XVI, or ended with his beheading. It began in the\nbitter and outraged hearts of the peasants, who for generations have\nsuffered under a ready-made system of exploitation, imported and foisted\nupon them, by which they have been dispossessed of their homes,\ncompelled to become slave-tenants of those who robbed them; and under\nDiaz, in case of rebellion to be deported to a distant province, a\nkilling climate, and hellish labor. It will end only when that\nbitterness is assuaged by very great alteration in the land-holding\nsystem, or until the people have been absolutely crushed into subjection\nby a strong military power, whether that power be a native or a foreign\none.\n\nNow the political overthrow of last May, which was followed by the\nsubstitution of one political manager for another, did not at all touch\nthe economic situation. It promised, of course; politicians always\npromise. It promised to consider measures for altering conditions; in\nthe meantime, proprietors are assured that the new government intends to\nrespect the rights of landlords and capitalists, and exhorts the workers\nto be patient and--_frugal!_\n\nFrugal! Yes, that was the exhortation in Madero's paper to men who, when\nthey are able to get work, make twenty-five cents a day. A man owning\n5,000,000 acres of land exhorts the disinherited workers of Mexico to be\nfrugal!\n\nThe idea that such a condition can be dealt with by the immemorial\nremedy offered by tyrants to slaves, is like the idea of sweeping out\nthe sea with a broom. And unless that frugality, or in other words,\nstarvation, is forced upon the people by more bayonets and more strategy\nthan appear to be at the government's command, the Mexican revolution\nwill go on to the solution of Mexico's land question with a rapidity and\ndirectness of purpose not witnessed in any previous upheaval.\n\nFor it must be understood that the main revolt is a revolt against the\nsystem of land tenure. The industrial revolution of the cities, while it\nis far from being silent, is not to compare with the agrarian revolt.\n\nLet us understand why. Mexico consists of twenty-seven states, two\nterritories and a federal district about the capital city. Its\npopulation totals about 15,000,000. Of these, 4,000,000 are of unmixed\nIndian descent, people somewhat similar in character to the Pueblos of\nour own southwestern states, primitively agricultural for an immemorial\nperiod, communistic in many of their social customs, and like all\nIndians, invincible haters of authority. These Indians are scattered\nthroughout the rural districts of Mexico, one particularly well-known\nand much talked of tribe, the Yaquis, having had its fatherland in the\nrich northern state of Sonora, a very valuable agricultural country.\n\nThe Indian population--especially the Yaquis and the Moquis--have always\ndisputed the usurpations of the invaders' government, from the days of\nthe early conquest until now, and will undoubtedly continue to dispute\nthem as long as there is an Indian left, or until their right to use the\nsoil out of which they sprang _without paying tribute in any shape_ is\nfreely recognized.\n\nThe communistic customs of these people are very interesting, and very\ninstructive too; they have gone on practising them all these hundreds of\nyears, in spite of the foreign civilization that was being grafted upon\nMexico (grafted in all senses of the word); and it was not until forty\nyears ago (indeed the worst of it not till twenty-five years ago), that\nthe increasing power of the government made it possible to destroy this\nancient life of the people.\n\nBy them, the woods, the waters, and the lands were held in common. Any\none might cut wood from the forest to build his cabin, make use of the\nrivers to irrigate his field or garden patch (and this is a right whose\nacknowledgment none but those who know the aridity of the southwest can\nfully appreciate the imperative necessity for). Tillable lands were\nallotted by mutual agreement before sowing, and reverted to the tribe\nafter harvesting, for reallotment. Pasturage, the right to collect fuel,\nwere for all. The habits of mutual aid which always arise among sparsely\nsettled communities were instinctive with them. Neighbor assisted\nneighbor to build his cabin, to plough his ground, to gather and store\nthis crop.\n\nNo legal machinery existed--no taxgatherer, no justice, no jailer. All\nthat they had to do with the hated foreign civilization was to pay the\nperiodical rent-collector, and to get out of the way of the recruiting\nofficer when he came around. Those two personages they regarded with\nspite and dread; but as the major portion of their lives was not in\nimmediate contact with them, they could still keep on in their old way\nof life in the main.\n\nWith the development of the Diaz regime, which came into power in 1876\n(and when I say the Diaz regime I do not especially mean the man Diaz,\nfor I think he has been both overcursed and overpraised, but the whole\nforce which has steadily developed centralized power from then on, and\nthe whole policy of \"civilizing Mexico,\" which was the Diaz boast), with\nits development, I say, this Indian life has been broken up, violated\nwith as ruthless a hand as ever tore up a people by the roots and cast\nthem out as weeds to wither in the sun.\n\nHistorians relate with horror the iron deeds of William the Conqueror,\nwho in the eleventh century created the New Forest by laying waste the\nfarms of England, destroying the homes of the people to make room for\nthe deer. But his edicts were mercy compared with the action of the\nMexican government toward the Indians. In order to introduce\n\"progressive civilization\" the Diaz regime granted away immense\nconcessions of land, to native and foreign capitalists--chiefly foreign\nindeed, though there were enough of native sharks as well. Mostly these\nconcessions were granted to capitalistic combinations, which were to\nbuild railroads (and in some cases did so in a most uncalled for and\nuneconomic way), \"develop\" mineral resources, or establish \"modern\nindustries.\"\n\nThe government took no note of the ancient tribal rights or customs, and\nthose who received the concessions proceeded to enforce their property\nrights. They introduced the unheard of crime of \"trespass.\" They forbade\nthe cutting of a tree, the breaking of a branch, the gathering of the\nfallen wood in the forests. They claimed the watercourses, forbidding\ntheir free use to the people; and it was as if one had forbidden to us\nthe rains of heaven. The unoccupied land was theirs; no hand might drive\na plow into the soil without first obtaining permission from a distant\nmaster--a permission granted on the condition that the product be the\nlandlord's, a small, pitifully small, wage, the worker's.\n\nNor was this enough: in 1894 was passed \"The Law of Unappropriated\nLands.\" By that law, not only were the great stretches of _vacant_, in\nthe old time _common_, land appropriated, but the occupied lands\nthemselves to _which the occupants could not show a legal title_ were to\nbe \"denounced\"; that is, the educated and the powerful, who were able to\nkeep up with the doings of the government, went to the courts and said\nthat there was no legal title to such and such land, and put in a claim\nfor it. And the usual hocus-pocus of legality being complied with (the\nactual occupant of the land being all the time blissfully unconscious of\nthe law, in the innocence of his barbarism supposing that the working of\nthe ground by his generations of forbears was title all-sufficient) one\nfine day the sheriff comes upon this hapless dweller on the heath and\ndrives him from his ancient habitat to wander an outcast.\n\nSuch are the blessings of education.\n\nMankind invents a written sign to aid its intercommunication; and\nforthwith all manner of miracles are wrought with the sign. Even such a\nmiracle as that a part of the solid earth passes under the mastery of an\nimpotent sheet of paper; and a distant bit of animated flesh which\nnever even saw the ground, acquires the power to expel hundreds,\nthousands, of like bits of flesh, though they grew upon that ground as\nthe trees grow, labored it with their hands, and fertilized it with\ntheir bones for a thousand years.\n\n\"This law of unappropriated lands,\" says William Archer, \"has covered\nthe country with Naboth's Vineyards.\" I think it would require a\nBiblical prophet to describe the \"abomination of desolation\" it has\nmade.\n\nIt was to become lords of this desolation that the men who play the\ngame--landlords who are at the same time governors and magistrates,\nenterprising capitalists seeking investments--connived at the iniquities\nof the Diaz regime; I will go further and say devised them.\n\nThe Madero family alone owns some 8,000 square miles of territory; more\nthan the entire state of New Jersey. The Terrazas family, in the state\nof Chihuahua, owns 25,000 square miles; rather more than the entire\nstate of West Virginia, nearly one-half the size of Illinois. What was\nthe plantation owning of our southern states in chattel slavery days,\ncompared with this? And the peon's share for his toil upon these great\nestates is hardly more than was the chattel slave's--wretched housing,\nwretched food, and wretched clothing.\n\nIt is to slaves like these that Madero appeals to be \"frugal.\"\n\nIt is of men who have thus been disinherited that our complacent\nfellow-citizens of Anglo-Saxon origin, say: \"Mexicans! What do you know\nabout Mexicans? Their whole idea of life is to lean up against a fence\nand smoke cigarettes\". And pray, what idea of life should a people have\nwhose means of life in their own way have been taken from them? Should\nthey be so mighty anxious to convert their strength into wealth for\nsome other man to loll in?\n\nIt reminds me very much of the answer given by a negro employee on the\nworks at Fortress Monroe to a companion of mine who questioned him\ngood-humoredly on his easy idleness when the foreman's back was turned.\n\"Ah ain't goin' to do no white man's work, fo' Ah don' get no white\nman's pay.\"\n\nBut for the Yaquis, there was worse than this. Not only were their lands\nseized, but they were ordered, a few years since, to be deported to\nYucatan. Now Sonora, as I said, is a northern state, and Yucatan one of\nthe southernmost. Yucatan hemp is famous, and so is Yucatan fever, and\nYucatan slavery on the hemp plantations. It was to that fever and that\nslavery that the Yaquis were deported, in droves of hundreds at a time,\nmen, women and children--droves like cattle droves, driven and beaten\nlike cattle. They died there, like flies, as it was meant they should.\nSonora was desolated of her rebellious people, and the land became\n\"pacific\" in the hands of the new landowners. Too pacific in spots. They\nhad not left people enough to reap the harvests.\n\nThen the government suspended the deportation act, but with the\nprovision that for every crime committed by a Yaqui, five hundred of his\npeople be deported. This statement is made in Madero's own book.\n\nNow what in all conscience would any one with decent human feeling\nexpect a Yaqui to do? Fight! As long as there was powder and bullet to\nbe begged, borrowed, or stolen; as long as there is a garden to plunder,\nor a hole in the hills to hide in!\n\nWhen the revolution burst out, the Yaquis and other Indian peoples, said\nto the revolutionists: \"Promise us our lands back, and we will fight\nwith you.\" And they are keeping their word, magnificently. All during\nthe summer they have kept up the warfare. Early in September, the\nChihuahua papers reported a band of 1,000 Yaquis in Sonora about to\nattack El Anil; a week later 500 Yaquis had seized the former quarters\nof the federal troops at Pitahaya. This week it is reported that federal\ntroops are dispatched to Ponoitlan, a town in Jalisco, to quell the\nIndians who have risen in revolt again because their delusion that the\nMaderist government was to restore their land has been dispelled. Like\nreports from Sinaloa. In the terrible state of Yucatan, the Mayas are in\nactive rebellion; the reports say that \"the authorities and leading\ncitizens of various towns have been seized by the malcontents and put in\nprison.\" What is more interesting is, that the peons have seized not\nonly \"the leading citizens,\" but still more to the purpose have seized\nthe plantations, parceled them, and are already gathering the crops for\nthemselves.\n\nOf course, it is not the pure Indians alone who form the peon class of\nMexico. Rather more than double the number of Indians are mixed breeds;\nthat is, about 8,000,000, leaving less than 3,000,000 of pure white\nstock.\n\nThe mestiza, or mixed breed population, have followed the communistic\ninstincts and customs of their Indian forbears; while from the Latin\nside of their make-up, they have certain tendencies which work well\ntogether with their Indian hatred of authority.\n\nThe mestiza, as well as the Indians, are mostly ignorant in\nbook-knowledge, only about sixteen per cent. of the whole population of\nMexico being able to read and write. It was not within the program of\nthe \"civilizing\" regime to spend money in putting the weapon of learning\nin the people's hands. But to conclude that people are necessarily\nunintelligent because they are illiterate, is in itself a rather\nunintelligent proceeding.\n\nMoreover, a people habituated to the communal customs of an ancient\nagricultural life do not need books or papers to tell them that the soil\nis the source of wealth, and they must \"get back to the land,\" even if\ntheir intelligence is limited.\n\nAccordingly, they have got back to the land. In the state of Morelos,\nwhich is a small, south-central state, but a very important one--being\nnext to the Federal District, and by consequence to the city of\nMexico--there has been a remarkable land revolution. General Zapata,\nwhose name has figured elusively in newspaper reports now as having made\npeace with Madero, then as breaking faith, next wounded and killed, and\nagain resurrected and in hiding, then anew on the warpath and proclaimed\nby the provisional government the arch-rebel who must surrender\nunconditionally and be tried by court-martial; who has seized the\nstrategic points on both the railroads running through Morelos, and who\njust a few days ago broke into the federal district, sacked a town,\nfought successfully at two or three points, with the federals, blew out\ntwo railroad bridges and so frightened the deputies in Mexico City that\nthey are clamoring for all kinds of action; this Zapata, the fires of\nwhose military camps are springing up now in Guerrero, Oaxaca and Puebla\nas well, is an Indian with a long score to pay, and all an Indian's\nsatisfaction in paying it. He appears to be a fighter of the style of\nour revolutionary Marion and Sumter; the country in which he is\noperating is mountainous, and guerilla bands are exceedingly difficult\nof capture; even when they are defeated, they have usually succeeded in\ninflicting more damage than they have received, and they always get\naway.\n\nZapata has divided up the great estates of Morelos from end to end,\ntelling the peasants to take possession. They have done so. They are in\npossession, and have already harvested their crops. Morelos has a\npopulation of some 212,000.\n\nIn Puebla reports in September told us that eighty leading citizens had\nwaited on the governor to protest against the taking possession of the\nland by the peasantry. The troops were deserting, taking horses and arms\nwith them. It is they no doubt who are now fighting with Zapata. In\nChihuahua, one of the largest states, prisons have been thrown open and\nthe prisoners recruited as rebels; a great hacienda was attacked and the\nhorses run off, whereupon the peons rose and joined the attacking party.\nIn Sinaloa, a rich northern state--famous in the southwestern United\nStates some years ago as the field of a great co-operative experiment in\nwhich Mr. C. B. Hoffman, one of the former editors of _The Chicago Daily\nSocialist,_ was a leading spirit--this week's paper reports that the\nformer revolutionary general, Juan Banderas, is heading an insurrection\nsecond in importance only to that led by Zapata.\n\nIn the southern border state of Chiapas, the taxes in many places could\nnot be collected. Last week news items said that the present government\nhad sent General Paz there, with federal troops, to remedy that state of\naffairs. In Tabasco, the peons refused to harvest the crops for their\nmasters; let us hope they have imitated their brothers in Morelos and\ngathered them for themselves.\n\nThe Maderists have announced that a stiff repressive campaign will be\ninaugurated at once; if we are to believe the papers, we are to believe\nMadero guilty of the imbecility of saying, \"Five days after my\ninauguration the rebellion will be crushed.\" Just why the crushing has\nto wait till five days after the inauguration does not appear. I\nconceive there must have been some snickering among the reactionary\ndeputies if such an announcement was really made; and some astonished\nquery among his followers.\n\nWhat are we to conclude from all these reports? That the Mexican people\nare satisfied? That it's all good and settled? What should we think if\nwe read that the people, not of Lower but of Upper, California had\nturned out the ranch owners, had started to gather in the field products\nfor themselves and that the Secretary of War had sent United States\ntroops to attack some thousands of armed men (Zapata has had 3,000 under\narms the whole summer and that force is now greatly increased) who were\ndefending that expropriation? if we read that in the state of Illinois\nthe farmers had driven off the tax collector? that the coast states were\ntalking of secession and forming an independent combination? that in\nPennsylvania a division of the federal army was to be dispatched to\noverpower a rebel force of fifteen hundred armed men doing guerilla work\nfrom the mountains? that the prison doors of Maryland, within hailing\ndistance of Washington City, were being thrown open by armed revoltees?\nShould we call it a condition of peace? Regard it a proof that the\npeople were appeased? We would not: we would say that revolution was in\nfull swing. And the reason you have thought it was all over in Mexico,\nfrom last May till now, is that the Chicago press, like the eastern,\nnorthern, and central press in general, has said nothing about this\nsteady march of revolt. Even _The Socialist_ has been silent. Now that\nthe flame has shot up more spectacularly for the moment, they call it \"a\nnew revolution.\"\n\nThat the papers pursue this course is partly due to the generally acting\ncauses that produce our northern indifference, which I shall presently\ntry to explain, and partly to the settled policy of capitalized interest\nin controlling its mouthpieces in such a manner as to give their present\nhenchmen, the Maderists, a chance to pull their chestnuts out of the\nfire. They invested some $10,000,000 in this bunch, in the hope that\nthey may be able to accomplish the double feat of keeping capitalist\npossessions intact and at the same time pacifying the people with\nspecious promises. They want to lend them all the countenance they can,\ntill the experiment is well tried; so they deliberately suppress\nrevolutionary news.\n\nAmong the later items of interest reported by the _Los Angeles Times_\nare those which announce an influx of ex-officials and many-millioned\nlandlords of Mexico, who are hereafter to be residents of Los Angeles.\nWhat is the meaning of it? Simply that life in Mexico is not such a safe\nand comfortable proposition as it was, and that for the present they\nprefer to get such income as their agents can collect without themselves\nrunning the risk of actual residence.\n\nOf course it is understood that some of this notable efflux (the\nsupporters of Reyes, for example, who have their own little rebellions\nin Tabasco and San Luis Potosi this week) are political reactionists,\nscheming to get back the political loaves and fishes into their own\nhands. But most are simply those who know that their property right is\nsafe enough to be respected by the Maderist government, but that the\nsaid government is not strong enough to put down the innumerable\nmanifestations of popular hatred which are likely to terminate fatally\nto themselves if they remain there.\n\nNor is all of this fighting revolutionary; not by any means. Some is\nreactionary, some probably the satisfaction of personal grudge, much, no\ndoubt, the expression of general turbulency of a very unconscious\nnature. But granting all that may be thrown in the balance, the main\nthing, the mighty thing, the regenerative revolution is the\n_Reappropriation of the land by the peasants._ Thousands upon thousands\nof them are doing it.\n\nIgnorant peasants: peasants who know nothing about the jargon of land\nreformers or of Socialists. Yes: that's just the glory of it! Just the\nfact that it is done by ignorant people; that is, people ignorant of\nbook theories; but _not_ ignorant, not so ignorant by half, of life on\nthe land, as the theory-spinners of the cities. Their minds are simple\nand direct; they act accordingly. For them, there is _one way_ to \"get\nback to the land\"; i. e., to ignore the machinery of paper land-holding\n(in many instances they have burned the records of the title-deeds) and\nproceed to plough the ground, to sow and plant and gather, and _keep the\nproduct themselves_.\n\nEconomists, of course, will say that these ignorant people, with their\nprimitive institutions and methods, will not develop the agricultural\nresources of Mexico, and that they must give way before those who will\nso develop its resources; that such is the law of human development.\n\nIn the first place, the abominable political combination, which gave\naway, as recklessly as a handful of soap-bubbles, the agricultural\nresources of Mexico--gave them away to the millionaire speculators who\nwere to _develop the country_--were the educated men of Mexico. And this\nis what they saw fit to do with their higher intelligence and education.\nSo the ignorant may well distrust the good intentions of educated men\nwho talk about improvements in land development.\n\nIn the second place, capitalistic land-ownership, so far from developing\nthe land in such a manner as to support a denser population, has\ndepopulated whole districts, immense districts.\n\nIn the third place, what the economists do not say is, that the only\njustification for intense cultivation of the land is, that the product\nof such cultivation may build up the bodies of men (by consequence their\nsouls) to richer and fuller manhood. It is not merely to pile up figures\nof so many million bushels of wheat and corn produced in a season; but\nthat this wheat and corn shall first go into the stomachs of those who\nplanted it--and in abundance; to build up the brawn and sinew of the\narms that work the ground, not meanly maintaining them in a half-starved\ncondition. And second, to build up the strength of the rest of the\nnation who are willing to give needed labor in exchange. But never to\nincrease the fortunes of idlers who dissipate it. This is the purpose,\nand the only purpose, of tilling soil; and the working of it for any\nother purpose is _waste_, waste both of land and of men.\n\nIn the fourth place, no change ever was, or ever can be, worked out in\nany society, except by the mass of the people. Theories may be\npropounded by educated people, and set down in books, and discussed in\nlibraries, sitting-rooms and lecture-halls; but they will remain barren,\nunless the people in mass work them out. If the change proposed is such\nthat it is not adaptable to the minds of the people for whose ills it is\nsupposed to be a remedy, then it will remain what it was, a barren\ntheory.\n\nNow the conditions in Mexico have been and are so desperate that some\nchange is imperative. The action of the peasants proves it. Even if a\nstrong military dictator shall arise, he will have to allow some\nprovision going towards peasant proprietorship. These unlettered, but\ndetermined, people must be dealt with _now_; there is no such thing as\n\"waiting till they are educated up to it.\" Therefore the wisdom of the\neconomists is wisdom out of place--rather, _relative unwisdom_. The\npeople never _can_ be educated, if their conditions are to remain what\nthey were under the Diaz regime. Bodies and minds are both too\nimpoverished to be able to profit by a spread of theoretical education,\neven if it did not require unavailable money and indefinite time to\nprepare such a spread. Whatever economic change is wrought, then, must\nbe such as the people in their present state of comprehension can\nunderstand and make use of. And we see by the reports what they\nunderstand. They understand they have a right upon the soil, a right to\nuse it for themselves, a right to drive off the invader who has robbed\nthem, to destroy landmarks and title-deeds, to ignore the taxgatherer\nand his demands.\n\nAnd however primitive their agricultural methods may be, one thing is\nsure; that they are more economical than any system which heaps up\nfortunes by destroying men.\n\nMoreover, who is to say how they may develop their methods once they\nhave a free opportunity to do so? It is a common belief of the\nAnglo-Saxon that the Indian is essentially lazy. The reasons for his\nthinking so are two: under the various tyrannies and robberies which\nwhite men in general, and Anglo-Saxons in particular (they have even\ngone beyond the Spaniard) have inflicted upon Indians, there is no\npossible reason why an Indian should want to work, save the idiotic one\nthat work in itself is a virtuous and exalted thing, even if by it the\nworker increases the power of his tyrant. As William Archer says: \"If\nthere are men, _and this is not denied_, who work for no wage, and with\nno prospect or hope of any reward, it would be curious to know by what\nmotive other than the lash or the fear of the lash, they are induced to\ngo forth to their labor in the morning.\" The second reason is, that an\nIndian really has a different idea of what he is alive for than an\nAnglo-Saxon has. And so have the Latin peoples. This different idea is\nwhat I meant when I said that the mestiza have certain tendencies\ninherited from the Latin side of their make-up which work well together\nwith their Indian hatred of authority. The Indian likes to _live_; to be\nhis own master; to work when he pleases and stop when he pleases. He\ndoes not crave many things, but he craves the enjoyment of the things\nthat he has. He feels himself more a part of nature than a white man\ndoes. All his legends are of wanderings with nature, of forests, fields,\nstreams, plants, animals. He wants to live with the same liberty as the\nother children of earth. His philosophy of work is, Work so as to live\ncare-free. This is not laziness; this is sense--to the person who has\nthat sort of make-up.\n\nYour Latin, on the other hand, also wants to live; and having artistic\nimpulses in him, his idea of living is very much in gratifying them. He\nlikes music and song and dance, picture-making, carving, and decorating.\nHe doesn't like to be forced to create his fancies in a hurry; he likes\nto fashion them, and admire them, and improve and refashion them, and\nadmire again; and all for the fun of it. If he is ordered to create a\ncertain design or a number of objects at a fixed price in a given time,\nhe loses his inspiration; the play becomes work, and hateful work. So\nhe, too, does not want to work, except what is requisite to maintain\nhimself in a position to do those things that he likes better.\n\nYour Anglo-Saxon's idea of life, however, is to create the useful and\nthe profitable--whether he has any use or profit out of it or not--and\nto keep busy, busy; to bestir himself \"like the Devil in a holy water\nfont.\" Like all other people, he makes a special virtue of his own\nnatural tendencies, and wants all the world to \"get busy\"; it doesn't so\nmuch matter to what end this business is to be conducted, provided the\nindividual--_scrabbles_. Whenever a true Anglo-Saxon seeks to enjoy\nhimself, he makes work out of that too, after the manner of a certain\nvenerable English shopkeeper who in company with his son visited the\nLouvre. Being tired out with walking from room to room, consulting his\ncatalogue, and reading artists' names, he dropped down to rest; but\nafter a few moments rose resolutely and faced the next room, saying,\n\"Well, Alfred, we'd better be getting through our work.\"\n\nThere is much question as to the origin of the various instincts. Most\npeople have the impression that the chief source of variation lies in\nthe difference in the amount of sunlight received in the native\ncountries inhabited of the various races. Whatever the origin is, these\nare the broadly marked tendencies of the people. And \"Business\" seems\nbent not only upon fulfilling its own fore-ordained destiny, but upon\nmaking all the others fulfill it too. Which is both unjust and stupid.\nThere is room enough in the world for the races to try out their several\ntendencies and make their independent contributions to the achievements\nof humanity, without imposing them on those who revolt at them.\n\nGranting that the population of Mexico, if freed from this foreign\n\"busy\" idea which the government imported from the north and imposed on\nthem with such severity in the last forty years, would not immediately\nadopt improved methods of cultivation, even when they should have free\nopportunity to do so, still we have no reason to conclude that they\nwould not adopt so much of it as would fit _their_ idea of what a man is\nalive for; and if that actually proved good, it would introduce still\nfurther development. So that there would be a natural, and therefore\nsolid, economic growth which would stick; while a forced development of\nit through the devastation of the people is no true growth. The only way\nto make it go, is to kill out the Indians altogether, and transport the\n\"busy\" crowd there, and then keep on transporting for several\ngenerations, to fill up the ravages the climate will make on such an\nimported population.\n\nThe Indian population of our states was in fact dealt with in this\nmurderous manner. I do not know how grateful the reflection may be to\nthose who materially profited by its extermination; but no one who looks\nforward to the final unification and liberation of man, to the\nincorporation of the several goodnesses of the various races in the one\nuniversal race, can ever read those pages of our history without burning\nshame and fathomless regret.\n\nI have spoken of the meaning of revolution in general; of the meaning of\nthe Mexican revolution--chiefly an agrarian one; of its present\ncondition. I think it should be apparent to you that in spite of the\nelectoral victory of the now ruling power, it has not put an end even to\nthe armed rebellion, and cannot, until it proposes some plan of land\nrestoration; and that it not only has no inward disposition to do, but\nprobably would not dare to do, in view of the fact that immense capital\nfinanced it into power.\n\nAs to what amount of popular sentiment was actually voiced in the\nelection, it is impossible to say. The dailies informed us that in the\nFederal District where there are 1,000,000 voters, the actual vote was\nless than 450,000.\n\nThey offered no explanation. It is impossible to explain it on the\nground that we explain a light vote in our own communities, that the\npeople are indifferent to public questions; for the people of Mexico are\nnot now _indifferent_, whatever else they may be. Two explanations are\npossible: the first, and most probable, that of _governmental_\nintimidation; the second, that the people are convinced of the\nuselessness of voting as a means of settling their troubles. In the less\nthickly populated agricultural states, _this is_ very largely the case;\nthey are relying upon direct revolutionary action. But although there\nwas guerilla warfare in the Federal District, even before the election,\nI find it unlikely that more than half the voting population there\nabstained from voting out of conviction, though I should be glad to be\nable to believe they did.\n\nHowever, Madero and his aids are in, as was expected; the question is,\nhow will they stay in? As Diaz did, and in no other way--if they succeed\nin developing Diaz's sometime ability; which so far they are wide from\nhaving done, though they are resorting to the most vindictive and\nspiteful tactics in their persecution of the genuine revolutionists,\nwherever such come near their clutch.\n\nTo this whole turbulent situation three outcomes are possible:\n\n1. A military dictator must arise, with sense enough to make some\nsubstantial concessions, and ability enough to pursue the crushing\npolicy ably; or\n\n2. The United States must intervene in the interests of American\ncapitalists and landholders, in case the peasant revolt is not put down\nby the Maderist power. And that will be the worst thing that can\npossibly happen, and against which every worker in the United States\nshould protest with all his might; or\n\n3. The Mexican peasantry will be successful, and freedom in land become\nan actual fact. And that means the death-knell of great land-holding in\nthis country also, for what people is going to see its neighbor enjoy so\ngreat a triumph, and sit on tamely itself under landlordism?\n\nWhatever the outcome be, one thing is certain: it is a _great_ movement,\nwhich all the people of the world should be eagerly watching. Yet as I\nsaid at the beginning, the majority of our population know no more about\nit than of a revolt on the planet Jupiter. First because they are so,\nso, _busy_; they scarcely have time to look over the baseball score and\nthe wrestling match; how _could_ they read up on a revolution! Second,\nthey are supremely egotistic and concerned in their own big country with\nits big deeds--such as divorce scandals, vice-grafting, and auto races.\nThird, they do not read Spanish, and they have an ancient hostility to\nall that smells Spanish. Fourth, from our cradles we were told that\nwhatever happened in Mexico was a joke. Revolutions, or rather\nrebellions, came and went, about like April showers, and they never\nmeant anything serious. And in this indeed there was only too much\ntruth--it was usually an excuse for one place-hunter to get another\none's scalp. And lastly, as I have said, the majority of our people do\nnot know that a revolution means a fundamental change in social life,\nand not a spectacular display of armies.\n\nIt is not much a few can do to remove this mountain of indifference; but\nto me it seems that every reformer, of whatever school, should wish to\nwatch this movement with the most intense interest, as a practical\nmanifestation of a wakening of the landworkers themselves to the\nrecognition of what all schools of revolutionary economics admit to be\nthe primal necessity--the social repossession of the land.\n\nAnd whether they be victorious or defeated, I, for one, bow my head to\nthose heroic strugglers, no matter how ignorant they are, who have\nraised the cry Land and Liberty, and planted the blood-red banner on the\nburning soil of Mexico.\n\n\n\n\nThomas Paine\n\n\nTo speak of Thomas Paine is to mention in one breath daring tempered by\njudgment, courage both mental and physical, foresight and prudence\ncoupled with unstinted generosity, patience and endurance for the long\nrace, constancy to the unwon ideal, that superior power over men,\nconferred by no extrinsic dictum, typified best perhaps by the\nloadstone, which always bursts forth in times of revolution from the\nunexpected place, the unbought and the unsought glory of the man who is\na hero because a hero is required and does not measure his services nor\nreckon on their reward; not that he underrates himself; (it is as\nimpossible as it is undesirable that a powerful personality should not\nknow itself as such) but simply that in the moment of decisions the\nvalue of self is abandoned. So far as any or all of these qualities are\nconcerned Thomas Paine is a name for them all, in their highest\nexpression. And one feels in approaching him that there is something\nlike treason in paying him any but a perfect tribute. Yet such is the\nposition into which I am forced,--to say less than I should, less than I\nwould had not words and the art of using them almost failed me.\n\nI do not like lecturers who come before the public with apologies, nor\ndo I propose to make any; I simply say this to let you know that I shall\nfeel, perhaps more keenly than any of you, my failure to do Paine\njustice. For the half century that his history has been being unmined\nfrom the cellar of calumny and filth that the orthodox had cast upon it,\nunmined chiefly by small groups of freethinkers scattered here and there\nand spreading his words among men, like the little foxes with the\nfirebrands going in among the corn, the principal endeavor has been to\nestablish Paine's reputation as a great reformer in religion. And such\nhe undoubtedly was. Whoever reads his \"Age of Reason\" in anything but a\nspirit of predisposition against it, must feel this, however much he may\ndisagree with Paine's criticism, or consider that he has come short in\nhis constructive philosophy. And it is meet, too, that the book that\ncost him most, both before and after death, should be the one selected\nfor defense. Nevertheless the effect has been rather to lose sight of\nwhat appear to me greater thoughts and acts. For just as the orthodox\nhave forgotten, so have many freethinkers forgotten, his immense labors\nin the field of active struggle against the domination of man by man. It\nis true that his mind did not transcend the mental vesture of the time,\nand it was all the better in one of his marvelous capacities for\n_swinging_ masses of men that it did not. The lonely heralds of the\nopening dawn go upon their paths solitary; no matter how much they\ndesire to draw others with them, they cannot. And had Paine been one of\nthese that break through the forms of thought such as was Copernicus, or\nKant, or Darwin, he would have been at constant war with himself. Half\nhis nature would have chosen the lonely path; the other half, the\nzealot, the propagandist, would have cried out, they _must_ go with me;\nI must do something to make them _go with_ me. Now the secret of Paine's\nsuccess was that he was so thoroughly at one with himself, he believed\nso utterly what he preached, he had faith, he hoped, and so strongly\nthat others were drawn to believe and to hope. For spite of all\nintellectual pride this is the man whom we love and admire; this is the\nman who overcomes us, who gets his way; this man consistent in himself,\nwho has a remedy for the world's wrongs and hopes _everything_ from it!\n\nFrom the point of vantage of 100 years' experience it is seen that\nPaine's political creed, like his religious one, will no longer fit. But\nthat does not matter. Neither will ours fit in a hundred years, and none\nof us, no, not one, is great enough to foresee where the misfit will\narise. It is not our business to bear the evils of the thrice unborn\nupon our necks; nor was it Paine's to bear ours.\n\nYet while not claiming for him the prophetic gift, it is still true that\nhe did see the moral patchwork in our constitution, the trouble of 1812\nbrewing, and the greater trouble of '61-'65.\n\nWhen he first came to this country he wrote a number of contributions to\nthe _Pennsylvania Magazine_, in one of which he pleaded justice for the\nnegro, basing his plea then as always upon the natural equality of man\nirrespective of color. Afterwards when the constitution was framed, he\nobjected that nothing had been done for the negro, and in his letters to\nthe American people, written after his imprisonment in France, in which\nthe constitution was caustically reviewed, he cries out again for this\nyoked man not yet to be freed for more than half a hundred\nyears,--foreseeing that nothing good can in the end come from slavery,\nthat every evil must bring a compensating evil. The soldiers' graves in\nthe National cemeteries, the thousands of limping, haggard tatters and\nrags of white men attest how well Paine foresaw Time's revenges.\n\nIn the letter to Washington, partially unjust as it is in view of the\nfact that Gouverneur Morris and not Washington was responsible for the\nfailure to save Paine from prison in France, as we now know, thanks to\nMoncure Conway, but which Paine did _not_ know,--in this letter, I\nsay, will be found the most terrible arraignment of the constitution\never penned. We who are Anarchists are called traitors for much calmer\ntalk. Yet here was the man \"whose pen had done more for the revolution\nthan Washington's sword,\" as his bitterest enemy declared; who believed\nheart and soul in the republic, who had given his money and his\nsubstance and taken the chances of his life in battle for it; the man\nwhose devotion to America could not be gainsaid; this man declared\nthat the American constitution was the mirror of the most vicious\nfeatures of the British constitution, a fecund soil for monopolies\nwith all their ills. It is we who experience those ills, we who know\nwhat a gigantic tool of oppression the constitution and the cumbersome\nmachinery of the lawmaking power have become. Yet probably even we do\nnot feel so keenly as he the fatal blunder; for while we know how it\ngrinds us in our flesh and souls, rears its prisons and scaffolds for\nus, we have had the yoke about our necks always,--while he _had once\nseen_ the country free. He had been through all the battle, had fought\nhis fight and won his victory, only to see it lost through cowardice\nof thought. That was indeed bitter; and it is that bitter outcry\nagainst this sacrifice which marks Paine out among most of his time for\ninfluence on future history. The fact that he was the initiator of the\ndirect movement for political independence in America, in the famous\nmeeting where Adams, Franklin and Washington all shrank from uttering\nthe thought heavy upon their souls, is a matter of past history. The\nfact that he was the one man in America to write the right thing at\nthe right time, his voice the wind to sweep the scattering flames\nof insubordination and revolt into the conflagration of revolution;\nthe fact that he proposed and headed with the whole contents of his\npurse the subscription to save the army when even Washington was in\ndespair at the prospect of mutiny and desertion among the soldiers;\nthe fact that he raised all the feeling possible against the fiction\nof divine rights and so got himself hunted out of England; the fact\nthat he took the most active part possible in aiding the work of the\nFrench revolutionists, which he believed would be the beginning of the\nbreakdown of monarchy throughout Europe and the building up either\nof one universal continental republic or a confederation of sister\nrepublics; the fact that he was the one man in the convention who\ndared to stand for the life of Louis the XVI, and thereby got himself\nsuspected, thrown into prison, and condemned to death--all these facts\nare of import in reading the character of the man, and in comprehending\nthe record of those days when they were making history fast. Yet none\nof these has so much influence upon the demands of to-day as the voice\nof discontent crying for eternal vigilance, which sounds through these\nalmost unknown letters. These are the things which it will pay to\nreprint in the day when American liberty feels in its tomb the first\nstirrings of the resurrection. Did we like Paine believe in God, we\nmight say \"Pray God it may not be far away.\"\n\nSuch are the characters whose historic influence is greatest; they who\nhew, and hew hard to the line laid down for them by the events of their\ntime; yet are not blinded by the stir and roll of things; who see\nclearly where the deflection from the line is likely to occur, and where\nit will lead; who raise the warning treble that goes shrilling to the\nfuture, startling, waking with its eerie cry custom-dulled ears, and\nsodden souls, who start to ask, was it not a ghost of the Revolution? In\nthat day which may not be so distant as we fear, Paine will be more\nalive than ever; he will be watching at a million firesides with the old\nkeen, strong eyes.\n\nWhile I have deprecated the fact that the religious reformer has been\nexalted to the neglect of the political one, I cannot omit that part of\nhis life-work so well-known to all, yet never old. The \"Age of Reason\"\nhas long been both exaggerated and despised as an iconoclastic work. But\nwe are indebted to Conway, the greatest of Paine students, who out of\nthe many biographies he has written has chosen that of Paine to be the\nmaster-piece of his life (and it is a work which any author might be\nproud to regard his master-piece), to him I say we are indebted for a\ndifferent view of the \"Age of Reason.\"\n\nI know not whether Mr. Conway's own Unitarian bias may not have\ninfluenced him; it is possible. It is possible that his eager search for\npositivism may have unconsciously determined his attitude towards the\ngreat hero, and modified his interpretation of Paine's words. I believe\nit has; because I believe _that_ is inevitable. I believe we read our\nown ideals into other people, and must do so if we think at all. But\nmaking all allowance for the biographer's prejudgment, Conway has still\na magnificent argument for putting Paine in the defendant's position. We\nare no longer to view the book as an attack upon religion but as its\ndefense,--the defense of what is beneficial, permanent, necessary, in\nthe religious element of human nature against the scribes and pharisees\non the one hand and the philistines on the other. It was the plea for\nthe redemption of the edifice from the dirt and cobwebs, the protest\nagainst smashing the stones to kill the spiders. The great prerequisite\nto the understanding of the \"Age of Reason\" is an acquaintance with the\nliterature of that time--especially French literature. The pamphlets,\nperiodicals, and books are the crystals wherein _the Zeitgeist_ of the\n18th century is preserved. Without this acquaintance we cannot realize\nhow the people continually thought, and what was new and what was old,\nwhat was acceptable and what unacceptable to them. And we shall find by\nit that the fashion of sneering popularized by Voltaire, and so\nadmirably embodied by the _finesse_ of the French language (always a\nlanguage of double meanings and hemi-demi-semi-shaded insinuations), the\nstill more reprehensible habit of deducing immense generals from very\nscanty particulars, or in fact contriving the generals first and then\nfitting in or suavely waiving the particulars altogether, had so\npermeated not only French philosophy, but the heads of the common people\nas well, that religion had become almost a byword, a baseless\nsuperstition unaccounted for by, and unnecessary according to, the\nall-accepted theory of Natural Law. To defend it, to maintain that there\nwas something else in it, was equivalent to pleading for the life of the\nKing before the convention! That was to maintain that there were claims\nof the human--after the King had been stripped; this was to say that\nunderneath the gewgaws and tinsel of religions the undying heart of man,\nthe man of all the past, had been expressing its noblest aspirations.\nAnd Paine stripped off the tinsel and said, \"Put your hand here,--it\nbeats\"; and because he tore the tinsel, the orthodox would have stoned\nhim; and because he said \"it beats,\" the philosophers would have whetted\nthe knife. And between the two he stood firm, proclaiming what he\nbelieved, not counting the cost. We may not believe as he; most of us do\nnot. But that is the man we love: who has something in him superior to\nthe judgments of men; who holds steadfast--steadfast even in\npersecution, even to death.\n\nPerhaps there is no more pathetic thing than the last years, the death,\nand the burial of Paine. The world would have been poorer had he died\nsooner; but to him, to the man, the gun-shot or the guillotine had been\nkinder than the unhappy life rejected by the nation he had given all to\nfree, shunned by political cowards and persecuted by religious\nbigots,--even on his death-bed. But though so lonely, so pathetically\nlonely, there is something that sends a fine, cold thrill along the\nnerves in that strange procession and burial--that poor procession, that\nprocession of the Hicksite Quaker, the two negroes, the widowed\nFrenchwoman and her son. I wonder what sort of day it was; whether the\nsun shone or the clouds lowered over the solitary grave on the little\nfarm, when Margaret Bonneville said to her child, \"Stand you there at\nhis feet, for France; and I will here, for America.\" I do not know where\nthe negroes and the Hicksite stood when that august corpse was lowered\nto the depths, but there, close, somewhere, stood the unfreed race, for\nwhom he had vainly plead, and there, close, somewhere, the soul's revolt\nat spiritual masters. And from that tomb there went away the scattering\nfires, of the risen ghost, the '61 living Paine, the Grand Reality.\n\n\n\n\nDyer D. Lum\n(February 15, 1839--April 6, 1893)\n\n\nOne of the silent martyrs whose graves are trodden to the level by their\nfellows' feet, almost before it is seen that they have fallen, completed\nhis martyrdom one year ago to-night.\n\nThere are thousands of such, why then commemorate this one?\n\nLet our answer be that in this one we commemorate all the others, and if\nwe have chosen his day and name, it is because his genius, his work, his\ncharacter was one of those rare gems produced in the great mine of\nsuffering and flashing backward with all its changing lights the hopes,\nthe fears, the gaieties, the griefs, the dreams, the doubts, the loves,\nthe hates, the sum of that which is buried, low down there, in the human\nmine.\n\nNo more modest a man than Dyer D. Lum ever lived; partly, nay mostly,\nindeed, it was inborn, instinctive; but it was also fostered by his\nconception of life, which led him to consider self as the veriest of\nsoap-bubbles, a thing to be dispelled by the merest whiff of wind, so to\nspeak; and therefore, personal recognition or personal gain as the most\nsilly, as well as unworthy, of motives. For this reason his works have\noften gone where his name did not, and thousands of persons have been\ninfluenced by his logic and his sentiments who never heard of his\npersonality. Indeed there were some of us who wondered when he died,\nwhat certain labor leaders would henceforth do for a cheap scribe to\nfurnish them brains.\n\nI have often heard him quote as his motto, both for organization and for\nliterary effort, the expressive sentence: \"_Get in your work._\" \"Let\nfools take the credit if they want it,\" was the implication of his tone,\nand I shall never forget the delightful smile with which he repeated\nCharles Mackay's lines, most singularly transposing the author's\nmeaning: \"Grub little moles----.\" He took an especial pleasure in\ngrubbing, and smiling when a streak of sunlight fell on some one else.\n\nI have said that this distinguishing characteristic, so fruitful in\nresults in his later life, was partly instinctive and partly a\nphilosophic conviction. The instinctive side may be best understood by a\nbrief sketch of his ancestry. It is generally complained that the\ntroublesome people who are never satisfied to let society alone, must\nnecessarily be foreigners; at least they can never belong to the same\nnation as we, the good, the respectable. The easy method of laying\neverything pestilent to the charge of the foreigner, will not serve a\nconservative American against Dyer D. Lum. The first of the Lums to set\nfoot in this country was Samuel L., a Scotchman, in the year 1732. They\nrooted in New England soil, and at the time of the Revolution, Dyer's\ngreat grandfather was a minute-man in the very town, Northampton, where\nhis own corpse was laid a year ago. On the maternal side the Tappan\nfamily were also revolutionists, and back of revolutionists\nReformationists in the days of Queen Elizabeth, and still back of that,\nCrusaders. All this would be important enough and indeed even\ndistinguishing, were I relating it by way of \"gilding refined gold\"; but\nthey acquire meaning the moment we regard them as data for a character.\nThey are fraught with mysterious symbolism, and he himself becomes a\nsymbol of the deep-rooted faith of humanity, when we see that\nsubterranean stream of blood running from Jerusalem through Europe and\nacross the sea to America. It shows how profound is the well-spring of\ndevotion to cause in the human heart; through how many centuries the\nspirit of rebellion lives. But what, say you, had it to do with his\ninstinctive modesty? This: _the devotee of a cause is never the devotee\nof self_.\n\nNow as to his philosophic convictions, it would be easy to deliver a\nwhole lecture upon them; and unfortunately his profoundest work on that\nsubject has not yet been printed. Of course, I can present them but\nbriefly. I must preface that, as you will no doubt observe later on, his\nbeliefs were in his own case a plain testimony to their own correctness.\nIt sounds ridiculous to say that a thing can prove itself; but you will\nunderstand me when I explain that he regarded the conscious life of man,\nwhich includes, of course, his processes of reasoning and therefore his\nphilosophy, as the merest fragment of him; that this process itself,\nwhich we are wont so fondly to consider as setting us higher than the\nbrute, is but an upgrowth of our instincts. Man, the race Man,\npsychologically as well as bodily, might be likened to a tree, which\nevery year adds small new growths whose bright green verdure opens to\nthe sunlight, while below and supporting them quivers the great dark\ngreen mass of the tree, which year after year repeats itself, whispering\nin its shadows the old whispers of the centuries. The new verdure would\nrepresent the conscious life and growth of individuals, budding upward\nin response to the conditions surrounding them and adding what tiny mite\nthey may to the experience of the race; but beneath and through, and all\nabout them rustle the traditions of the dead--dead as individuals, but\nliving, more potently living than ever, in the great trunk and branches\nof unconscious, or instinctive life. And as the shape of the newly\nbudding leaf, the shade of its green, the length of its stem, its size,\nare determined more by the nature of the tree than by surrounding\ncircumstances, so the philosophy of the individual is determined by the\ninstinctive life of the race.\n\nThe winter of death comes; the individual withers like the leaf; but the\nsmall item of growth that he has added is there, brown and barren though\nthe twig appear. From him new buds will shoot, though its own leaves\nhereafter rustle in the deep green shadows of unconsciousness. As time\npasses away useless boughs wither and die, and are stricken utterly from\nthe life of the race; such are the worthless lives, the abnormal\ngrowths, which no longer add anything either to the beauty or the\nservice of the whole.\n\nOr, to adopt one of Comrade Lum's own figures, the useless or brutish\nelements in man slowly sink down like sediment deposited by the moving\ncurrent. Now, in a case where we are able to trace a strain of blood as\nfar back as this of his, and further are able to look at the conscious\nwork of the man, and see that the one was the offspring of the other,\nmodified of course by circumstances, we are able to make the seemingly\nabsurd statement that the belief proves its own correctness.\n\nLet me particularize concerning this belief. First he was in all his\nwritings the advocate of resistance, the champion of rebellion. But long\nbefore he had reduced the matter to a syllogism, he was a resistant in\nfact. What else could you expect from the Crusader, the Reformationist,\nthe Revolutionist? It might be said by the people who believe in the\nsupreme influence of circumstances, that it was his social environment\nwhich made him such--that given the ideal social order and he would\nhave been as mild a pacificator as Jesus: which is equivalent to saying\nthat given the outward circumstances and an ear of wheat will grow from\na seed corn.\n\nLum was the resistant, the man of action; the man who while scarcely\nmore than a boy, enlisted as a volunteer in the 125th New York infantry\nto fight a cause he then deemed just; who being taken prisoner, twice\neffected his escape; who sick of the inaction of superiors, while a\nthird-time prisoner waiting to be exchanged, took his exchange in his\nown hands, at the risk of death for desertion, and within a month\nre-enlisted in the cavalry, where by sheer force of daring he rose from\nprivate to captain; the man who smashed the idol of the Greenback\nmovement, sooner than let him betray its voters, reckless himself of the\nrebound of hate from the politicians; the man who cast all business\nprospects and journalistic hopes aside as so much chaff, when he picked\nup the fallen banner of the fight in Chicago, by editing the paper of\nAlbert Parsons, then in prison and doomed to die; the man who could say\nto his well-beloved friend, when that friend asked him whether he should\npetition Governor Oglesby for his life, knowing that that petition would\nbe granted, the man who, under these circumstances could say: \"Die,\nParsons\"; the man who poor, defeated, dirty, ragged, hungry, could\nproudly refuse the proffered hand of the then king of the labor\nmovement, that king who had kept his kingdom by repudiating the martyrs\nof Chicago from the limitless height of one soul over another, answer\n\"there's blood on it, Powderly\"; the man who faced a public audience to\ndefend the shooting of Frick by Alexander Berkman, a few days after the\noccurrence, because he felt that when another has done a thing which you\napprove as leading in the direction of your own aspirations, it is your\nduty to share the effects of the counterblast his action may have\nprovoked; the man who seized the unknown Monster, Death, with a smile on\nhis lips--all of this man was germinating in the child of the pious home\nwho even when a mere boy had dared Jehovah.\n\nHaving \"weighed Him, tried Him, found Him naught,\" he threw the Jewish\nGod and cosmogony overboard with as much equanimity as he would have\neaten his dinner, and set about finding a more reasonable explanation of\nphenomena. In this, as in all other matters, the man of action has a\ncertain advantage over a pure theorist, which is this: he plunges\nimmediately into the conflict, he throws the gauntlet, rashly sometimes,\nbut boldly; he settles the question at once; if there is any suffering\nattached to the attempt, he suffers once and has done with it; while the\ntheorist, the fellow who walks tiptoe round the edge of the\nbattle-field, dies a hundred times and still suffers on.\n\nMy own conversion from orthodoxy to freethought was of this latter sort.\nI never dared God; I always tried to propitiate him with prayers and\ntears even while I was doubting his existence; I suffered hell a\nthousand times while I was wondering where it was located. But my\nteacher winked at the heavens, braved hell, and then tossed the whole\naffair aside with a joke.\n\nNevertheless, he did not, as nearly all of our modern image-breakers\nhave done, deny all religions in their entirety, because he had run a\nlance through a stuffed Mumbo-Jumbo. Indeed, the spirit of devotion to\nsomething greater than Self, which will be found as the kernel of every\nreligion, was so thoroughly in him, or indeed _was_ he himself that\nwhether he fancied himself _willing_ it or not, his inclinations\ndirected all his conscious efforts to read the riddle of life into the\nchannel of Buddhism. I do not know whether he ever accepted its\npeculiarly fanciful side or not; but if he did, it was early corrected\nby a no less characteristic trait, also an inheritance of the Tappan\nfamily, that of critical analysis. An omnivorous reader, he was always\nabreast of the times in matters of scientific discovery; and his\ninexorable logic would never have permitted him to retain a creed which\nnecessitated any doctoring of facts; he rather doctored the creed to fit\nthe facts and thus evolved a species of modern Buddhism which he called\n\"Evolutional Ethics,\" whose principles may be briefly stated as follows:\n\nMan is the continuation of the process of evolution up to date. He is\nthus united to all other products of evolution, and is governed by the\nsame laws. The two factors which determine form in the organic world are\n_adaptation_ and _inheritance_; and since evolution is no less a matter\nof psychology than physiology, the soul of man as well as the soul of\nanimals and plants, must be moulded by these factors. That inheritance\ntends to crystallize existing forms, while _adaptation_, or the\ninfluence of environment, ever tends to modification of forms, whether\nphysical or intellectual. That mind as much as body is unconscious, so\nfar as there is perfect adaptation to surroundings; and that only when\ninharmony of the organism with the environment as the result of change\nin the latter, arises, can there be _consciousness_. That this\nconsciousness is a state of pain, more or less sharply defined; and will\ncontinue to increase in intensity until the necessary adaptation is\naccomplished, when _as a result_ a feeling of satisfaction or pleasure\nwill ensue, gradually sinking into the blissful unconsciousness of\nperfect harmony. That progress thus demands this stepping constantly up\nthe rough stairway of pain; and that not even one step is passed until\nmoistened by the blood of many generations. That the path up the\nmountain side is not laid out _by_ us, but _for_ us, and that we _must_\ntravel there whether it pleases us or not. That the chances are it will\n_not_ please us; that our whole lives, in so far as they are conscious,\nwill probably be one record of never achieved struggle; and that rest\nwill come only when we descend to the unconsciousness of Death.\n\nThus he was a pessimist of the darkest hue; and yet he never wasted a\nmoment's regret on the facts. He watched this passing spectre man,\ngliding among the whirling dance of atoms, contemplated his final\nextinction with composure, sneered at metaphysicians while he himself\nwas buried in metaphysics, and cracked jokes either at his own expense\nor somebody else's.\n\nThe result of all this speculation was the conclusion that man, being a\nsocial animal, must adapt himself to social ends (not determined by him\nbut for him--unconsciously); that therefore the one who sets himself and\nhis egotistic desires against the social ideal is the supreme traitor.\nHe had a peculiar power of expressing volumes in an epithet; and the\nepithet he gave to the Egoist was \"Dung-Beetle.\" For the sake of those\nwho may not be familiar with the insect referred to, I may explain that\na dung-beetle is a sort of bug that exhibits its instincts by rolling a\nball of dung, and who sometimes appears to meditate when he rolls over\nthe ball that the universe has turned bottom up--because he has.\n\nNow, it is well known that the greater part of the reform\ncamp--particularly the Anarchistic camp--is made up of Dung-Beetles, I\nmean of Egoists; people who declare that the desire for pleasure is the\nmotive of action, who think a great deal of their egos and don't care a\nrap for society. The result was they sharpened their pencils and wrote\nscathing editorials denouncing him. To which he answered never a word.\nFirst, because he didn't consider himself worth fighting about; and\nsecond, if he had, he was altogether too good a general to do it. His\nopponents were a disputatious sort, who liked nothing better than\nargument; he knew what his enemy wanted and _didn't do it_.\n\nBut when a question worth discussing arose, then woe to those who had\ncourted the rapier of his wit, or challenged to duel with the\ndiamond-tipped dagger of his sarcasm. He could answer columns with a\nparagraph.\n\nI do not know whether this philosophy of his had crystallized in his own\nmind before he became an Anarchist or not. I believe, however, it had\nnot; I think it grew along with his other conceptions, being broadened\nand corrected, and in turn broadening and correcting his thought in\nother channels. But at any rate, fully developed or not, it certainly\ninfluenced his conclusions on economic subjects greatly. True to his\ninstincts he was always at the front of battle, and when the war closed\nhis first move was to attach himself to the Greenback party, the first\nwidespread expression of organized protest against monopoly of the means\nof production in America. He still had faith in the saving grace of\npolitics, and was active enough in the agitation to be nominated for\nLieut. Governor of Massachusetts with Wendell Phillips for Governor. The\nfight, which besides being a demand for fiat money, embodied a\nshort-hour movement, took on a national character; and Dyer D. Lum with\nfive others, including Albert R. Parsons, was appointed on a committee\nto push the matter before Congress. This was in 1880. Six years later,\ntime and the tide had driven both of them into the great current of\nSocialism, and final repudiation of politics as a means of attaining\nSocialistic ideals. And here came in the philosophy of the unconscious.\nThe socialization of industry was the next step up the mountain side,\nnot because men wished or planned it; but the pressure of surroundings\nmade it the only possible move; but on the other hand the reactionary,\nsystem-building Socialism advocated by the great master Marx, and all\nhis train of little repeaters, was seen to be at variance with a no less\nmarked feature of the evolving social ideal, viz., elasticity, mobility,\nconstantly increasing differentiation; which is only possible when units\nof society are left free to adapt themselves to the slightest changes,\nunforced by the opinions of other people who know nothing of the matters\nin question, but who, being in the majority (for where is ignorance not\nin the majority?) could suppress the free movements of the minority by\nenacting their ignorance into laws.\n\nThus it will be seen that he looked forward to free Socialism as the\nindustrial ideal; the requirements of that ideal are laid down in his\n\"Economics of Anarchy.\"\n\nA few of his caustic sentences may here be quoted:\n\n\"The Statist assumes that rights increase in some metaphysical manner,\nand become incarnate in half the whole plus one.\"\n\n\"Politics discovers wisdom by taking a general poll of ignorance.\"\n\n\"Every appeal to legislation to do aught but _undo_ is as futile as\nsending a flag of truce to the enemy for munitions of war.\"\n\n\"When Caesar conquered Greece, he subjugated Olympus, and the Gods now\nmeasure tape behind counters with Christian decorum.\"\n\nLum had faith in humankind. He always trusted the people; the people\nthat maligned him, the people that injured him, the people that killed\nhim. When I asked him once why he did not get angry at an individual who\nindustriously circulated lies about him, he answered with a twinkling\nlaugh, \"For the same reason that I don't kick the house-cat.\" And yet he\nhad an abiding faith in that man, and other similar men, to work out the\njudgments of the human race, undisturbed by the fact that they let their\nonly honest leaders die in garrets.\n\nAnd underneath the speculative philosopher who confused you with long\nwords; underneath the cold logician who mercilessly scouted at\nsentiment; underneath the pessimistic poet that sent the mournful cry of\nthe whip-poor-will echoing through the widowed chambers of the heart,\nthat hung and sung over the festival walls of Life the wreaths and\ndirges of Death; underneath the gay joker who delighted to play tricks\non politicians, police and detectives; was the man who took the children\non his knees and told them stories while the night was falling, the man\nwho gave up a share of his own meagre meals to save five blind kittens\nfrom drowning; the man who lent his arm to a drunken washerwoman whom he\ndid not know, and carried her basket for her, that she might not be\narrested and locked up; the man who gathered four-leafed clovers and\nsent them to his friends, wishing them \"all the luck which superstition\nattached to them\"; the man whose heart was beating with the great common\nheart, who was one with the simplest and the poorest.\n\nLum held that evolutional ethics, or Anarchist ethics, in fact, must\ntake account of both the altruistic and egoistic impulses; that while\ndetermining causes will ever lie in the mysterious realm of the\nunconscious life, consciousness may discern the trend of development\nand throw in its quota of influence for or against. That in its\nendeavor to comprehend the trend of development, it should take fair\naccount of ancient truths, however enveloped in superstitious husks;\nshould aim to extract the virtue even in the much mistaken altruistic\ndoctrines of vicarious atonement and personal abasement; and while\nemphasizing the negation of human rulership as destructive of the\npossibilities of true growth, at the same time to acknowledge the vain\nconceit of self as anything more than a temporary grouping of instinct\ndeveloped in beast, in plant, in man; to acknowledge the individual\ncreature as a sort of mirrored reflection of the cosmos, constantly\nshifting, now scintillant, now vague and evanescent, now gone forever as\nDeath breaks the mirror.\n\nThe notion of immortality which grows from such a conception of self is\npurged of the old vain conceit. It has been most beautifully voiced in\nGeorge Eliot's \"Choir Invisible,\" Mr. Lum's favorite poem; and in the\nlines is expressed the last great limitless shadow which engulfs even\nthis immortality, the blind, tremendous darkness which lies at the end\nof all, the sense of the invincibility of which must have lain upon our\nteacher's soul when after the last searching, inexplicable, farewell\nlook into a friend's eyes he went out into the April night and took his\nlast walk in the roar of the great city--he who should soon be so\nsilent!\n\nMost of his comrades were surprised. They said: \"I never thought Dyer D.\nLum would go alone.\" But I who know how often and how wearily he said\n\"What's the use,\" am sure that that mocking question lay at his heart,\nand paralyzed the _will_ to do.\n\nLike Olive Schreiner's stars in the African Farm, the soul about to\ndepart sees the earth so coldly--all the ages are as one night--and\nlike them he watches little helpless creatures of the earth come out and\ncrawl awhile upon its skin, then go back beneath it, and it does not\nmatter--nothing matters.\n\n\n\n\nFrancisco Ferrer\n\n\nIn all unsuccessful social upheavals there are two terrors: the\nRed--that is, the people, the mob; the White--that is, the reprisal.\n\nWhen a year ago to-day the lightning of the White Terror shot out of\nthat netherest blackness of Social Depth, the Spanish Torture House, and\nlaid in the ditch of Montjuich a human being who but a moment before had\nbeen the personification of manhood, in the flower of life, in the\nstrength and pride of a balanced intellect, full of the purpose of a\ngreat and growing undertaking,--that of the Modern Schools,--humanity at\nlarge received a blow in the face which it could not understand.\n\nStunned, bewildered, shocked, it recoiled and stood gaping with\nastonishment. How to explain it? The average individual--certainly the\naverage individual in America--could not believe it possible that any\ngroup of persons calling themselves a government, let it be of the worst\nand most despotic, could slay a man for being a teacher, a teacher of\nmodern sciences, a builder of hygienic schools, a publisher of\ntext-books. No: they could not believe it. Their minds staggered back\nand shook refusal. It was not so; it could not be so. The man was\nshot,--that was sure. He was dead, and there was no raising him out of\nthe ditch to question him. The Spanish government had certainly\nproceeded in an unjustifiable manner in court-martialing him and\nsentencing him without giving him a chance at defense. But surely he\nhad been guilty of something; surely he must have rioted, or instigated\nriot, or done some desperate act of rebellion; for never could it be\nthat in the twentieth century a country of Europe could kill a peaceful\nman whose aim in life was to educate children in geography, arithmetic,\ngeology, physics, chemistry, singing, and languages.\n\nNo: it was not possible!--And, for all that, it was possible; it was\ndone, on the 13th of October, one year ago to-day, in the face of\nEurope, standing with tied hands to look on at the murder.\n\nAnd from that day on, controversy between the awakened who understood,\nthe reactionists who likewise understood, and their followers on both\nsides who have half understood, has surged up and down and left\nconfusion pretty badly confounded in the mind of him who did not\nunderstand, but sought to.\n\nThe men who did him to death, and the institutions they represent have\ndone all in their power to create the impression that Ferrer was a\nbeliever in violence, a teacher of the principles of violence, a doer of\nacts of violence, and an instigator of widespread violence perpetrated\nby a mass of people. In support of the first they have published reports\npurporting to be his own writings, have pretended to reproduce seditious\npictures from the walls of his class-rooms, have declared that he was\nseen mingling with the rebels during the Catalonian uprising of last\nyear, and that upon trial he was found guilty of having conceived and\nlaunched the Spanish rebellion against the Moroccan war. And that his\ndeath was a just act of reprisal.\n\nOn the other hand, we have had a storm of indignant voices clamoring in\nhis defense, alternately admitting and denying him to be a\nrevolutionist, alternately contending that his schools taught social\nrebellion and that they taught nothing but pure science; we have had\nworkmen demonstrating and professors and litterateurs protesting on very\nopposite grounds; and almost none were able to give definite information\nfor the faith that was in them.\n\nAnd indeed it has been very difficult to obtain exact information, and\nstill is so. After a year's lapse, it is yet not easy to get the facts\ndisentangled from the fancies,--the truths from the lies, and above all\nfrom the half-lies.\n\nAnd even when we have the truths as to the facts, it is still difficult\nto valuate them, because of American ignorance of Spanish ignorance.\nPlease understand the phrase. America has not too much to boast of in\nthe way of its learning; but yet it has that much of common knowledge\nand common education that it does not enter into our minds to conceive\nof a population 68% of which are unable to read and write, and a good\nshare of the remaining 32% can only read, not write; neither does it at\nall enter our heads to think that of this 32% of the better informed,\nthe most powerful contingent is composed of those whose distinct,\navowed, and deliberate purpose it is to keep the ignorant ignorant.\n\nWhatever may be the sins of Government in this country, or of the\nChurches--and there are plenty of such sins--at least they have not\n(save in the case of negro slaves) constituted themselves a\nconspiratical force to keep out enlightenment,--to prevent the people\nfrom learning to read and write, or to acquire whatever scientific\nknowledge their economic circumstances permitted them to. What the\nunconscious conspiracy of economic circumstance has done, and what\nconscious manipulations the Government school is guilty of, to render\nhigher education a privilege of the rich and a maintainer of injustice\nis another matter. But it cannot be charged that the rulers of America\nseek to render the people illiterate. People, therefore, who have grown\nup in a general atmosphere of thought which regards the government as a\nprovider of education, even as a compeller of education, do not, unless\ntheir attention is drawn to the facts, conceive of a state of society in\nwhich government is a hostile force, opposed to the enlightenment of the\npeople,--its politicians exercising all their ingenuity to sidetrack the\ndemand of the people for schools. How much less do they conceive the\nhostile force and power of a Church, having behind it an unbroken\ndescent from feudal ages, whose direct interest it is to maintain a\nclosed monopoly of learning, and to keep out of general circulation all\nscientific information which would tend to destroy the superstitions\nwhereby it thrives.\n\nI say that the American people in general are not informed as to these\nconditions, and therefore the phenomenon of a teacher killed for\ninstituting and maintaining schools staggers their belief. And when they\nread the assertions of those who defend the murder, that it was because\nhis schools were instigating the overthrow of social order in Spain,\nthey naturally exclaim: \"Ah, that explains it! The man taught sedition,\nrebellion, riot, in his schools! That is the reason.\"\n\nNow the truth is, that what Ferrer was teaching in his schools was\nreally instigating the overthrow of the social order of Spain;\nfurthermore it was not only instigating it, but it was making it as\ncertain as the still coming of the daylight out of the night of the\neast. But not by the teaching of riot; of the use of dagger, bomb, or\nknife; but by the teaching of the same sciences which are taught in our\npublic schools, through a generally diffused knowledge of which the\npower of Spain's despotic Church must crumble away. Likewise it was\nlaying the primary foundation for the overthrow of such portions of the\nState organization as exist by reason of the general ignorance of the\npeople.\n\nThe Social Order of Spain ought to be overthrown; must be overthrown,\nwill be overthrown; and Ferrer was doing a mighty work in that\ndirection. The men who killed him knew and understood it well. And they\nconsciously killed him for what he really did; but they have let the\noutside world suppose they did it, for what he did not do. Knowing there\nare no words so hated by all governments as \"sedition and rebellion,\"\nknowing that such words will make the most radical of governments align\nitself with the most despotic at once, knowing there is nothing which so\noffends the majority of conservative and peace-loving people everywhere\nas the idea of violence unordered by authority, they have wilfully\ncreated the impression that Ferrer's schools were places where children\nand youths were taught to handle weapons, and to make ready for armed\nattacks on the government.\n\nThey have, as I said before, created this impression in various ways;\nthey have pointed to the fact that the man who in 1906 made the attack\non Alfonso's life, had acted as a translator of books used by Ferrer in\nhis schools; they have scattered over Europe and America pictures\npurporting to be reproductions of drawings in prominent wall-spaces in\nhis schools, recommending the violent overthrow of the government.\n\nAs to the first of these accusations, I shall consider it later in the\nlecture; but as to the last, it should be enough to remind any person\nwith an ordinary amount of reflection, that the schools were public\nplaces open to any one, as our schools are; and that if any such\npictures had existed, they would have been sufficient cause for\nshutting up the schools and incarcerating the founder within a day\nafter their appearance on the walls. The Spanish Government has that\nmuch sense of how to preserve its own existence, that it would not allow\nsuch pictures to hang in a public place for one day. Nor would books\npreaching sedition have been permitted to be published or\ncirculated.--All this is foolish dust sought to be thrown in foolish\neyes.\n\nNo; the real offense was the real thing that he did. And in order to\nappreciate its enormity, from the Spanish ruling force's standpoint, let\nus now consider what that ruling force is, what are the economic and\neducational conditions of the Spanish people, why and how Ferrer founded\nthe Modern Schools, and what were the subjects taught therein.\n\nUp to the year 1857 there existed no legal provision for general\nelementary education in Spain. In that year, owing to the liberals\nhaving gotten into power in Madrid, after a bitter contest aroused\npartially by the general political events of Europe, a law making\nelementary education compulsory was passed. This was two years before\nFerrer's birth.\n\nNow it is one thing for a political party, temporarily in possession of\npower, to pass a law. It is quite another thing to make that law\neffective, even when wealth and general sentiment are behind it. But\nwhen joined to the fact that there is a strong opposition is added the\nfact that this opposition is in possession of the greatest wealth of the\ncountry, that the people to be benefited are often quite as bitterly\nopposed to their own enlightenment as those who profit by their\nignorance, and that those who do ardently desire their own uplift are\nextremely poor, the difficulty of practicalizing this educational law is\npartially appreciated.\n\nFerrer's own boyhood life is an illustration of how much benefit the\nchildren of the peasantry reaped from the educational law. His parents\nwere vine dressers; they were eminently orthodox and believed what their\npriest (who was probably the only man in the little village of Alella\nable to read) told them: that the Liberals were the emissaries of Satan\nand that whatever they did was utterly evil. They wanted no such evil\nthing as popular education about, and would not that their children\nshould have it. Accordingly, even at 13 years of age, the boy was\nwithout education,--a circumstance which in after years made him more\nanxious that others should not suffer as he had.\n\nIt is self-understood that if it was difficult to found schools in the\ncities where there existed a degree of popular clamor for them, it was\nnext to impossible in the rural districts where people like Ferrer's\nparents were the typical inhabitants. The best result obtained by this\nlaw in the 20 years from 1857 to 1877 was that, out of 16,000,000\npeople, 4,000,000 were then able to read and write,--75% remaining\nilliterate. At the end of 1907 the proportion was altered to 6,000,000\nliterate out of 18,500,000 population, which may be considered as a\nfairly correct approximate of the present condition.\n\nOne of the very great accounting causes for this situation is the\nextreme poverty of the mass of the populace. In many districts of Spain\na laborer's wages are less than $1.00 a week, and nowhere do they equal\nthe poorest workman's wages in America. Of course, it is understood that\nthe cost of living is likewise low; but imagine it as low as you please,\nit is still evident that the income of the workers is too small to\npermit them to save anything, even from the most frugal living. The dire\nstruggle to secure food, clothing and shelter is such that little\nenergy is left wherewith to aspire to anything, to demand anything,\neither for themselves or their children. Unless, therefore, the\ngovernment provided the buildings, the books, and appliances, and paid\nthe teachers' salaries, it is easy to see that the people most in need\nof education are least able, and least likely, to provide it for\nthemselves. Furthermore the government itself, unless it can tax the\nwealthier classes for it, cannot out of such an impoverished source\nwring sufficient means to provide adequate schools and school\nequipments.\n\nNow, the wealthiest classes are just the religious orders. According to\nthe statement of Monsignor Jos\u00e9 Valeda de Gunjado, these orders own\ntwo-thirds of the money of the country and one-third of the wealth in\nproperty. These orders are utterly opposed to all education except such\nas they themselves furnish--a lamentable travesty on learning.\n\nAs a writer who has investigated these conditions personally, observes,\nin reply to the question, \"Does not the Church provide numbers of\nschools, day and night, at its own expense?\"--\"It does,--unhappily for\nSpain.\" It provides schools whose principal aim is to strengthen\nsuperstition, follow a mediaeval curriculum, _keep out_ scientific\nlight,--and prevent other and better schools from being established.\n\nA Spanish educational journal (_La Escuela Espanola_), not Ferrer's\njournal, declared in 1907 that these schools were largely \"without light\nor ventilation, dens of death, ignorance, and bad training.\" It was\nestimated that 50,000 children died every year in consequence of the\nmischievous character of the school rooms. And even to schools like\nthese, there were half a million children in Spain who could gain no\nadmittance.\n\nAs to the teachers, they are allowed a salary ranging from $50.00 to\n$100.00 a year; but this is provided, not by the State, but through\nvoluntary donations from the parents. So that a teacher, in addition to\nhis legitimate functions, must perform those of collector of his own\nsalary.\n\nNow conceive that he is endeavoring to collect it from parents whose\nwages amount to two or three dollars a week; and you will not be\nsurprised at the case reported by a Madrid paper in 1903 of a master's\nhaving canvassed a district to find how many parents would contribute if\nhe opened a school. Out of one hundred families, three promised their\nsupport!\n\nIs it any wonder that the law of compulsory education is a mockery? How\ncould it be anything else?\n\nNow let us look at the products of this popular ignorance, and we shall\npresently understand why the Church fosters it, why it fights education;\nand also why the Catalonian insurrection of 1909, which began as a\nstrike of workers in protest against the Moroccan war, ended in mob\nattacks upon convents, monasteries, and churches.\n\nI have already quoted the statement of a high Spanish prelate that the\nreligious orders of Spain own two-thirds of the money of Spain, and\none-third of the wealth in property. Whether this estimate is precisely\ncorrect or not, it is sufficiently near correctness to make us aware\nthat at least a great portion of the wealth of the country has passed\ninto their hands,--a state not widely differing from that existing in\nFrance prior to the great Revolution. Before the insurrection of last\nyear, the city of Barcelona alone had 165 convents, many of which were\nexceedingly rich. The province of Catalonia maintained 2,300 of these\ninstitutions. Aside from these religious orders with their accumulations\nof wealth, the Church itself, the united body of priests not in orders,\nis immensely wealthy. Conceive that in the Cathedral at Toledo there is\nan image of the Virgin whose wardrobe alone would be sufficient to build\nhundreds of schools. Imagine that this doll, which is supposed to\nsymbolize the forlorn young woman who in her pain and sorrow and need\nwas driven to seek shelter in a stable, whose life was ever lowly, and\nwho is called the Mother of Sorrows,--imagine that this image of her has\nbecome a vulgar coquette sporting a robe whereinto are sown 85,000\npearls, besides as many more sapphires, amethysts, and diamonds!\n\nOh, what a decoration for the mother of the Carpenter of Nazareth! What\na vision for the dying eyes on the Cross to look forward to! What an\noutcome of the gospel of salvation free to the poor and lowly, taught by\nthe poorest and the lowliest,--that the humble keeper of the humble\nhousehold of the despised little village of Judea should be imaged forth\nas a Queen of Gauds, bedizened with a crown worth $25,000 and bracelets\nvalued at $10,000 more. The Virgin Mary, the Daughter of the Stable,\ntransformed into a diamond merchant's showcase!\n\nAnd this in the midst of men and women working for just enough to keep\nthe skin upon the bone; in the midst of children who are denied the\nprimary necessities of childhood.\n\nNow I ask you, when the fury of these people burst, as under the\nprovocation they received it was inevitable that it should burst, was it\nany wonder that it manifested itself in mob violence against the\ninstitutions which mock their suffering by this useless, senseless,\ncriminal waste of wealth in the face of utter need?\n\nWill some one now whisper in our ears that there are women in America\nwho decorate themselves with more jewels than the Virgin of Toledo, and\nthrow away the price of a school on a useless decoration in a single\nnight; while within a radius of five miles from them there are also\nuneducated children, for whom our School Boards can provide no place?\n\nYes, it is so; let them remember the mobs of Barcelona!\n\nAnd let me remember I am talking about Spain!\n\nThe question naturally intrudes, How does the Church, how do the\nreligious orders manage to accumulate such wealth? Remember first that\nthey are old, and of unbroken continuance for hundreds of years. That\nvarious forms of acquisition, in operation for centuries, would produce\nimmense accumulations, even supposing nothing but legitimate purchases\nand gifts. But when we consider the actual means whereby money is daily\nabsorbed from the people by these institutions we receive a shock which\nsets all our notions of the triumph of Modern Science topsy-turvy.\n\nIt is almost impossible to realize, and yet it is true, that the Spanish\nChurch still deals in that infamous \"graft\" against which Martin Luther\nhurled the splendid force of his wrath four hundred years ago. The\nChurch of Spain still sells indulgences. Every Catholic bookstore, and\nevery priest, has them for sale. They are called \"bulas.\" Their prices\nrange from about 15 to 25 cents, and they constitute an elastic excuse\nfor doing pretty much what the possessor pleases to do, providing it is\nnot a capital crime, for a definitely named period.\n\nProbably there is no one in America so little able to believe this\ncondition to exist, as the ordinary well-informed Roman Catholic. I have\nmyself listened to priests of the Roman faith giving the conditions on\nwhich pardon for venal offenses might be obtained; and they had nothing\nto do with money. They consisted in saying a certain number of prayers\nat stated periods, with specified intent. While that may be a very\nillogical way of putting things together that have no connection, there\nis nothing in it to offend one's ideas of honesty. The enlightened\nconscience of an entire mass of people has demanded that a spiritual\noffense be dealt with by spiritual means. It would revolt at the idea\nthat such grace could be written out on paper and sold either to the\nhighest bidder or for a fixed price.\n\nBut now conceive what happens where a people are illiterate, regarding\nwritten documents with that superstitious awe which those who cannot\nread always have for the mysterious language of learning; regarding them\nbesides with the combination of fear and reverence which the ignorant\nbeliever entertains for the visible sign of Supernatural Power, the\nPower which holds over him the threat of eternal punishment,--and you\nwill have what goes on in Spain. Add to this that such a condition of\nfear and gullibility on the side of the people, is the great opportunity\nof the religious \"grafter.\" Whatever number of honest, self-sacrificing,\ndevoted people may be attracted to the service of the Church, there will\ncertainly be found also, the cheat, the impostor, the searcher for ease\nand power.\n\nThese indulgences, which for 15 or 25 cents pardon the buyer for his\npast sins, but are good only till he sins again, constitute a species of\npermission to do what otherwise is forbidden; the most expensive one,\nthe 25c-one, is practically a license to hold stolen property up to a\ncertain amount.\n\nBoth rich and poor buy these things, the rich of course paying a good\ndeal more than the stipulated sum. But it hardly requires the statement\nthat an immense number of the very poor buy them also. And from this\nhorrible traffic the Church of Spain annually draws millions.\n\nThere are other sources of income such as the sale of scapulars,\nagnus-deis, charms, and other pieces of trumpery, which goes on all over\nthe Catholic world also, but naturally to no such extent as in Spain,\nPortugal, and Italy, where popular ignorance may be again measured by\nthe materialism of its religion.\n\nNow, is it reasonable to suppose that the individuals who are thriving\nupon these sales, want a condition of popular enlightenment? Do they not\nknow how all this traffic would crumble like the ash of a burnt-out\nfire, once the blaze of science were to flame through Spain? _They_\nEDUCATE! Yes; they educate the people to believe in these barbaric\nrelics of a dead time,--_for their own material interest_. Spain and\nPortugal are the last resort of the mediaeval church; the monasticism\nand the Jesuitry which have been expelled from other European countries,\nand compelled to withdraw from Cuba and the Philippines, have\nconcentrated there; and there they are making their last fight. There\nthey will go down into their eternal grave; but not till Science has\ninvaded the dark corners of the popular intellect.\n\nThe political condition is parallel with the religious condition of the\npeople, with the exception that the State is poor while the Church is\nrich.\n\nThere are some elements in the government which are opposed to the\nChurch religiously, which nevertheless do not wish to see its power as\nan institution upset, because they foresee that the same people who\nwould overthrow the Church, would later overthrow them. These, too, wish\nto see the people kept ignorant.\n\nNevertheless, there have been numerous political rebellions in Spain,\nhaving for their object the establishment of a republic.\n\nIn 1868 there occurred such a rebellion, under the leadership of Ruiz\nZorilla. At that time, Ferrer was not quite 20 years old. He had\nacquired an education by his own efforts. He was a declared Republican,\nas it seems that every young, ardent, bright-minded youth, seeing what\nthe condition of his country was, and wishing for its betterment, would\nbe. Zorilla was for a short time Minister of Public Instruction, under\nthe new government, and very zealous for popular education.\n\nNaturally he became an object of admiration and imitation to Ferrer.\n\nIn the early eighties, after various fluctuations of political power,\nZorilla, who had been absent from Spain, returned to it, and began the\nlabor of converting the soldiers to republicanism. Ferrer was then a\ndirector of railways, and of much service to Zorilla in the practical\nwork of organization. In 1885 this movement culminated in an abortive\nrevolution, wherein both Ferrer and Zorilla took active part, and were\naccordingly compelled to take refuge in France upon the failure of the\ninsurrection.\n\nIt is therefore certain that from his entrance into public agitation\ntill the year 1885, Ferrer was an active revolutionary republican,\nbelieving in the overthrow of Spanish tyranny by violence.\n\nThere is no question that at that time he said and wrote things which,\nwhether we shall consider them justifiable or not, were openly in favor\nof forcible rebellion. Such utterances charged against him at the\nalleged trial in 1909, which were really his, were quotations from this\nperiod. Remember he was then 26 years old. When the trial occurred, he\nwas 50 years old. What had been his mental evolution during those 24\nyears?\n\nIn Paris, where, with the exception of a short intermission in 1889 when\nhe visited Spain, he remained for about fifteen years, he naturally\ndrifted into a method of making a living quite common to educated exiles\nin a foreign land; viz., giving private lessons in his native language.\nBut while this is with most a mere temporary makeshift, which they\nchange for something else as soon as they are able, to Ferrer it\nrevealed what his real business in life should be; he found teaching to\nbe his genuine vocation; so much so that he took part in several\nmovements for popular education in Paris, giving much free service.\n\nThis participation in the labor of training the mind, which is always a\nslow and patient matter, began to have its effect on his conceptions of\npolitical change. Slowly the idea of a Spain regenerated through the\nstorm blasts of revolution, mightily and suddenly, faded out of his\nbelief, being replaced, probably almost insensibly, by the idea that a\nthorough educational enlightenment must precede political\ntransformation, if that transformation were to be permanent. This\nconviction he voiced with strange power and beauty of expression, when\nhe said to his old revolutionary Republican friend, Alfred Naquet: \"Time\nrespects those works alone which Time itself has helped to build.\"\n\nNaquet himself, old and sinking man as he is, is at this day and hour\nheart and soul for forcible revolution; admitting all the evils which it\nengenders and all the dangers of miscarriage which accompany it, he\nstill believes, to quote his own words, that \"Revolutions are not only\nthe marvelous accoucheurs of societies; they are also fecundating\nforces. They fructify men's intelligences; and if they determine the\nfinal realization of matured evolutions, they also become, through their\naction on human minds, points of departure for newer evolutions.\" Yet\nhe, who thus sings the paean of the uprisen people, with a fire of youth\nand an ardor of love that sound like the singing of some strong young\nblacksmith marching at the head of an insurgent column, rather than the\nquavering voice of an old spent man; he, who was the warm personal\nfriend of Ferrer for many years, and who would surely have wished that\nhis ideal love should also have been his friend's love, he expressly\ndeclares that Ferrer was of those who feel themselves drawn to the field\nof preparative labor, making sure the ground over which the Revolution\nmay march to enduring results.\n\nThis then was the ripened condition of his mind, especially after the\ndeath of Zorilla, and all his subsequent life and labor is explicable\nonly with this understanding of his mental attitude.\n\nIn the confusion of deafening voices, it has been declared that not only\ndid he not take part in last year's manifestations, nor instigate them;\nbut that he in fact had become a Tolstoyan, a non-resistant.\n\nThis is not true: he undoubtedly understood that the introduction of\npopular education into Spain means revolt, sooner or later. And he would\ncertainly have been glad to see a successful revolt overthrow the\nmonarchy at Madrid. He did not wish the people to be submissive; it is\none of the fundamental teachings of the schools he founded that the\nassertive spirit of the child is to be encouraged; that its will is not\nto be broken; that the sin of other schools is the forcing of obedience.\nHe hoped to help to form a young Spain which would not submit; which\nwould resist, resist consciously, intelligently, steadily. He did not\nwish to enlighten people merely to render them more sensitive to their\npains and deprivations, but that they might so use their enlightenment\nas to rid themselves of the system of exploitation by Church and State\nwhich is responsible for their miseries. By what means they would choose\nto free themselves, he did not make his affair.\n\nHow and when were these schools founded? It was during his long sojourn\nin Paris, that he had as a private pupil in Spanish, a middle-aged,\nwealthy, unmarried, Catholic lady. After much conflict over religion\nbetween teacher and pupil, the latter modified her orthodoxy greatly;\nand especially after her journeys to Spain, where she herself saw the\ncondition of public instruction.\n\nEventually she became interested in Ferrer's conceptions of education,\nand his desire to establish schools in his own country. And when she\ndied in 1900 (she was then somewhat over 50 years old) she devised a\ncertain part of her property to Ferrer, to be used as he saw fit,\nfeeling assured no doubt that he would see fit to use it not for his\npersonal advantage, but for the purpose so dear to his heart. Which he\ndid.\n\nThe bequest amounted to about $150,000; and the first expenditure was\nfor the establishment of the Modern School of Barcelona, in the year\n1901.\n\nIt should be said that this was not the first of the Modern School\nmovement in Spain; for previous to that, and for several years, there\nhad sprung up, in various parts of the country, a spontaneous movement\ntowards self-education; a very heroic effort, in a way, considering that\nthe teachers were generally workingmen who had spent their day in the\nshops, and were using the remainder of their exhausted strength to\nenlighten their fellow-workers and the children. These were largely\nnight-schools. As there were no means behind these efforts, the\nbuildings in which they were held were of course unsuitable; there was\nno proper plan of work; no sufficient equipment, and little\nco-ordination of labor. A considerable percentage of these schools were\nalready on the decline, when Ferrer, equipped with his splendid\norganizing ability, his teacher's experience, and Mlle. Meunier's\nendowment, opened the Barcelona School, having as pupils eighteen boys\nand twelve girls.\n\nSo proper to the demand was this effort, that at the end of four years'\nearnest activity, fifty schools had been established, ten in Barcelona,\nand forty in the provinces.\n\nIn 1906, that is, after five years' work, a banquet was held on Good\nFriday, at which 1,700 pupils were present.\n\nFrom 30 to 1,700,--that is something. And a banquet in Catholic Spain on\nGood Friday! A banquet of children who have bade good-bye to the\nsalvation of the soul by the punishment of the stomach! We here may\nlaugh; but in Spain it was a triumph and a menace, which both sides\nunderstood.\n\nI have said that Ferrer brought to his work splendid organizing ability.\nThis he speedily put to purpose by enlisting the co-operation of a\nnumber of the greatest scientists of Europe in the preparation of\ntext-books embodying the discoveries of science, couched in language\ncomprehensible to young minds.\n\nSo far, I am sorry to say, I have not succeeded in getting copies of\nthese manuals; the Spanish government confiscated most of them, and has\nprobably destroyed them. Still there are some uncaptured sets (one is\nalready in the British Museum) and I make no doubt that within a year or\nso we shall have translations of most of them.\n\nThere were thirty of these manuals all told, comprising the work of the\nthree sections, primary, intermediate, and superior, into which the\npupils were divided.\n\nFrom what I have been able to find out about these books, I believe the\nmost interesting of them all would be the First Reading Book. It was\nprepared by Dr. Odon de Buen, and is said to be at the same time \"a\nspeller, a grammar and an illustrated manual of evolution,\" \"the\nmajestic story of the evolution of the cosmos from the atom to the\nthinking being, related in a language simple, comprehensible to the\nchild.\"\n\n20,000 copies of this book were rapidly sold.\n\nImagine what that meant to Catholic schools! That the babies of Spain\nshould learn nothing about eternal punishment for their deadly sins, and\n_should_ learn that they are one in a long line of unfolding life that\nstarted in the lowly sea-slime!\n\nThe books on geography, physics, and minerology were written in like\nmanner and with like intent by the same author; on anthropology, Dr.\nEnguerrand wrote, and on evolution, Dr. Letourneau of Paris.\n\nAmong the very suggestive works was one on \"The Universal Substance,\" a\ncollaborate production of Albert Bloch and Paraf Javal, in which the\nmysteries of existence are resolved into their chemical equivalents, so\nthat the foundations for magic and miracle are unceremoniously cleared\nout of the intellectual field.\n\nThis book was prepared at Ferrer's special request, as an antidote to\nancestral leanings, inherited superstitions, the various outside\ninfluences counteracting the influences of the school.\n\nThe methods of instruction were modeled after earlier attempts in\nFrance, and were based on the general idea that physical and\nintellectual education must continually supplement each other. That no\none is really educated, so long as his knowledge is merely the\nrecollection of what he has read or seen in a book. Accordingly a lesson\noften consisted of a visit to a factory, a workshop, a studio, or a\nlaboratory, where things were explained and illustrated; or in a class\njourney to the hills, or the sea, or the open country, where the\ngeological or topographical conditions were studied, or botanical\nspecimens collected and individual observation encouraged.\n\nVery often even book classes were held out of doors, and the children\ninsensibly put in touch with the great pervading influences of nature, a\ntouch too often lost, or never felt at all, in our city environments.\n\nHow different was all this from the incomprehensible theology of the\nCatholic schools to be learned and believed but not understood, the\nimpractical rehearsing of strings of words characteristic of mediaeval\nsurvivals! No wonder the Modern Schools grew and grew, and the hatred of\nthe priests waxed hotter and hotter.\n\nTheir opportunity came; indeed, they did not wait long.\n\nIn the year 1906, on the 31st day of May, not so very long after that\nGood Friday banquet, occurred the event which they seized upon to crush\nthe Modern School and its founder.\n\nI am not here to speak either for or against Mateo Morral. He was a\nwealthy young man, of much energy and considerable learning. He had\nhelped to enrich the library of the Modern School and being an excellent\nlinguist, he had offered to make translations of text-books. Ferrer had\naccepted the offer. That is all Morral had to do with the Modern School.\n\nBut on the day of royal festivities, Morral had it in his head to throw\na bomb where it would do some royal hurt. He missed his calculations,\nand the hurt intended did not take place; but after a short interval,\nfinding himself about to be captured, he killed himself.\n\nThink of him as you please: think that he was a madman who did a\nmadman's act; think that he was a generous enthusiast who in an outburst\nof long chafing indignation at his country's condition wanted to strike\na blow at a tyrannical monarchy, and was willing to give his own life\nin exchange for the tyrant's; or better than this, reserve your\njudgment, and say that you know not the man nor his personal condition,\nnor the special external conditions that prompted him; and that without\nsuch knowledge he cannot be judged. But whatever you think of Morral,\npray why was Ferrer arrested and the Modern School of Barcelona closed?\nWhy was he thrown in prison and kept there for more than a year? Why was\nit sought to railroad him before a Court Martial, and that attempt\nfailing, the civil trial postponed for all that time?\n\n=Why? Why?=\n\nBecause Ferrer taught science to the children of Spain,--and for no\nother thing. His enemies would have killed him then; but having been\ncompelled to yield an open trial, by the outcry of Europe, they were\nalso compelled to release him. But I imagine I hear, yea hear, the\nresolute mutter behind the closed walls of the monasteries, the day\nFerrer went free. \"Go, then; we shall get you again. And then----\"\n\nAnd then they would do what three years later they did,--_damn him to\nthe ditch of_ =Montjuich=.\n\nYea, they shut their lips together like the thin lips of Fate\nand--waited. The hatred of an order has something superb in it,--it\nhates so relentlessly, so constantly, so transcendently; its personnel\nchanges, its hate never alters; it wears one priest's face or another's;\nitself is identical, inexorable; it pursues to the end.\n\nDid Ferrer know this? Undoubtedly in a general way he did. And yet he\nwas so far from conceiving its appalling remorselessness, that even when\nhe found himself in prison again, and utterly in their power, he could\nnot believe that he would not be freed.\n\nWhat was this opportunity for which the Jesuitry of Spain waited with\nsuch terrible security? The Catalonian uprising. How did they know it\nwould come? As any sane man, not over-optimistic, knows that uprising\nmust come in Spain. Ferrer hoped to sap away the foundations of tyranny\nthrough peaceful enlightenment. He was right. But they are also right\nwho say that there are other forces hurling towards those foundations;\nthe greatest of these,--_Starvation_.\n\nNow it was plain and simple Starvation that rose to rend its starvers\nwhen the Catalonian women rose in mobs to cry against the command that\nwas taking away their fathers and sons to their death in Morocco. The\nSpanish people did not want the Moroccan war; the Government, in the\ninterest of a number of capitalists, did; but like all governments and\nall capitalists, it wanted workingmen to do the dying. And they did not\nwant to die, and leave their wives and children to die too. So they\nrebelled. At first it was the conscious, orderly protest of organized\nworkingmen. But Starvation no more respects the commands of workingmen's\nunions, than the commands of governments, and other orderly bodies. It\nhas nothing to lose: and it gets away, in its fury, from all management;\nand it riots.\n\nWhere Churches and Monasteries are offensively rich and at ease in the\nface of Hunger, Hunger takes its revenge. It has long fangs, it rends,\nand tears, and tramples--the innocent with the guilty--always. It is\nvery horrible! But remember,--remember how much more horrible is the\nlong, slow systematic crushing, wasting, drying of men upon their bones,\nwhich year after year, century after century, has begotten the Monster,\nHunger. Remember the 50,000 innocent children annually slaughtered, the\nblinded and the crippled children, maimed and forsaken by social power;\nand behind the smoke and flame of the burning convents of July, 1909,\nsee the staring of those sightless eyes.\n\nFerrer instigate that mad frenzy! Oh, no; it was a mightier than Ferrer!\n\n\"Our Lady of Pain\"--Our Lady of Hunger--Our Lady with uncut nails and\nwolf-like teeth--Our Lady who bears the Man-flesh in her body that\ncannon are to tear--Our Lady the Workingwoman of Spain, ahungered. She\nincarnated the Red Terror.\n\nAnd the enemies of Ferrer in 1906, as in 1909, knew that such things\nwould come; and they bided their time.\n\nIt is one of those pathetic things which destiny deals, that it was only\nfor love's sake--and most for the love of a little child--who died\nmoreover--that the uprising found Ferrer in Spain at all. He had been in\nEngland, investigating schools and methods there from April until the\nmiddle of June. Word came that his sister-in-law and his niece were ill,\nso the 19th of June found him at the little girl's bedside. He intended\nsoon after to go to Paris, but delayed to make some inquiries for a\nfriend concerning the proceedings of the Electrical Society of\nBarcelona. So the storm caught him as it caught thousands of others.\n\nHe went about the business of his publishing house as usual, making the\nobservations of an interested spectator of events. To his friend Naquet\nhe sent a postal card on the 26th of July, in which he spoke of the\nheroism of the women, the lack of co-ordination in the people's\nmovements, and the total absence of leaders, as a curious phenomenon.\nHearing soon after that he was to be arrested, he secluded himself for\nfive weeks. The \"White Terror\" was in full sway; 3,000 men, women, and\nchildren had been arrested, incarcerated, inhumanly treated. Then the\nChief Prosecutor issued the statement that Ferrer was \"the director of\nthe revolutionary movement.\"\n\nToo indignant to listen to the appeals of his friends, he started to\nBarcelona to give himself up and demand trial. He was arrested on the\nway.\n\nAnd they court-martialed him.\n\nThe proceedings were utterly infamous. No chance to confront witnesses\nagainst him; no opportunity to bring witnesses; not even the books\naccused of sedition allowed to offer their mute testimony in their own\ndefense; no opportunity given to his defender to prepare; letters sent\nfrom England and France to prove what had been the doomed man's purposes\nand occupations during his stay there, \"lost in transit\"; the old\narticles of twenty-four years before, made to appear as if recent\nutterances; forgeries imposed; and with all this, nothing but hearsay\nevidence even from his accusers; and yet--he was sentenced to death.\n\nSentenced to death and shot.\n\nAnd all Modern Schools closed, and his property sequestrated.\n\nAnd the Virgin of Toledo may wear her gorgeous robes in peace, since the\nshadow of the darkness has stolen back over the circle of light he lit.\n\nOnly,--somewhere, somewhere, down in the obscurity--hovers the menacing\nfigure of her rival, \"Our Lady of Pain.\" She is still now,--but she is\nnot dead. And if all things be taken from her, and the light not allowed\nto come to her, nor to her children,--then--some day--she will set her\nown lights in the darkness.\n\nFerrer--Ferrer is with the immortals. His work is spreading over the\nworld; it will yet return, and rid Spain of its tyrants.\n\n\n\n\nModern Educational Reform\n\n\nQuestions of genuine importance to large masses of people, are not posed\nby a single questioner, nor even by a limited number. They are put with\nmore or less precision, with more or less consciousness of their scope\nand demand by all classes involved. This is a fair test of its being a\ngenuine question, rather than a temporary fad. Such is the test we are\nto apply to the present inquiry, What is wrong with our present method\nof Child Education? What is to be done in the way of altering or\nabolishing it?\n\nThe posing of the question acquired a sudden prominence, through the\nworld-shocking execution of a great educator for alleged complicity in\nthe revolutionary events of Spain during the Moroccan war. People were\nnot satisfied with the Spanish government's declarations as to this\nofficial murder; they were not convinced that they were being told the\ntruth. They inquired why the Government should be so anxious for that\nman's death. And they learned that as a teacher he had founded schools\nwherein ideas hostile to governmental programs for learning, were put in\npractice. And they have gone on asking to know what these ideas were,\nhow they were taught, and how can those same ideas be applied to the\npractical questions of education confronting them in the persons of\ntheir own children.\n\nBut it would be a very great mistake to suppose that the question was\nraised out of nothingness, or out of the brilliancy of his own mind, by\nFrancisco Ferrer. If it were, if he were the creator of the question\ninstead of the response to it, his martyr's death could have given it\nbut an ephemeral prominence which would speedily have subsided.\n\nOn the contrary, the inquiry stimulated by that tragic death was but the\nfirst loud articulation of what has been asked in thousands of\nschool-rooms, millions of homes, all over the civilized world. It has\nbeen put, by each of the three classes concerned, each in its own\npeculiar way, from its own peculiar viewpoint,--by the Educator, by the\nParent, and by the Child itself.\n\nThere is a fourth personage who has had a great deal to say, and still\nhas; but to my mind he is a pseudo-factor, to be eliminated as speedily\nas possible. I mean the \"Statesman.\" He considers himself profoundly\nimportant, as representing the interests of society in general. He is\nanxious for the formation of good citizens to support the State, and\ndirects education in such channels as he thinks will produce these.\n\nI prefer to leave the discussion of his peculiar functions for a later\npart of this address, here observing only that if he is a legitimate\nfactor, if by chance he is a genuine educator strayed into\nstatesmanship, _as_ a statesman he is interested only from a secondary\nmotive; i. e., he is not interested in the actual work of schools, in\nthe children as persons, but in the producing of a certain type of\ncharacter to serve certain subsequent ends.\n\nThe criticism offered by the child itself upon the prevailing system of\ninstruction, is the most simple,--direct; and at the same time, the\ncritic is utterly unconscious of its force. Who has not heard a child\nsay, in that fretted whine characteristic of a creature who knows its\nprotest will be ineffective: \"But what do I have to learn that\nfor?\"--\"Oh, I don't see what I have to know that for; I can't remember\nit anyway.\" \"I hate to go to school; I'd just as lief take a whipping!\"\n\"My teacher's a mean old thing; she expects you to sit quiet the whole\nmorning, and if you just make the least little noise, she keeps you in\nat recess. Why do we have to keep still so long? What good does it do?\"\n\nI remember well the remark made to me once by one of my teachers--and a\nvery good teacher, too, who nevertheless did not see what her own\nobservation ought to have suggested. \"School-children,\" she said,\n\"regard teachers as their natural enemies.\" The thought which it would\nhave been logical to suppose would have followed this observation is,\nthat if children in general are possessed of that notion, it is because\nthere is a great deal in the teacher's treatment of them which runs\ncounter to the child's nature: that possibly this is so, not because of\nnatural cussedness on the part of the child, but because of\ninapplicability of the knowledge taught, or the manner of teaching it,\nor both, to the mental and physical needs of the child. I am quite sure\nno such thought entered my teacher's mind,--at least regarding the\nsystem of knowledge to be imposed; being a sensible woman, she perhaps\noccasionally admitted to herself that she might make mistakes in\napplying the rules, but that the body of knowledge to be taught was\nindispensable, and must somehow be injected into children's heads, under\nthreat of punishment, if necessary, I am sure she never questioned. It\ndid not occur to her any more than to most teachers, that the first\nbusiness of an educator should be to find out what are the needs,\naptitudes, and tendencies of children, before he or she attempts to\noutline a body of knowledge to be taught, or rules for teaching it. It\ndoes not occur to them that the child's question, \"What do I have to\nlearn that for?\" is a perfectly legitimate question; and if the teacher\ncannot answer it to the child's satisfaction, something is wrong either\nwith the thing taught, or with the teaching; either the thing taught is\nout of rapport with the child's age, or his natural tendencies, or his\ncondition of development; or the method by which it is taught repels\nhim, disgusts him, or at best fails to interest him.\n\nWhen a child says, \"I don't see why I have to know that; I can't\nremember it anyway,\" he is voicing a very reasonable protest. Of course,\nthere are plenty of instances of wilful shirking, where a little effort\ncan overcome the slackness of memory; but every teacher who is honest\nenough to reckon with himself knows he cannot give a sensible reason why\nthings are to be taught which have so little to do with the child's life\nthat to-morrow, or the day after examination, they will be forgotten;\nthings which he himself could not remember were he not repeating them\nyear in and year out, as a matter of his trade. And every teacher who\nhas thought at all for himself about the essential nature of the young\nhumanity he is dealing with, knows that six hours of daily herding and\nin-penning of young, active bodies and limbs, accompanied by the\nadditional injunction that no feet are to be shuffled, no whispers\nexchanged, and no paper wads thrown, is a frightful violation of all the\nlaws of young life. Any gardener who should attempt to raise healthy,\nbeautiful, and fruitful plants by outraging all those plants'\ninstinctive wants and searchings, would meet as his reward--sickly\nplants, ugly plants, sterile plants, dead plants. He will not do it; he\nwill watch very carefully to see whether they like much sunlight, or\nconsiderable shade, whether they thrive on much water or get drowned in\nit, whether they like sandy soil, or fat mucky soil; the plant itself\nwill indicate to him when he is doing the right thing. And every\ngardener will watch for indications with great anxiety. If he finds the\nplant revolts against his experiments, he will desist at once, and try\nsomething else; if he finds it thrives, he will emphasize the particular\ntreatment so long as it seems beneficial. But what he will surely not\ndo, will be to prepare a certain area of ground all just alike, with\nequal chances of sun and amount of moisture in every part, and then\nplant everything together without discrimination,--mighty close\ntogether!--saying beforehand, \"If plants don't want to thrive on this,\nthey ought to want to; and if they are stubborn about it, they must be\nmade to.\"\n\nOr if a raiser of animals were to start in feeding them on a regimen\nadapted not to their tastes but to his; if he were to insist on stuffing\nthe young ones with food only fitted for the older ones; if he were to\nshut them up and compel them somehow to be silent, stiff, and motionless\nfor hours together,--he would--well, he would very likely be arrested\nfor cruelty to animals.\n\nOf course there is this difference between the grower of plants or\nanimals and the grower of children; the former is dealing with his\nsubject as a superior power with a force which will always remain\nsubject to his, while the latter is dealing with a force which is bound\nto become his equal, and taking it in the long and large sense, bound\nultimately to supersede him. The fear of \"the footfalls of the young\ngeneration\" is in his ears, whether he is aware of it or not, and he\ninstinctively does what every living thing seeks to do; viz., to\npreserve his power. Since he cannot remain forever the superior, the\ndictator, he endeavors to put a definite mould upon that power which he\nmust share--to have the child learn what he has learned, as he has\nlearned it, and to the same end that he has learned it.\n\nThe grower of flowers, or fruits, or vegetables, or the raiser of\nanimals, secure in his forever indisputable superiority, has nothing to\nfear when he inquires into the ways of his subjects; he will never\nthink: \"But if I heed such and such manifestation of the flower's or the\nanimal's desire or repulsion, it will develop certain tendencies as a\nresult, which will eventually overturn me and mine, and all that I\nbelieve in and labor to preserve.\" The grower of children is perpetually\nbeset by this fear. He must not listen to a child's complaint against\nthe school: it breaks down the mutual relation of authority and\nobedience; it destroys the faith of the child that his olders know\nbetter than he; it sets up little centers of future rebellion in the\nbrain of every child affected by the example. No: complaint as to the\nwisdom of the system must be discouraged, ignored, frowned down, crushed\nby superior dignity; if necessary, punished. The very best answer a\nchild ever gets to its legitimate inquiry, \"Why do I have to learn such\nand such a thing?\" is, \"Wait till you get older, and you will understand\nit all. Just now you are a little too young to understand the\nreasons.\"--(In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the answerer got the\nsame reply to his own question twenty years before; and he has never\nfound out since, either). \"Do as we tell you to, now,\" say the teachers,\n\"and be sure that we are instructing you for your good. The explanations\nwill become clear to you some time.\" And the child smothers his\ncomplaint, cramps his poor little body to the best of his ability, and\ncontinues to repeat definitions which mean nothing to him but strings of\nlong words, and rules which to him are simply torture--apparatus\ninvented by his \"natural enemies\" to plague children.--I recall quite\ndistinctly the bitter resentment I felt toward the inverted divisor. The\nformula was easy enough to remember: \"Invert the terms of the divisor\nand proceed as in multiplication of fractions.\" I memorized it in less\nthan a minute, and followed the prescription, and got my examples,\ncorrect. But \"Oh, how, how was the miracle accomplished? Why should a\nfraction be made to stand on its head? and how did that change a\ndivision suddenly into a multiplication?\"--And I never found out till I\nundertook to teach some one else, years afterward. Yet the thing could\nhave been made plain then; perhaps would have been, but for the fact\nthat as a respectful pupil I was so trained to think that my teachers'\nmethods must not be questioned or their explanations reflected upon,\nthat I sat mute, mystified, puzzled, and silently indignant. In the end\nI swallowed it as I did a lot of other \"pre-digested\" knowledge (?) and\nconsented to use its miraculous nature, very much as my Christian\nfriends use the body and blood of Christ to \"wash their sins away\"\nwithout very well understanding the modus operandi.\n\nAnother advantage which the botanical or zo\u00f6logical cultivator has over\nthe child-grower, by which incidentally the plants and animals profit,\nis that since he is not seeking to produce a universal type, but rather\nto develop as many new and interesting types as he can, he is very\nstudious to notice the inclinations of his subjects, observing possible\nbeginnings of differentiation, and adapting his treatment to the\ndevelopment of such beginnings. Of course he also does what no\nchild-cultivator could possibly do,--he ruthlessly destroys weaklings;\nand as the superior intermeddling divinity, he fosters those special\ntypes which are more serviceable to himself, irrespective of whether\nthey are more serviceable to plant or animal life apart from man.\n\nBut is the fact that children are of the same race as ourselves, the\nfact that their development should be regarded from the point of how\nbest shall they serve themselves, their own race and generation, not\nthat of a discriminating overlord, assuming the power of life and death\nover them,--a reason for us to disregard their tendencies, aptitudes,\nlikes and dislikes, altogether?--a reason for us to treat their natural\nmanifestations of non-adaptation to our methods of treatment with less\nconsideration than we give to a fern or a hare? I should, on the\ncontrary, suppose it was a reason to consider them all the more.\n\nI think the difficulty lies in the immeasurable vanity of the human\nadult, particularly the pedagogical adult, (I presume I may say it with\nless offense since I am a teacher myself), which does not permit him to\nrecognize as good any tendency in children to fly in the face of his\nconceptions of a correct human being; to recognize that may be here is\nsomething highly desirable, to be encouraged, rather than destroyed as\npernicious. A flower-gardener doesn't expect to make another voter or\nhouseholder out of his fern, so he lets it show what it wants to be,\nwithout being at all horrified at anything it does; but your teacher has\nusually well-defined conceptions of what men and women have to be. And\nif a boy is too lively, too noisy, too restless, too curious, to suit\nthe concept, he must be trimmed and subdued. And if he is lazy, he has\nto be spurred with all sorts of whips, which are offensive both to the\nhandler and the handled. The weapons of shaming and arousing the spirit\nof rivalry are two which are much used,--the former with sometimes fatal\nresults, as in the case of the nine year old boy who recently committed\nsuicide because his teacher drew attention to his torn coat, or young\ngirls who have worried themselves into fevers from a scornful word\nrespecting their failures in scholarship, and arousing rivalry brings an\nevil train behind it of spites and jealousies. I do not say, as some\nenthusiasts do, \"there are no bad children,\" or \"there are no lazy\nchildren\"; but I am quite sure that both badness and laziness often\nresult from lack of understanding and lack of adaptation; and that these\ncan only be attained by teachers comprehending that they must seek to\nunderstand as well as to be understood. Badness is sometimes only dammed\nup energy, which can no more help flooding over than dammed up water.\nLaziness is often the result of forcing a child to a task for which it\nhas no natural liking, while it would be energetic enough, given the\nthing it liked to do.\n\nAt any rate, it is worth while to try to find out what is the matter, in\nthe spirit of a searcher after truth. Which is the first point I want to\nestablish: That the general complaints of children are true criticisms\nof the school system; and Superintendents of Public Instruction, Boards\nof Education, and Teachers have as their first duty to heed and consider\nthese complaints.\n\nLet us now consider the complaints of parents. It must be admitted that\nthe parents of young children, particularly their mothers, and\nespecially these latter when they are the wives of workingmen with\ngood-sized families, regard the school rather as a convenience for\ngetting rid of the children during a certain period of the day than\nanything else. They are not to be blamed for this. They have obeyed the\nimperative mandate of nature in having families, with no very adequate\nconception of what they were doing; they find themselves burdened with\nresponsibilities often greatly beyond their capacity. They have all they\ncan do, sometimes more than they can do, to manage the financial end of\nthings, to see to their children's material wants and to get through\nthe work of a house; very often they are themselves deficient in even\nthe elementary knowledge of the schools; they feel that their children\nneed to know a great deal that they have never known, but they are\nutterly without the ability to say whether what they learn is useful and\nimportant or not. With the helplessness of ignorance towards wisdom,\nthey receive the system provided by the State on trust, presuming it is\ngood; and with the pardonable relief of busy and overburdened people,\nthey look at the clock as school hour approaches, and breathe a sigh of\nrelief when the last child is out of the house. They would be shocked at\nthe idea that they regard their children as nuisances; they would\nvigorously defend themselves by saying that they feel that the children\nare in better hands than their own, safe and well treated. But before\nlong even these ignorant ones observe that their children have learned a\nnumber of things which are not good. They have mixed with a crowd of\nothers, and somewhere among them they have learned bad language, bad\nideas, and bad habits. These are complaints which may be heard from\nintelligent, educated, and conservative parents also,--parents who may\nbe presumed to be satisfied with the spirit and general purpose of the\nknowledge imparted in the class-room. Also the children suffer in health\nthrough their schools; and later on, when the cramming and crowding of\ntheir brains goes on in earnest, as it does in the higher grades, and\nparticularly the High Schools, Oh then springs up a terrible crop of\nheadache, nervous prostration, hysterics, over-delicacy, anaemia,\nheart-palpitation (especially among the girls), and a harvest of other\nphysical disorders which were very probably planted back in the primary\ndepartments, and fostered in the higher rooms. The students are so\novertrained that they often \"become good for nothing in the house,\" the\nparents say, and too late the mothers discover that they themselves\nbecome servants to the whimsical little ladies and gentlemen they have\nraised up, who are more interested in text-books than in practical\nhousehold matters.\n\nSuch are the ordinary complaints heard on every side, uttered by those\nwho really have no fault to find with the substance of the instruction\nitself,--some because they do not know, and some because it fairly\nrepresents their own ideas.\n\nThe complaint becomes much more vital and definite when it proceeds from\na parent who is an informed person, with a conception of life at\nvariance with that commonly accepted. I will instance that of a\nPhiladelphia physician, who recently said to me: \"In my opinion many of\nthe most horrid effects of malformations which I have to deal with, are\nthe results of the long hours of sitting imposed on children in the\nschools. It is impossible for a healthy active creature to sit stiffly\nstraight so many hours; no one can do it. They will inevitably twist and\nsquirm themselves down into one position or another which throws the\ninternal organs out of position, and which by iteration and reiteration\nresults in a continuously accentuating deformity. Motherhood often\nbecomes extremely painful and dangerous through the narrowing of the\npelvis produced in early years of so much uncomfortable sitting. I\nbelieve that the sort of schooling which necessitates it should not\nbegin till a child is fourteen years of age.\"\n\nHe added also that the substance of our education should be such as\nwould fit the person for the conditions and responsibilities he or she\nmay reasonably be expected to encounter in life. Since the majority of\nboys and girls will most likely become fathers and mothers in the\nfuture, why does not our system of education take account of it, and\ninstruct the children not in the Latin names of bones and muscles so\nmuch, as in the practical functioning and hygiene of the body? Every\nteacher knows, and most of our parents know, that no subject is more\ncarefully ignored by our text-books on physiology than the reproductive\nsystem.\n\nA like book on zo\u00f6logy has far more to say about the reproduction of\nanimals than is thought fit to be said by human beings to human beings\nabout themselves. And yet upon such ignorance often depends the ruin of\nlives. Such is the criticism of an intelligent physician, himself the\nfather of five children. It is a typical complaint of those who have to\ndeal with the physical results of our school system.\n\nA still more forcible complaint is rising up from a class of parents who\nobject not only negatively, but positively, to the instruction of the\nschools. These are saying: I do not want to have my children taught\nthings which are positively untrue, nor truths which have been distorted\nto fit some one's political or religious conception. I do not want any\nsort of religion or politics to be put into his head. I want the\naccepted facts of natural science and discovery to be taught him, in so\nfar as they are within the grasp of his intellect. I do not want them\ncolored with the prejudice of any system. I want a school system which\nwill be suited to his physical well-being. I want what he learns to\nbecome his, by virtue of its appealing to his taste, his aptitude for\nexperiment and proof; I do not want it to be a foreign stream pouring\nover his lips like a brook over its bed, leaving nothing behind. I do\nnot want him to be tortured with formal examinations, nor worried by\ncredit marks with averages and per cents and tenths of per cents, which\nhaunt him waking and sleeping, as if they were the object of his\nefforts. And more than that, and above all, I do not want him made an\nautomaton. I do not want him to become abjectly obedient. I do not want\nhis free initiative destroyed. I want him, by virtue of his education,\nto be well-equipped bodily and mentally to face life and its problems.\n\nThis is my second point: That parents, conservatives and radicals,\ncriticise the school\n\n1st, As the producer of unhealthy bodies;\n\n2d, As teaching matter inappropriate to life; or rather, perhaps, as not\nteaching what is appropriate to life;\n\n3d, As perverting truth to serve a political and religious system; and\nas putting an iron mould upon the will of youth, destroying all\nspontaneity and freedom of expression.\n\nThe third critic is the teacher. Owing to his peculiarly dependent\nposition, it is very, very seldom that any really vital criticism comes\nout of the mouth of an ordinary employ\u00e9 in the public school service:\nfirst, if he has any subversive ideas, he dares not voice them for fear\nof his job; second, it is extremely unlikely that any one with\nsubversive ideas either will apply for the job, or having applied, will\nget it; and third, if through some fortuitous combination of\ncircumstances, a rebellious personage has smuggled himself into the\ncamp, with the naive notion that he is going to work reforms in the\nsystem, he finds before long that the system is rather remoulding him;\nhe falls into the routine prescribed, and before long ceases to struggle\nagainst it.\n\nStill, however conservative and system-logged teachers may be, they will\nall agree upon one criticism; viz., that they have too much to do; that\nit is utterly impossible for them to do justice to every pupil; that\nwith from thirty to fifty pupils all depending upon one teacher for\ninstruction, it is out of the question to give any single one\nsufficient attention, to say nothing of any special attention which his\npeculiar backwardness might require. He could do so only at the expense\nof injustice to the rest.\n\nAnd, indeed, the best teacher in the world could not attend properly to\nthe mental needs of fifty children, nor even of thirty. Furthermore,\nthis overcrowding makes necessary the stiff regulation, the formal\ndiscipline, in the maintenance of which so much of the teacher's energy\nis wasted. The everlasting roll-call, the record of tardiness and\nabsence, the eye forever on the watch to see who is whispering, the ear\nforever on the alert to catch the scraper of feet, the mischievous\ndisturber, the irrepressible noisemaker; with such a divided and\nsubdivided attention, how is it possible to teach?\n\nHere and there we find a teacher with original ideas, not of subjects to\nbe taught, but of the means of teaching. Sometimes there is one who\ninwardly revolts at what he has to teach, and takes such means as he can\nto counteract the glorifications of political aggrandizement, with which\nour geographies and histories are redolent.\n\nIn general, however, public school teachers, like government clerks,\nbelieve very much in the system whereby they live.\n\nWhat they do find fault with, and what they have very much reason to\nfind fault with, is not the school system, but the counteracting\ninfluences of bad homes. Teachers are often heard to say that they think\nthey could do far better with the children, if they had entire control\nof them, or, as they more commonly express themselves, \"if only their\nparents had some common sense!\" Lessons of order, neatness, cleanliness,\nand hygiene, are often entirely thrown away, because the children regard\nthem as statements to be memorized, not things to be practised.\n\nThose children whose mothers know nothing of ventilation, the necessity\nfor exercise, the chemistry of food, and the functioning of the organs\nof the body, will forget instructions because they are never made part\nof their lives. (Which criticism is a sort of confirmation of that sage\nobservation: \"If you want to reform a man, begin with his grandmother.\")\n\nSo much for criticism.\n\nWhat, now, can we offer in the way of suggestions for reform? Speaking\nabstractly, I should say that the purpose of education should be to\nfurnish a child with such fundamental knowledge and habits as will\npreserve and strengthen his body, and make him a self-reliant social\nbeing, having an all-around acquaintance with the life which is to\nsurround him and an adaptability to circumstances which will render him\nable to meet varying conditions.\n\nBut we are immediately confronted by certain practical queries, when we\nattempt to conceive such a school system.\n\nThe fact is that the training of the body should be begun in very early\nchildhood; and can never be rightly done in a city. No other animal than\nman ever conceived such a frightful apparatus for depriving its young of\nthe primary rights of physical existence as the human city. The mass of\nour city children know very little of nature. What they have learned of\nit through occasional picnics, excursions, visits in the country, etc.,\nthey have learned as a foreign thing, having little relation to\nthemselves; their \"natural\" habitat is one of lifeless brick and mortar,\nwire and iron, poles, pavements, and noise. Yet all this ought to be\nutterly foreign to children. _This_ ought to be the thing visited once\nin a while, not lived in.\n\nThere is no pure air in a city; it is _all_ poisoned. Yet the first\nnecessity of lunged animals--especially little ones--is pure air.\nMoreover, every child ought to know the names and ways of life of the\nthings it eats; how to grow them, etc. How are gardens possible in a\ncity? Every child should know trees, not as things he has read about,\nbut as familiar presences in his life, which he recognizes as quickly as\nhis eyes greet them. He should know his oneness with nature, not through\nthe medium of a theory, but through feeling it daily and hourly. He\nshould know the birds by their songs, and by the quick glimpse of them\namong the foliage; the insect in its home, the wild flower on its stalk,\nthe fruit where it hangs. Can this be done in a city?\n\nIt is the city that is wrong, and its creations can never be right; they\nmay be improved; they can never be what they should.\n\nLet me quote Luther Burbank here: he expressed so well, and just in the\ntumultuous disorder and un-coordination dear to a child's soul, the\nearly rights of children. \"Every child should have mud-pies,\ngrasshoppers, water-bugs, tadpoles, frogs, mud-turtles, elderberries,\nwild strawberries, acorns, chestnuts, trees to climb, brooks to wade in,\nwater-lilies, woodchucks, bats, bees, butterflies, various animals to\npet, hay-fields, pine-cones, rocks to roll, sand, snakes, huckleberries,\nand hornets; and any child who has been deprived of these has been\ndeprived of the best part of his education.\" He is of opinion that until\nten years of age, these things should be the real educators of\nchildren,--not books. I agree with him. But neither city homes nor city\nschools can give children these things. Furthermore, I believe that\neducation should be integral; that the true school must combine physical\nand intellectual education from the beginning to the end. But I am\nconfronted by the fact that this is impossible to the mass of the\npeople, because of the economic condition in which we are all\nfloundering.\n\nWhat is possible can be only a compromise. Physical education will go on\nin the home principally, and intellectual education in the school.\nSomething might be done to organize the teaching of parents; lectures\nand demonstrations at the public schools might be given weekly, in the\nevenings, for parents, by competent nurses or hygienists. But they would\nremain largely ineffective. Until the whole atrocious system of herding\nworking people in close-built cities, by way of making them serviceable\ncogwheels in the capitalistic machine for grinding out rent and profit,\ncomes to an end, the physical education of children will remain at best\na pathetic compromise.\n\nWe have left to consider what may be done in the way of improving\nintellectual education. What is really necessary for a child to know\nwhich he is not taught now? and what is taught that is unnecessary?\n\nAs to reading and writing there is no dispute, though there is much\ndispute about the way of doing it. But beyond that children should\nknow--_things_; from their earlier school days they should know the\ngeography of their own locality, not rehearsing it from a book, but by\ngoing over the ground, having the relations of places explained to them,\nand by being shown how to model relief maps themselves. They should know\nthe indications of the weather, being taught the use of instruments for\nmeasuring air-pressures, temperatures, amount of sunshine, etc.; they\nshould know the special geology of their own locality, the nature of the\nsoil and its products, through practical exhibition; they should be\nallowed to construct, from clay, stone, or brick, such little buildings\nas they usually like to make, and from them the simple principles of\ngeometry taught. You see, every school needs a big yard, and play-rooms\nwith tools in them,--the use of which tools they should be taught.\n\nArithmetic, to be sure, they need to know--but arithmetic connected with\nthings. Let them learn fractions by cutting up things and putting them\ntogether, and not be bothered by abstractions running into the hundreds\nof thousands, the millions, which never in time will they use. And drop\nall that tiresome years' work in interest and per cent; if decimals are\nunderstood, every one who has need will be amply able to work out\nsystems of interest when necessary.\n\nChildren should know the industrial life through which they live, into\nwhich they are probably going. They should see how cloth is woven,\nthread is spun, shoes are made, iron forged and wrought; again not alone\nby written description, but by eye-witness. They should, as they grow\nolder, learn the history of the arts of peace.\n\nWhat they do not need to know, is so much of the details of the history\nof destruction; the general facts and results of wars are sufficient.\nThey do not need to be impressed with the details of killings, which\nthey sensibly forget, and inevitably also.\n\nMoreover, the revolting patriotism which is being inculcated, whereby\nchildren learn to be proud of their country, not for its contributions\nto the general enlightenment of humanity, but for its crimes against\nhumanity; whereby they are taught to consider themselves, their country,\ntheir flag, their institutions, as things to be upheld and maintained,\nright or wrong; whereby the stupid and criminal life of the soldier is\nexalted as honorable, should be wholly omitted from the educational\nsystem.\n\nHowever, it is utterly impossible to expect that it will be, by anything\nshort of general public sentiment against it; and at present such\nsentiment is for it. I have alluded before to the function of the\nstatesman in directing education. So long as schools are maintained by\ngovernments, the Statesman, not the true educator, will determine what\nsort of history is to be taught; and it will be what it is now, only\ncontinually growing worse. Political institutions must justify\nthemselves to the young generation. They begin by training childish\nminds to believe that what they do is to be accepted, not criticised. A\nhistory becomes little better than a catechism of patriotic formulas in\nglorification of the State.\n\nNow there is no way of escaping this, for those who disapprove it, short\nof eliminating the statesman, establishing voluntarily supported\nschools, wherein wholly different notions shall be taught; in which the\nspirit of teaching history shall be one of honest statement and fearless\ncriticism; wherein the true image of war and the army and all that it\nmeans shall be honestly given.\n\nThe really Ideal School, which would not be a compromise, would be a\nboarding school built in the country, having a farm attached, and\nworkshops where useful crafts might be learned, in daily connection with\nintellectual training. It presupposes teachers able to train little\nchildren to habits of health, order, and neatness, in the utmost detail,\nand yet not tyrants or rigid disciplinarians. In free contact with\nnature, the children would learn to use their limbs as nature meant,\nfeel their intimate relationship with the growing life of other sorts,\nform a profound respect for work and an estimate of the value of it;\nwish to become real doers in the world, and not mere gatherers in of\nother men's products; and with the respect for work, the appreciation of\nwork, the desire to work, will come the pride of the true workman who\nwill know how to maintain his dignity and the dignity of what he does.\n\nAt present the major portion of our working people are sorry they are\nworking people (as they have good reason to be). They take little joy or\npride in what they do; they consider themselves as less gifted and less\nvaluable persons in society than those who have amassed wealth and, by\nvirtue of that amassment, live upon their employees; or those who by\nattaining book knowledge have gotten out of the field of manual\nproduction, and lead an easier life. They educate their children in the\nhope that these, at least, may attain that easier existence, without\nwork, which has been beyond them. Even when such parents themselves have\ndreams of a reorganization of society, wherein all shall labor and all\nhave leisure due, they impress upon the children that no one should be a\ncommon workingman if he can help it. Workingmen are slaves, and it is\nnot well to be a slave.\n\nOur radicals fail to realize that to accomplish the reorganization of\nwork, it is necessary to have _workers_,--and workers with the free\nspirit, the rebellious spirit, which will consider its own worth and\nrefuse to accept the slavish conditions of capitalism. These must be\nbred in schools where work is done, and done proudly, and in full\nconsciousness of its value; where the dubious services of the capitalist\nwill likewise be rated at their true worth; and no man reckoned as above\nanother, unless he has done a greater social service. Where political\ninstitutions and the politicians who operate them--judges, lawmakers, or\nexecutives--will be candidly criticised, and repudiated when justice\ndictates so, whether in the teaching of their past history, or their\npresent actions in current events.\n\nWhether the workers, upon whom so many drains are already made, will be\nable to establish and maintain such schools, is a question to be solved\nupon trial through their organizations.\n\nThe question is, Will you breed men for the service of the Cannon, to be\naimed at you in the hour of Strikes and Revolts, men to uphold the\nmachine which is crushing you, or will you train them in the knowledge\nof the true worth of Labor and a determination to reorganize it as it\nshould be?\n\n\n\n\nSex Slavery\n\n\nNight in a prison cell! A chair, a bed, a small washstand, four blank\nwalls, ghastly in the dim light from the corridor without, a narrow\nwindow, barred and sunken in the stone, a grated door! Beyond its\nhideous iron latticework, within the ghastly walls,--a man! An old man,\ngray-haired and wrinkled, lame and suffering. There he sits, in his\ngreat loneliness, shut in from all the earth. There he walks, to and\nfro, within his measured space, apart from all he loves! There, for\nevery night in five long years to come, he will walk alone, while the\nwhite age-flakes drop upon his head, while the last years of the winter\nof life gather and pass, and his body draws near the ashes. Every night,\nfor five long years to come, he will sit alone, this chattel slave,\nwhose hard toil is taken by the State,--and without recompense save that\nthe Southern planter gave his negroes,--every night he will sit there so\nwithin those four white walls. Every night, for five long years to come,\na suffering woman will lie upon her bed, longing, longing for the end of\nthose three thousand days; longing for the kind face, the patient hand,\nthat in so many years had never failed her. Every night, for five long\nyears to come, the proud spirit must rebel, the loving heart must bleed,\nthe broken home must lie desecrated. As I am speaking now, as you are\nlistening, there within the cell of that accursed penitentiary whose\nstones have soaked up the sufferings of so many victims, murdered, as\ntruly as any outside their walls, by that slow rot which eats away\nexistence inch-meal,--as I am speaking now, as you are listening, _there\nsits Moses Harman_!\n\nWhy? Why, when murder now is stalking in your streets, when dens of\ninfamy are so thick within your city that competition has forced down\nthe price of prostitution to the level of the wages of your starving\nshirt-makers; when robbers sit in State and national Senate and House,\nwhen the boasted \"bulwark of our liberties,\" the elective franchise, has\nbecome a U. S. dice-box, wherewith great gamblers play away your\nliberties; when debauchees of the worst type hold all your public\noffices and dine off the food of fools who support them, why, then, sits\nMoses Harman there within his prison cell? If he is so _great_ a\ncriminal, why is he not with the rest of the spawn of crime, dining at\nDelmonico's or enjoying a trip to Europe? If he is so bad a man, why in\nthe name of wonder did he ever get in the penitentiary?\n\nAh, no; it is not because he has done any evil thing; but because he, a\npure enthusiast, searching, searching always for the cause of misery of\nthe kind which he loved with that broad love of which only the pure soul\nis capable, searched for the data of evil. And searching so he found the\nvestibule of life to be a prison cell; the holiest and purest part of\nthe temple of the body, if indeed one part can be holier or purer than\nanother, the altar where the most devotional love in truth should be\nlaid, he found this altar ravished, despoiled, trampled upon. He found\nlittle babies, helpless, voiceless little things, generated in lust,\ncursed with impure moral natures, cursed, prenatally, with the germs of\ndisease, forced into the world to struggle and to suffer, to hate\nthemselves, to hate their mothers for bearing them, to hate society and\nto be hated by it in return,--a bane upon self and race, draining the\nlees of crime. And he said, this felon with the stripes upon his body,\n\"Let the mothers of the race go free! Let the little children be pure\nlove children, born of the mutual desire for parentage. Let the manacles\nbe broken from the shackled slave, that no more slaves be born, no more\ntyrants conceived.\"\n\nHe looked, this obscenist, looked with clear eyes into this ill-got\nthing you call morality, sealed with the seal of marriage, and saw in it\nthe consummation of _im_morality, impurity, and injustice. He beheld\nevery married woman what she is, a bonded slave, who takes her master's\nname, her master's bread, her master's commands, and serves her master's\npassion; who passes through the ordeal of pregnancy and the throes of\ntravail at _his_ dictation,--not at her desire; who can control no\nproperty, not even her own body, without his consent, and from whose\nstraining arms the children she bears may be torn at his pleasure, or\nwilled away while they are yet unborn. It is said the English language\nhas a sweeter word than any other,--_home_. But Moses Harman looked\nbeneath the word and saw the fact,--a prison more horrible than that\nwhere he is sitting now, whose corridors radiate over all the earth, and\nwith so many cells, that none may count them.\n\nYes, our Masters! The earth is a prison, the marriage-bed is a cell,\nwomen are the prisoners, and you are the keepers!\n\nHe saw, this corruptionist, how in those cells are perpetrated such\noutrages as are enough to make the cold sweat stand upon the forehead,\nand the nails clench, and the teeth set, and the lips grow white in\nagony and hatred. And he saw too how from those cells might none come\nforth to break her fetters, how no slave dare cry out, how all these\nmurders are done quietly, beneath the shelter-shadow of home, and\nsanctified by the angelic benediction of a piece of paper, within the\nsilence-shade of a marriage certificate, Adultery and Rape stalk freely\nand at ease.\n\nYes, for that is adultery where woman submits herself sexually to man,\nwithout desire on her part, for the sake of \"keeping him virtuous,\"\n\"keeping him at home,\" the women say. (Well, if a man did not love me\nand respect himself enough to be \"virtuous\" without prostituting me, he\nmight go, and welcome. He has no virtue to keep.) And that is rape,\nwhere a man forces himself sexually upon a woman whether he is licensed\nby the marriage law to do it or not. And that is the vilest of all\ntyranny where a man compels the woman he says he loves, to endure the\nagony of bearing children that she does not want, and for whom, as is\nthe rule rather than the exception, they cannot properly provide. It is\nworse than any other human oppression; it is fairly _God_-like! To the\nsexual tyrant there is no parallel upon earth; one must go to the skies\nto find a fiend who thrusts life upon his children only to starve and\ncurse and outcast and damn them! And only through the marriage law is\nsuch tyranny possible. The man who deceives a woman outside of marriage\n(and mind you, such a man will deceive _in_ marriage too) may deny his\nown child, if he is mean enough. He cannot tear it from her arms--he\ncannot touch it! The girl he wronged, thanks to your very pure and\ntender morality-standard, may die in the street for want of food. _He_\ncannot force his hated presence upon her again. But his wife, gentlemen,\nhis wife, the woman he respects so much that he consents to let her\nmerge her individuality into his, lose her identity and become his\nchattel, his wife he may not only force unwelcome children upon, outrage\nat his own good pleasure, and keep as a general cheap and convenient\npiece of furniture, but if she does not get a divorce (and she cannot\nfor such cause) he can follow her wherever she goes, come into her\nhouse, eat her food, force her into the cell, _kill_ her by virtue of\nhis sexual authority! And she has no redress unless he is indiscreet\nenough to abuse her in some less brutal but unlicensed manner. I know a\ncase in your city where a woman was followed so for ten years by her\nhusband. I believe he finally developed grace enough to die; please\napplaud him for the only decent thing he ever did.\n\nOh, is it not rare, all this talk about the preservation of morality by\nmarriage law! O splendid carefulness to preserve that which you have not\ngot! O height and depth of purity, which fears so much that the children\nwill not know who their fathers are, because, forsooth, they must rely\nupon their mother's word instead of the hired certification of some\npriest of the Church, or the Law! I wonder if the children would be\nimproved to know what their fathers have done. I would rather, much\nrather, not know who my father was than know he had been a tyrant to my\nmother. I would rather, much rather, be illegitimate according to the\nstatutes of men, than illegitimate according to the unchanging law of\nNature. For what is it to be legitimate, born \"according to law\"? It is\nto be, nine cases out of ten, the child of a man who acknowledges his\nfatherhood simply because he is forced to do so, and whose conception of\nvirtue is realized by the statement that \"a woman's duty is to keep her\nhusband at home\"; to be the child of a woman who cares more for the\nbenediction of Mrs. Grundy than the simple honor of her lover's word,\nand conceives prostitution to be purity and duty when exacted of her by\nher husband. It is to have Tyranny as your progenitor, and slavery as\nyour prenatal cradle. It is to run the risk of unwelcome birth, \"legal\"\nconstitutional weakness, morals corrupted before birth, possibly a\nmurder instinct, the inheritance of excessive sexuality or no sexuality,\neither of which is disease. It is to have the value of a piece of paper,\na rag from the tattered garments of the \"Social Contract,\" set above\nhealth, beauty, talent or goodness; for I never yet had difficulty in\nobtaining the admission that illegitimate children are nearly always\nprettier and brighter than others, even from conservative women. And how\nsupremely disgusting it is to see them look from their own puny, sickly,\nlust-born children, upon whom lie the chain-traces of their own terrible\nservitude, look from these to some healthy, beautiful \"natural\" child,\nand say, \"What a pity its _mother_ wasn't virtuous!\" Never a word about\n_their_ children's fathers' virtue, they know too much! Virtue! Disease,\nstupidity, criminality! What an _obscene_ thing \"virtue\" is!\n\nWhat is it to be illegitimate? To be despised, or pitied, by those whose\nspite or whose pity isn't worth the breath it takes to return it. To be,\npossibly, the child of some man contemptible enough to deceive a woman;\nthe child of some woman whose chief crime was belief in the man she\nloved. To be free from the prenatal curse of a slave mother, to come\ninto the world without the permission of any law-making set of tyrants\nwho assume to corner the earth, and say what terms the unborn must make\nfor the privilege of coming into existence. This is legitimacy and\nillegitimacy! Choose.\n\nThe man who walks to and fro in his cell in Lansing penitentiary\nto-night, this vicious man, said: \"The mothers of the race are lifting\ntheir dumb eyes to me, their sealed lips to me, their agonizing hearts\nto me. They are seeking, seeking for a voice! The unborn in their\nhelplessness, are pleading from their prisons, pleading for a voice! The\ncriminals, with the unseen ban upon their souls, that has pushed them,\npushed them to the vortex, out of their whirling hells, are looking,\nwaiting for a voice! _I will be their voice._ I will unmask the outrages\nof the marriage-bed. I will make known how criminals are born. I will\nmake one outcry that shall be heard, and let what will be, _be_!\" He\ncried out through the letter of Dr. Markland, that a young mother\nlacerated by unskilful surgery in the birth of her babe, but recovering\nfrom a subsequent successful operation, had been stabbed, remorselessly,\ncruelly, brutally stabbed, not with a knife, but with the procreative\norgan of her husband, stabbed to the doors of death, and yet there was\nno redress!\n\nAnd because he called a spade a spade, because he named that organ by\nits own name, so given in Webster's dictionary and in every medical\njournal in the country, because of this Moses Harman walks to and fro\nin his cell to-night. He gave a concrete example of the effect of sex\nslavery, and for it he is imprisoned. It remains for us now to carry\non the battle, and lift the standard where they struck him down, to\nscatter broadcast the knowledge of this crime of society against a man\nand the reason for it; to inquire into this vast system of licensed\ncrime, its cause and its effect, broadly upon the race. The Cause! Let\nwoman ask herself, \"Why am I the slave of Man? Why is my brain said not\nto be the equal of his brain? Why is my work not paid equally with his?\nWhy must my body be controlled by my husband? Why may he take my labor\nin the household, giving me in exchange what he deems fit? Why may he\ntake my children from me? Will them away while yet unborn?\" Let every\nwoman ask.\n\nThere are two reasons why, and these ultimately reducible to a single\nprinciple--the authoritarian, supreme-power, _God_-idea, and its two\ninstruments, the Church--that is, the priests--and the State--that is,\nthe legislators.\n\nFrom the birth of the Church, out of the womb of Fear and the fatherhood\nof Ignorance, it has taught the inferiority of woman. In one form or\nanother through the various mythical legends of the various mythical\ncreeds, runs the undercurrent of the belief in the fall of man through\nthe persuasion of woman, her subjective condition as punishment, her\nnatural vileness, total depravity, etc.; and from the days of Adam until\nnow the Christian Church, with which we have specially to deal, has made\n_woman_ the excuse, the scapegoat for the evil deeds of _man_. So\nthoroughly has this idea permeated Society that numbers of those who\nhave utterly repudiated the Church, are nevertheless soaked in this\nstupefying narcotic to true morality. So pickled is the male creation\nwith the vinegar of Authoritarianism, that even those who have gone\nfurther and repudiated the State still cling to the god, Society as it\nis, still hug the old theological idea that they are to be \"heads of the\nfamily\"--to that wonderful formula \"of simple proportion\" that \"Man is\nthe head of the Woman even as Christ is the head of the Church.\" No\nlonger than a week since an Anarchist (?) said to me, \"I will be boss in\nmy own house\"--a \"Communist-Anarchist,\" if you please, who doesn't\nbelieve in \"_my_ house.\" About a year ago a noted libertarian speaker\nsaid, in my presence, that his sister, who possessed a fine voice and\nhad joined a concert troupe, should \"stay at home with her children;\nthat is _her place_.\" The old Church idea! This man was a Socialist, and\nsince an Anarchist; yet his highest idea for woman was serfhood to\nhusband and children, in the present mockery called \"home.\" Stay at\nhome, ye malcontents! Be patient, obedient, submissive! Darn our socks,\nmend our shirts, wash our dishes, get our meals, wait on us and _mind\nthe children_! Your fine voices are not to delight the public nor\nyourselves; your inventive genius is not to work, your fine art taste is\nnot to be cultivated, your business faculties are not to be developed;\nyou made the great mistake of being born with them, suffer for your\nfolly! You are _women_! therefore housekeepers, servants, waiters, and\nchild's nurses!\n\nAt Macon, in the sixth century, says August Bebel, the fathers of the\nChurch met and proposed the decision of the question, \"Has woman a\nsoul?\" Having ascertained that the permission to own a nonentity wasn't\ngoing to injure any of their parsnips, a small majority vote decided the\nmomentous question in our favor. Now, holy fathers, it was a tolerably\ngood scheme on your part to offer the reward of your pitiable \"salvation\nor damnation\" (odds in favor of the latter) as a bait for the hook of\nearthly submission; it wasn't a bad sop in those days of Faith and\nIgnorance. But fortunately fourteen hundred years have made it stale.\nYou, tyrant radicals (?), have no heaven to offer,--you have no\ndelightful chimeras in the form of \"merit cards\"; you have (save the\nmark) the respect, the good offices, the smiles--of a slave-holder! This\nin return for our chains! Thanks!\n\nThe question of souls is old--we demand our bodies, now. We are tired of\npromises, God is deaf, and his church is our worst enemy. Against it we\nbring the charge of being the moral (or immoral) force which lies behind\nthe tyranny of the State. And the State has divided the loaves and\nfishes with the Church, the magistrates, like the priests take marriage\nfees; the two fetters of Authority have gone into partnership in the\nbusiness of granting patent-rights to parents for the privilege of\nreproducing themselves, and the State cries as the Church cried of old,\nand cries now: \"See how we protect women!\" The State has done more. It\nhas often been said to me, by women with decent masters, who had no idea\nof the outrages practiced on their less fortunate sisters, \"Why don't\nthe wives leave?\"\n\nWhy don't you run, when your feet are chained together? Why don't you\ncry out when a gag is on your lips? Why don't you raise your hands above\nyour head when they are pinned fast to your sides? Why don't you spend\nthousands of dollars when you haven't a cent in your pocket? Why don't\nyou go to the seashore or the mountains, you fools scorching with city\nheat? If there is one thing more than another in this whole accursed\ntissue of false society, which makes me angry, it is the asinine\nstupidity which with the true phlegm of impenetrable dullness says, \"Why\ndon't the women leave!\" Will you tell me where they will go and what\nthey shall do? When the State, the legislators, has given to itself, the\npoliticians, the utter and absolute control of the opportunity to live;\nwhen, through this precious monopoly, already the market of labor is so\noverstocked that workmen and workwomen are cutting each others' throats\nfor the dear privilege of serving their lords; when girls are shipped\nfrom Boston to the south and north, shipped in carloads, like cattle, to\nfill the dives of New Orleans or the lumber-camp hells of my own state\n(Michigan), when seeing and hearing these things reported every day,\nthe proper prudes exclaim, \"Why don't the women leave,\" they simply\nbeggar the language of contempt.\n\nWhen America passed the fugitive slave law compelling men to catch their\nfellows more brutally than runaway dogs, Canada, aristocratic,\nunrepublican Canada, still stretched her arms to those who might reach\nher. But there is no refuge upon earth for the enslaved sex. Right where\nwe are, there we must dig our trenches, and win or die.\n\nThis, then, is the tyranny of the State; it denies, to both woman and\nman, the right to earn a living, and grants it as a privilege to a\nfavored few who for that favor must pay ninety per cent. toll to the\ngranters of it. These two things, the mind domination of the Church, and\nthe body domination of the State are the causes of Sex Slavery.\n\nFirst of all, it has introduced into the world the constructed crime of\nobscenity: it has set up such a peculiar standard of morals that to\nspeak the names of the sexual organs is to commit the most brutal\noutrage. It reminds me that in your city you have a street called\n\"Callowhill.\" Once it was called Gallows' Hill, for the elevation to\nwhich it leads, now known as \"Cherry Hill,\" has been the last touching\nplace on earth for the feet of many a victim murdered by the Law. But\nthe sound of the word became too harsh; so they softened it, though the\nmurders are still done, and the black shadow of the Gallows still hangs\non the City of Brotherly Love. Obscenity has done the same; it has\nplaced virtue in the shell of an idea, and labelled all \"good\" which\ndwells within the sanction of Law and respectable (?) custom; and all\nbad which contravenes the usage of the shell. It has lowered the dignity\nof the human body, below the level of all other animals. Who thinks a\ndog is impure or obscene because its body is not covered with\nsuffocating and annoying clothes? What would you think of the meanness\nof a man who would put a skirt upon his horse and compel it to walk or\nrun with such a thing impeding its limbs? Why, the \"Society for the\nPrevention of Cruelty to Animals\" would arrest him, take the beast from\nhim, and he would be sent to a lunatic asylum for treatment on the score\nof an _impure_ mind. And yet, gentlemen, you expect your wives, the\ncreatures you say you respect and love, to wear the longest skirts and\nthe highest necked clothing, in order to conceal the _obscene human\nbody_. There is no society for the prevention of cruelty to women. And\nyou, yourselves, though a little better, look at the heat you wear in\nthis roasting weather! How you curse your poor body with the wool you\nsteal from the sheep! How you punish yourselves to sit in a crowded\nhouse with coats and vests on, because dead Mme. Grundy is shocked at\nthe \"vulgarity\" of shirt sleeves, or the naked arm!\n\nLook how the ideal of beauty has been marred by this obscenity notion.\nDivest yourselves of prejudice for once. Look at some fashion-slaved\nwoman, her waist surrounded by a high-board fence called a corset, her\nshoulders and hips angular from the pressure above and below, her feet\nnarrowest where they should be widest, the body fettered by her\neverlasting prison skirt, her hair fastened tight enough to make her\nhead ache and surmounted by a thing of neither sense nor beauty, called\na hat, ten to one a hump upon her back like a dromedary,--look at her,\nand then imagine such a thing as that carved in marble! Fancy a statue\nin Fairmount Park with a corset and bustle on. Picture to yourselves the\nimage of the equestrienne. We are permitted to ride, providing we sit in\na position ruinous to the horse; providing we wear a riding-habit long\nenough to hide the obscene human foot, weighed down by ten pounds of\ngravel to cheat the Wind in its free blowing, so running the risk of\ndisabling ourselves completely should accident throw us from the saddle.\nThink how we swim! We must even wear clothing in the water, and run the\ngauntlet of derision, if we dare battle in the surf minus stockings!\nImagine a fish trying to make headway with a water-soaked flannel\ngarment upon it. Nor are you yet content. The vile standard of obscenity\neven kills the little babies with clothes. The human race is murdered,\nhorribly, \"in the name of\" Dress.\n\nAnd in the name of Purity what lies are told! What queer morality it has\nengendered. For fear of it you dare not tell your own children the truth\nabout their birth; the most sacred of all functions, the creation of a\nhuman being, is a subject for the most miserable falsehood. When they\ncome to you with a simple, straightforward question, which they have a\nright to ask, you say, \"Don't ask such questions,\" or tell some silly\nhollow-log story; or you explain the incomprehensibility by\nanother--God! You say \"God made you.\" You know you are lying when you\nsay it. You know, or you ought to know, that the source of inquiry will\nnot be dammed up so. You know that what you could explain purely,\nreverently, rightly (if you have any purity in you), will be learned\nthrough many blind gropings, and that around it will be cast the\nshadow-thought of wrong, embryo'd by your denial and nurtured by this\nsocial opinion everywhere prevalent. If you do not know this, then you\nare blind to facts and deaf to Experience.\n\nThink of the double social standard the enslavement of our sex has\nevolved. Women considering themselves very pure and very moral, will\nsneer at the street-walker, yet admit to their homes the very men who\nvictimized the street-walker. Men, at their best, will pity the\nprostitute, while they themselves are the worst kind of prostitutes.\nPity yourselves, gentlemen--you need it!\n\nHow many times do you see where a man or woman has shot another through\njealousy! The standard of purity has decided that it is right, \"it shows\nspirit,\" \"it is justifiable\" to--murder a human being for doing exactly\nwhat you did yourself,--love the same woman or same man! Morality!\nHonor! Virtue!! Passing from the moral to the physical phase; take the\nstatistics of any insane asylum, and you will find that, out of the\ndifferent classes, unmarried women furnish the largest one. To preserve\nyour cruel, vicious, indecent standard of purity (?) you drive your\ndaughters insane, while your wives are killed with excess. Such is\nmarriage. Don't take my word for it; go through the report of any asylum\nor the annals of any graveyard.\n\nLook how your children grow up. Taught from their earliest infancy to\ncurb their love natures--restrained at every turn! Your blasting lies\nwould even blacken a child's kiss. Little girls must not be tomboyish,\nmust not go barefoot, must not climb trees, must not learn to swim, must\nnot do anything they desire to do which Madame Grundy has decreed\n\"improper.\" Little boys are laughed at as effeminate, silly girl-boys if\nthey want to make patchwork or play with a doll. Then when they grow up,\n\"Oh! Men don't care for home or children as women do!\" Why should they,\nwhen the deliberate effort of your life has been to crush that nature\nout of them. \"Women can't rough it like men.\" Train any animal, or any\nplant, as you train your girls, and it won't be able to rough it either.\nNow _will_ somebody tell me why either sex should hold a corner on\nathletic sports? Why any child should not have free use of its limbs?\n\nThese are the effects of your purity standard, your marriage law. This\nis your work--look at it! Half your children dying under five years of\nage, your girls insane, your married women walking corpses, your men\nso bad that they themselves often admit _Prostitution holds against_\n=Purity= _a bond of indebtedness_. This is the beautiful effect of your\ngod, Marriage, before which Natural Desire must abase and belie itself.\nBe proud of it!\n\nNow for the remedy. It is in one word, the only word that ever brought\nequity anywhere--=Liberty=! Centuries upon centuries of liberty is the\nonly thing that will cause the disintegration and decay of these\npestiferous ideas. Liberty was all that calmed the blood-waves of\nreligious persecution! You cannot cure serfhood by any other\nsubstitution. Not for you to say \"in this way shall the race love.\" Let\nthe race _alone_.\n\nWill there not be atrocious crimes? Certainly. He is a fool who says\nthere will not be. But you can't stop them by committing the arch-crime\nand setting a block between the spokes of Progress-wheels. You will\nnever get right until you start right.\n\nAs for the final outcome, it matters not one iota. I have my ideal, and\nit is very pure, and very sacred to me. But yours, equally sacred, may\nbe different and we may both be wrong. But certain am I that with free\ncontract, that form of sexual association will survive which is best\nadapted to time and place, thus producing the highest evolution of the\ntype. Whether that shall be monogamy, variety, or promiscuity matters\nnaught to us; it is the business of the future, to which we dare not\ndictate.\n\nFor freedom spoke Moses Harman, and for this he received the felon's\nbrand. For this he sits in his cell to-night. Whether it is possible\nthat his sentence be shortened, we do not know. We can only try. Those\nwho would help us try, let me ask to put your signatures to this simple\nrequest for pardon addressed to Benjamin Harrison. To those who desire\nmore fully to inform themselves before signing; I say: Your\nconscientiousness is praiseworthy--come to me at the close of the\nmeeting and I will quote the exact language of the Markland letter. To\nthose extreme Anarchists who cannot bend their dignity to ask pardon for\nan offense not committed, and of an authority they cannot recognize, let\nme say: Moses Harman's back is bent, low bent, by the brute force of the\nLaw, and though I would never ask anyone to bow for himself, I can ask\nit, and easily ask it, for him who fights the slave's battle. Your\ndignity is criminal; every hour behind the bars is a seal to your\npartnership with Comstock. No one can hate petitions worse than I; no\none has less faith in them than I. But for _my_ champion I am willing to\ntry any means that invades no other's right, even though I have little\nhope in it.\n\nIf, beyond these, there are those here to-night who have ever forced\nsexual servitude from a wife, those who have prostituted themselves in\nthe name of Virtue, those who have brought diseased, immoral or\nunwelcome children to the light, without the means of provision for\nthem, and yet will go from this hall and say, \"Moses Harman is an\nunclean man--a man rewarded by just punishment,\" then to _you_ I say,\nand may the words ring deep within your ears UNTIL YOU DIE: Go on! Drive\nyour sheep to the shambles! Crush that old, sick, crippled man beneath\nyour Juggernaut! In the name of Virtue, Purity and Morality, do it! In\nthe name of God, Home, and Heaven, do it! In the name of the Nazarene\nwho preached the golden rule, do it! In the name of Justice, Principle,\nand Honor, do it! In the name of Bravery and Magnanimity put yourself on\nthe side of the robber in the government halls, the murderer in the\npolitical convention, the libertine in public places, the whole brute\nforce of the police, the constabulary, the court, and the penitentiary,\nto persecute one poor old man who stood alone against your licensed\ncrime! Do it. And if Moses Harman dies within your \"Kansas Hell,\" be\nsatisfied _when you have murdered him_! Kill him! And you hasten the day\nwhen the Future shall bury you ten thousand fathoms deep beneath its\ncurses. Kill him! And the stripes upon his prison clothes shall lash you\nlike the knout! Kill him! And the insane shall glitter hate at you with\ntheir wild eyes, the unborn babes shall cry their blood upon you, and\nthe graves that you have filled in the name of Marriage, shall yield\nfood for a race that will pillory you, until the memory of your atrocity\nhas become a nameless ghost, flitting with the shades of Torquemada,\nCalvin and Jehovah over the horizon of the World!\n\nWould you smile to see him dead? Would you say, \"We are rid of this\nobscenist\"? Fools! The corpse would laugh at you from its cold eyelids!\nThe motionless lips would mock, and the solemn hands, the pulseless,\nfolded hands, in their quietness would write the last indictment, which\nneither Time nor you can efface. Kill him! And you write his glory and\nyour shame! Moses Harman in his felon stripes stands far above you now,\nand Moses Harman _dead_ will live on, immortal in the race he died to\nfree! Kill him!\n\n\n\n\nLiterature the Mirror of Man\n\n\nPerhaps I had better say the Mirror-reflection,--the reflection of all\nthat he has been and is, the hinting fore-flashing of something of what\nhe may become. In so considering it, let it be understood that I speak\nof no particular form of literature, but the entire body of a people's\nexpressed thought, preserved either traditionally, in writing, or in\nprint.\n\nThe majority of lightly thinking, fairly read people, who make use of\nthe word \"literature\" rather easily, do so with a very indistinct idea\nof its content. To them it usually means a certain limited form of human\nexpression, chiefly works of the imagination--poetry, drama, the various\nforms of the novel. History, philosophy, science are rather frowning\nnames,--stern second cousins, as it were, to the beguiling companions of\ntheir pleasant leisure hours,--not legitimately \"literature.\"\nBiography,--well, it depends on who writes it! If it can be made so much\nlike a work of fiction that the subject sketched serves the purposes of\na fictive hero, why then--maybe.\n\nTo such talkers about literature, evidence of familiarity with it, and\ntitle to have one's opinions thereon asked and respected, are witnessed\nby the ability to run glibly off the names of the personages in the\ndramas of Ibsen, Bj\u00f6rnson, Maeterlinck, Hauptmann or Shaw; or in the\nnovels of Gorki, Andreyev, Tolstoy, Zola, Maupassant, Hardy, and the\ndozen or so of lesser lights who revolve with these through the cycle of\nthe magazine issues.\n\nNot only do these same people thus limit the field of literature, (at\nleast in their ordinary conversation,--if you press them they will\ndubiously admit that the field may be extended) but they are also\npossessed of the notion that only one particular mode even of fiction,\nis in fact the genuine thing. That this mode has not always been in\nvogue they are aware; and they allow other modes to have been literature\nin the past, as a sort of kindly concession to the past--a\nblanket-indulgence to its unevolved state. At present, however, no\nindulgences are allowed; whatever is not the mode, is anathema; it is\nnot literature at all. When confronted by the _very_ great names of the\nPast, which they can neither consign to oblivion, nor patronize by\ntoleration for their undeveloped condition, names which are names for\nall ages, which they need to use as conjuration words in their\ncomparisons and criticisms, names such as Shakespeare or Hugo, they\ncomplacently close their eyes to contradictions and swear that\nfundamentally these men's works _are in the modern mode, the accepted\nmode, the one and only enduring mode_, the mode that they approve.\n\n\"Which is?\"--I hear you ask. _Which is_ what they are pleased to call\n\"Realism.\"\n\nIf you wish to know how far they are obsessed by this notion, go pick\nyourself a quiet corner in some caf\u00e9 where light literature readers meet\nto make comparisons, and listen to the comments. Before very long,\nvoices will be getting loud about some character at present stalking\nacross the pages of the magazines, or bestirring itself among the latest\nton of novel; and the dispute will be, \"Does such a type exist?\"--\"Of\ncourse he exists,\"--\"He does not exist,\"--\"He must exist,\"--\"He cannot\nexist,\"--\"Under such conditions,\"--\"There are no such conditions,\"--\"But\nbe reasonable: you have not been in all places, and you cannot say there\nmay not be such conditions; supposing--\" \"All right: I will give you the\nconditions; all the same, no man would act so under any conditions.\" \"I\nswear L have seen such men--\" \"Impossible--\" \"What is there impossible\nabout it?--\"\n\nAnd the voices get louder and louder, as the disputants proceed\nto pick the character to pieces, speech by speech, and action by\naction, till, nothing being left, each finally subsides somehow,\neach confirmed in his own opinion, each convinced that the main\npurpose of literature--Realism--has either been served, or not\nserved, by the author under discussion. To such disputants\n\"Literature the Mirror of Man,\" means that only such literature\nas gives so-called absolutely faithful representations of life\nas it is demonstrably lived, is a genuine Mirror. No author is\nto be considered worthy of a place, unless his works can be at\nleast twisted to fit this conception. With some slight refinement\nof idea, in so far as it recognizes the obscurer recesses of the\nmind as entitled to representation as well as the externals, it\ncorresponds to the one-time development of portrait painting,\nwhich esteemed it necessary to paint the exact number of hairs\nin the wart on Oliver Cromwell's nose, in order to have a true\nlikeness of him.\n\nAs before suggested, I do not, when I speak of Literature as the Mirror\nof Man, have any such 12x18 mirror in view; nor the limitation of\nliterature to any one form of it, to any one age of it, to any set of\nstandard names; nor the limitation of Man to any preconceived notion of\njust what he may logically be allowed to be. The composite image we are\nseeking to find is an image wrought as much of his dreams of what he\nwould like to be, as of his actual being; that is no true picture of\nMan, which does not include his cravings for the impossible, as well as\nhis daily performance of the possible. Indeed, the logical, calculable\nman, the man who under certain circumstances may be figured out to turn\nmurderer and under others saint, is hardly so interesting as the\nillogical being who upsets the calculation by becoming neither, but\nsomething not at all predictable.\n\nThe objects of my lecture then are these:\n\n1. To insist on a wider view of literature itself than that generally\naccepted.\n\n2. To suggest to readers a more satisfactory way of considering what\nthey read than that usually received.\n\n3. To point to certain phases of the human appearance reflected in the\nmirror which are not generally noticed, but which I find interesting and\nsuggestive.\n\nYou would think it very unreasonable, would you not, for any one to\ninsist that because your highly polished glass backed by quicksilver,\ngives back so clear and excellent an image, _therefore_ the watery\nvision you catch of yourself in the shifting, glancing ripples of a\nclear stream is not an image at all! With all the curious elongating and\ndrifting and shortening back and breaking up into wavering circles, done\nby that unresting image, you know very certainly that is you; and if you\nlook into the still waters of some summer pool, or mountain rain-cup,\nthe image there is almost as sharp-lined as that in your polished glass,\nexcept for the vague tremor that seems to move under the water rather\nthan on its surface, and suggest an ethereal something missing in your\ndrawing-room shadow. Yet that vision conjured in the water-depth is\nyou--surely you. Nay, even more,--that _first_ image of you, you\nperceived when as a child you danced in the firelight and saw a\nmisshapen darkness rising and falling along the wall in teasing\nmockery,--that too was surely an image of you--an image of interception,\nnot of reflection; a blur, a vacancy, a horror, from which you fled\nshrieking to your mother's arms;--and yet it was the distorted outline\nof you.\n\nYou grew familiar with it later, amused yourself with it, twisted your\nhands into strange positions to see what curious shapes they would form\nupon the wall, and made whole stories with the shadows. Long afterward\nyou went back to them with deliberate and careful curiosity, to see how\nthe figures stumbled on by accident could be definitely produced, at\nwill, according to the laws of interception.\n\nEven so the first _Man-Images_, cast back from the blank wall of\nLanguage, are uncouth, ungraspable, vague, vacant, menacing--to the men\nwho saw them, frightful. Mankind produced this paradox: the early\n_lights_ of literature were _darkness_!\n\nLater these darknesses grew less fearsome; the child-man began to jest\nwith them; to multiply figures and send them chasing past each other up\nand down the wall, with fresh glee at each newly created shadow-sport.\nThe wall at last became luminous, the shadows shining. And out of the\nold monosyllabic horror of the primitive legend, out of Man's fright at\nthe projection of his own soul, out of his wide stare at those terrific\ngiants on the wall who suddenly with shadow-like shifting became\ngrotesque dwarfs, and mocking little beasts that danced and floated,\never most fearful because of their elusive emptiness; out of this, bit\nby bit, grew the steady contemplation, the gradual effacement of fright,\nthe feeling of power and amusement, and the sense of Creative Mastery,\nwhich, understanding the shadows, began to command them, till there\narose all the beauty of fairy tales and shining myths and singing\nlegends.\n\nNow any one who desires to see in Literature the most that there is in\nit; who desires to read not merely for the absorption of the moment but\nfor the sake of permanent impression; who wishes to have an idea of Man\nnot only as he is now, but through the whole articulate record of his\nexistence; who would know the thoughts of his infancy and the connected\ncourse of his development,--and no one has any adequate conception of\nthe glory of literature, unless he includes this much in it--any such a\nreader, I say, must find among its most attractive pages, the stories of\nearly superstitions, the fictions of Fear, the struggles of the\nRace-Child's intelligence with overlooming problems. Think of the Ages\nand Ages that men saw the Demon Electricity riding the air; think that\neven now they do not know what he is; and yet he played mightily with\ntheir daily lives for all those ages. Think how this staring savage was\nput face to face with world-games which were spun and tossed around him,\nand compelled by the nature of his own activity to try to find an\nexplanation to them; think that most of us, if we were not the heritors\nof the ages that have passed since then, should be staggered and\nout-breathed even now by all these lights and forms through which we\nmove; and then turn to the record of those pathetic strivings of the\nfrightened child with some little tenderness and sympathy, some solemn\ncuriosity to know _what_ men were able to think and feel when they led\ntheir lives as in a threatening Wonder-house, where everything was an\nUnknown, invested with crouching hostility. And never be too sure you\nknow just how men will act, or try to act, under any conditions, if you\nhave not read the record of what they have thought and fancied and done;\nand after you have read it, Oh, then you will never be sure you know!\nFor then you will realize that every man is a burial-house, full of dead\nmen's ghosts,--and the ghosts of very, very ancient days are there,\nforever whispering in an ancient, ancient tongue of ancient passions and\ndesires, and prompting many actions which the doer thereof can give\nhimself no accounting for.\n\nThere are two ways of reading these old stories; and as one who has\ngotten pleasure and profit, too, from both, I would recommend them both\nto be used. The first way is to read yourself backward into it as much\nas possible. Do not be a critic, on first reading; put the critic\nasleep. Let yourself _seem to believe it_, as did he who wrote it. Read\nit aloud, if you are where you will not annoy anybody; let the words\nsing themselves over your lips, as they sung themselves over the lips of\nthe people who were dead so long ago,--in their strange far-away homes\nwith their vanished surroundings; sung themselves, just as the wind sung\nthrough the echoing forests, and murmured back from the rocks; just as\nthe songs slipped out of the birds' throats. You will find that half the\nbeauty and the farce of old-time legend lies in the bare sound of it.\nFar, far more is it dependent on the voice, than any modern writings\nare. And surely, the reason is simple enough: for _it_ was not _writing_\nin its creation; ancient literature addressed itself to the ear, always,\nwhile modern literature speaks to the eye.\n\nIf once you can get your ears washing with the sounds of the old\nlanguage, as with the washing of the seas when you sit on the beach, or\nthe lapping of the rivers when the bank-grass caresses you some idle\nsummer afternoon, it will be much easier for you to forget that you are\nthe child of another age and thought. You will begin to luxuriate in\nfancies and prefigure impossibilities; then you will know how it feels\nto be fancy free, loosed from the chain of the possible; and once having\nfelt, you will also understand better, when you re-read with other\nintent.\n\nWhen you are ready for such re-reading, then be as critical as you\nplease,--which does not necessarily mean be condemnatory. It means\nrather take notice of all generals and particulars, and question them.\n\nYou will naturally pose yourself the question, Why is it\nthat the bare sounds of these old stories are so much more\nvibrating, drum-like, shrilling, at times, than any modern\nsong or poem? You will find that the mitigating influence of\ncivilization,--knowledge, moderation,--creeping into expression,\nproduces flat, neutral, diluted sounds,--watery words, so to\nspeak, long-drawn out and glidingly inoffensive. In any modern\nwriting remarkable for strength, will be found a preponderance of\n\"barbaric yawp\"--as Whitman called it.\n\nFear creates sharp cries; the rebound of Fear, which is Bravado,\nproduces drum-tones, roars, and growls; unrestrained Passions howl in\nwind-notes, irregular, breaking short off. God carries a hammer, and\nLove a spear. The hymn clangs, and the love-song clashes. Through those\nfierce sounds one feels again hot hearts.\n\nThose who perceive colors accompanying sounds, sense clean cut lights\nstreaking the night-ground of these early word-pictures; sharp, hard,\nreds and yellows. It is our later world which has produced green\ntintings not to be told from gray, nor gray from blue, nor anything from\nanything. In our fondness for smoothness and gradation we have attained\npractical colorlessness.\n\nIf it appears to you that I am talking nonsense, permit me to tell you\nit is because you have dulled your own powers of perception; in seeking\nto become too intellectually appreciative, you have lost the power to\nfeel primitive things. Try to recover it.\n\nAnother source of interesting observation, especially in English\nliterature of early writing: this time the eye.\n\nIt is admitted by everybody that as a serviceable instrument for\nexpressing definite sounds in an expeditious and comprehensible manner,\nEnglish written language is a woeful failure. If any inventor of a\ntheory of symbols should, would, or could have devised such a ridiculous\nconception of spelling, such a hodge-podge of contradictory jumbles, he\nwould properly have been adjudged to an insane asylum; and that, every\nman who ever contrived an English spelling-book, and every teacher who\nis obliged to worry this incongruous mess through the steadily revolting\nreason-and-memory process of children, is ably convinced. But Man,\nEnglish-speaking Man, has actually--_executed_ such conception; (he\nprobably executed it first and conceived it afterward, as most of our\npoor victims do when they start on that terrible blind road through the\nspelling-book). Whether or no, the thing is here, and we've all to\naccept it, and deal with it as best we may, sadly hoping that possibly\nthe tenth generation from now may at least be rid of a few unnecessary\n\"e's.\"\n\nAnd since the thing is here, and is a mighty creation, and very\nindicative of how the human brain in large sections works; since we've\ngot to put up with it anyway, we may as well, in revenge for its many\ninconveniences, get what little satisfaction we can out of it. And I\nfind it one of the most delightful little side amusements of wandering\nthrough the field of old literature, while in the critical vein, to\nstray around among the old stumps and crooked cowpaths of English\nspelling. Much pleasure is to be derived from seeing what old words grew\ntogether and made new ones; what syllables or letters got lopped off or\ntwisted, how silent letters became silent and why; from what older\nlanguage planted, and what its relatives are. It is much the same\npleasure that one gets from trailing around through the narrow crooked\nstreets and senseless meanderings of London City. Everybody knows it's a\nfoolish way to build a city; that all streets should be straight and\nwide and well-distributed. But since they are not, and London is too big\nfor one's individual exertion to reform, one consents to take interest\nin explaining the crookedness--in mentally dissolving the great city\ninto the hundred little villages which coalesced to make it; in marking\nthis point as the place where St. Somebody-or-Other knelt and prayed\nonce and therefore there had to be a cross-street here; and this other\npoint as the place where the road swept round because martyrs were wont\nto be burnt there, etc., etc. The trouble is that after a while one gets\nto love all that quaint illogical tangle, seeing always the thousand\nyears of history in it; and so one's senses actually become vitiated\nenough to permit him to love the outrages of English spelling, because\nof the features of men's souls that are imaged therein. When I look at\nthe word \"laugh,\" I fancy I hear the joyous deep guttural \"gha-gha-gha\"\nof the old Saxon who died long before the foreign graft on the English\nstock softened the \"gh\" to an \"f\"!\n\nReally one must become more patient with the \"un-system,\" knowing how it\ngrew, and feeling that this is the way of Man,--the way he always\ngrows,--not as he ought, but as he can.\n\nI have spoken of forms: word-sounds, word-symbols; as to the spirit of\nthose early writings, full of inarticulate religious sentiment, emotions\nso strong they burst from the utterer's throat one might almost say in\nbarks; gloomy and foreboding; these gradually changing to more\nlightsome fancies,--beauty, delicacy, airiness taking their place, as in\nthe fairy tales and folk-songs of the people, wherein the deeds of\nsupernaturals are sported with, and it becomes evident that love and\nwinsomeness are usurping the kingdom of Power and Fear,--through all we\nare compelled to observe one constant tendency of the human mind,--the\ndesire to free itself from its own conditions, to be what it is not, to\nrepresent itself as something beyond its powers of accomplishment. In\ntheir minds, men had wings, and breathed in water, and swam on land, and\nate air, and thrived in deserts, and walked through seas, and gathered\nroses off ice-bergs, and collected frozen dew off the tails of sunbeams,\ndispersed mountains with mustard seeds of faith, and climbed into solid\ncaves under the rainbow; did everything which it was impossible for them\nto do.\n\nIt is in fact this imaginative faculty which has fore-run the\naccomplishments of science and while, under the influence of practical\nexperiment and the extension of knowledge such dreams have passed away,\nthis much remains and will long, long remain in humankind, covered over\nand shamefacedly concealed as much as may be--that men perpetually\nconceive themselves as chrysalid heroes and wonder workers; and, under\nstrain of occasion, this element crops out in their actions, making them\ndo all manner of curious things which the standard-setters of realism\nwill declare utterly illogical and impossible. Often it is the commonest\nmen who do them.\n\nI have a fondness for realism myself; at least I have a very wicked\nfeeling towards what is called \"symbolism,\" and various other things\nwhich I don't understand; but as the \"Unrealists,\" the \"Exaggeratists,\"\nthe whatever-you-call-them express what I believe to be a very permanent\ncharacteristic of humankind, as evidenced in all the traces of its\nwork, I think they probably give quite as true reflections of Man's Soul\nas the present favorites.\n\nThese early literatures, most of which have of course been lost, were\nthe embryos of our more imposing creations; and it is a pleasant and an\ninstructive thing to follow the unfolding of Monster Tales into Great\nReligious Literatures; to compare them and see how the same few simple\nfigures, either transplanted or spontaneously produced at different\npoints, evolved into all manner of Creators, Redeemers and miracles in\ntheir various altered habitats. No one can so thoroughly appreciate what\nis in the face of a man turned upward in prayer, as he who has followed\nthe evolution of the black Monster up to that impersonal conception of\nGod prettily called by Quakers \"the Inner Light.\"\n\nFairy Tales on the other hand have evolved into allegories and\nDramas,--first the dramas of the sky, now the dramas of earth.\n\nTales of Sexual exploits have become novels, novelettes, short stories,\nsketches,--a many-expressioned countenance of Man. But the old Heroic\nLegend,--and the Hero is always the next born after the Monster in the\nfar-back dawn-days, is the lineal progenitor of History,--History which\nwas first the glorification of a warrior and his aids; then the story of\nKings, courts, and intrigues; now mostly the report of the deeds of\nnations in their ugly moods; and _to become_ the record of what people\nhave done in their more amiable moments,--the record of the conquests of\npeace; how men have lived and labored; dug and built, hewn and cleared,\ngardened and reforested, organized and co\u00f6perated, manufactured and\nused, educated and amused themselves. Those of us who aspire to be more\nor less suggesters of social change, are greatly at a loss, if we do not\nknow the face of Man as reflected in history; and I mean as much the\nreflection of the minds of historians as seen in their histories as the\nreflection of the minds of others they sought to give; not so much in\nthe direct expression of their opinion either, as in the choice of what\nthey thought it worth while to try to stamp perpetuity upon.\n\nWhen we read in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle these items which are\ncharacteristic of the whole:\n\n\"A. D. 611. This year Cynegils succeeded to the government in Wessex,\nand held it 31 winters. Cynegils was the son of Ceol, Ceol of Cutha,\nCutha of Cymric.\"\n\nAnd then,\n\n\"614. This year Cynegils and Cuiehelm fought at Bampton and slew 2046 of\nthe Welsh.\"\n\nAnd then\n\n\"678. This year appeared the comet star in August, and shone every\nmorning during three months like a sunbeam. Bishop Wilfred being driven\nfrom his bishopric by King Everth, two bishops were consecrated in his\nstead.\"\n\n--when we read these we have not any very adequate conception of what\nthe Anglo-Saxon people were doing; but we have a very striking and\nlasting impression of what the only men who tried to write history at\nall in that period of English existence, thought it was worth while to\nrecord.\n\n\"Cynegils was the son of Ceol, and he of Cutha, and Cutha of Cymric.\" It\nreads considerably like a stock-raiser's pedigree book. The trouble is,\nwe have no particular notion of Cymric. Probably if we went back we\nshould find he was the son of Somebody. But at any rate, he had a\ngrandson, and the grandson was a king, and the chronicler therefore\nrecorded him. Nothing happened for three years; and then the chronicle\nrecords that two kings fought and slew 2046 men. Then comes the\nmomentous year 678 when a comet appeared and a bishop lost his job. No\ndoubt the comet foretold the loss. There are no records of when\nshoemakers lost their jobs that I know of, nor how many shoemakers were\nput in their places; and I imagine it would have been at least as\ninteresting for us to know as the little matter of Bishop Wilfred. But\nthe chronicler did not think so; he preserved the Bishop's troubles--no\ndoubt he did just what the shoemakers of the time would also have done,\nproviding they had been also chroniclers. It is a fair sample of what\nwas in men's minds as important.--If any one fancies that this\ndisposition has quite vanished, let him pick up any ordinary history,\nand see how many pages, relatively, are devoted to the doings of persons\nintent on slaying, and those intent on peaceful occupation; and how many\ntimes we are told that certain politicians lost their jobs, and how we\nare not told anything about the ordinary people losing their jobs; and\nthen reflect whether the old face of Man-the-Historian is quite another\nface yet.\n\nBiography, as a sort of second offspring of the Hero legend, is another\nrevelation, when we read it, not only to know its subject, but to know\nits writer,--the standpoint from which he values another man's life.\nOrdinarily there is a great deal of \"Cynegils the son of Cutha the son\nof Cymric\" in it; and a great deal of emphasis upon the man as an\nindividual phenomenon; when really he would be more interesting and more\ncomprehensible left in connection with the series of phenomena of which\nhe was part. As an example of what to me is a perfect biography, I\ninstance Conway's Life of Thomas Paine, itself a valuable history. But\nit is not so correct a mirror of the general attitude of biographers and\nreaders of biography as Bosworth's Life of Johnson, except in so far as\nit indicates that the great face in the glass is changing.\n\nIt is rather the type of what biography is _becoming_, than what it has\nbeen, or is.\n\nThere are two divisions of literature which are generally named in one\nbreath, and are certainly closely connected; and yet the one came to\nhighly perfected forms long, long ago, while the other is properly\nspeaking very young; and for all that, the older is the handmaid of the\nyounger. I mean the literatures of philosophy and science.\n\nPhilosophy is simply the co\u00f6rdination of the sciences; the formulation\nof the general, and related principles deduced from the collection and\norderly arrangement of the facts of existence. Yet Man had rich\nliteratures of philosophy, while his knowledge of facts was yet so\nextremely limited as hardly to be worth while writing books about. None\nof the appearances of Man's Soul is more interesting than that reflected\nin the continuous succession of philosophies he has poured out. Let him\nwho reads them, read them always twice; first, simply to know and grasp\nwhat is said, to become familiar with the idea as it formed itself in\nthe minds of those who conceived it; second, for the sake of figuring\nthe restless activity of brain, the positive need of the mind under all\nconditions to formulate what knowledge it has, or thinks it has, into\nsome sort of connected whole. This is one of the most pronounced and\npermanent features seen in the mirror: the positive refusal of the mind\nto accept the isolation of existences; no matter how far apart they lie,\nMan proceeds to spin connecting threads somehow. The woven texture is\noften comical enough, but the weaver is just as positively revealed in\nthe cobwebs of ancient philosophy as in the reasoning of Herbert\nSpencer.\n\nConcerning the literature of Science itself, in strict terms, I should\nbe very presumptuous to speak of it, because I know extremely little\nabout it; but of those general popularizations of it, which we have in\nsome of the works of Haeckel, Darwin, and their similars, I should say\nthat beyond the important information they contain in themselves (which\nsurely no one can afford to be in ignorance of) they present the most\ntransformed reflection of Man which any literature gives. Their words\nare cold, colorless, burdened with the labor of exactness, machine\nlike, sustained, uncompromising, careless of effect. The spirit they\nembody is like unto them. They offer the image of Man's Soul in the\ntime while imagination is in abeyance, reason ascendent.\n\nThis coldness and quietness sound the doom of poetry. A people which\nshall be fully permeated with the spirit and word of Science will never\nconceive great poems. They will never be overcome long enough at a time\nby their wonder and admiration, by their primitive impulses, by their\npower of simple impression, to think or to speak poetically. They will\nnever see trees as impaled giants any more; they will see them as\nevolved descendants of phytoplasm. Dewdrops are no more the jewels of\nthe fairies; they are the produce of condensation under given\natmospheric conditions. Singing stones are not the prisons of punished\nspirits, but problems in acoustics. The basins of fjords are not the\ntrack of the anger of Thor, but the pathways of glaciation. The roar and\nblaze and vomit of Etna, are not the rebellion of the Titan, but the\nexplosion of so and so many million cubic feet of gas. The comet shall\nno more be the herald of the wrath of heaven, it is a nebulous body\nrevolving in an elliptical orbit of great elongation. Love--love will\nnot be the wound of Cupid, but the manifestation of universal\nreproductive instincts.\n\nNo, the great poems of the world _have been_ produced; they have sung\ntheir song and gone their way. Imagination remains to us, but weakened,\nmixed, tamed, calmed. Verses we shall have,--and _many_\nfragments,--fragments of beauty and power; but never again the\nthunder-roll of the mighty early song. We have the benefits of science;\nwe must have its derogations also. The powerful fragments will be such\nas deal with the still unexplored regions of Man's own internity--if I\nmay coin the word. Science is still balking here. But not for long. We\nshall soon have madmen turned inside out, and their madness\npainstakingly reduced to so-and-so many excessive or deficient\nnerve-vibrations per second. Then no more of Poe's \"Raven\" and Ibsen's\n\"Brand.\"\n\nI have said that I intended to indicate a wider concept of literature\nthan that generally allowed. So far I have not done it; at least all\nthat I have dealt with is usually mentioned in works on literature. But\nI wish now to maintain that some very lowly forms of written expression\nmust be included in literature,--always remembering that I am seeking\nthe complete composite of Man's Soul.\n\nHere then: I include in literature, beside what I have spoken on, not\nonly standard novels, stories, sketches, travels, and magazine essays of\nall sorts, but the poorest, paltriest dime novel, detective story, daily\nnewspaper report, baseball game account, and splash advertisement.\n\nOh, what a charming picture of ourselves we see therein! And a faithful\none, mind you! Think what a speaking likeness of ourselves was the\nreport of national, international, racial importance--the\nJeffries-Johnson fight! Nay, I am not laughing. The people of the future\nare going to look back at the record a thousand years from now; and say,\n\"This is what interested men in the year 1910.\" I wonder which will\nappear most ludicrous then, Bishop Wilfred in juxtaposition with the\ncomet star, or the destiny of the white race put in jeopardy by a\npugilistic contest between one white and one black man! O the bated\nbreath, the expectant eyes, the inbitten lip, the taut muscles, the\nriveted attention, of hundreds of thousands of people watching the great\n\"scientific\" combat. I wonder whether the year 3000 will admire it more\nor less than the Song of Beowulf and the Battle of Brunanburh.\n\nConsider the soul reflected on the sporting page. Oh, how mercilessly\ncorrect it is! Consider the soul reflected on the advertising page. Oh,\nthe consummate liar that strides across it! Oh, the gull, the simpleton,\nthe would-be getter of something for nothing whose existence it argues!\nYea, commercial man has set his image therein; let him regard himself\nwhen he gets time.\n\nAnd the body of our reform literature, which really reflects the very\nbest social aspirations of men, how prodigal in words it is,--how\nindefinite in ideas! How generous of brotherhood--and sisterhood--in the\nlarge; how chary in the practice! Do we not appear therein as curious\nlittle dwarfs who have somehow gotten \"big heads\"? Mites gesticulating\nat the stars and imagining they are afraid because they twinkle. I would\nnot discourage any comrade of mine in the social struggle, but sometimes\nit is a wholesome thing to reconsider our size.\n\nA word in defense of the silly story. Let us not forget that lowly minds\nhave lowly needs; and the mass of minds are lowly, and have a right to\nsuch gratification as is not beyond their comprehension. So long as I do\nnot _have to read_ those stories, I feel quite glad for the sake of\nthose who are not able to want better that such gratification is not\ndenied them. I would not wish to frown the silly story out of existence\nso long as it is a veritable expression of many people's need. There are\nthose who have only learned the art of reading at all because of the\nfoolish story. And quite in a side way I learned the other day through\nthe grave assertion of a physician that the ability to read even these,\nwhereby some little refinement of conception is introduced into the idea\nof love, is one of the restraining influences upon sexual degradation\ncommon among poor and ignorant young women. The face of man revealed in\nthem is therefore not altogether without charm, though it may look\nfoolish to us. I said there were some appearances in the Mirror not\ngenerally remarked, but which to me are suggestive. One of these is the\nevident delight of the human soul in _smut_. In the older literature\nthese things are either badly set down, as law and cursing, as\noccasionally in the Bible; or they are clothed and mixed with sprightly\nimaginations as in the tales of Boccaccio and Chaucer; or they are\nthinly veiled with a possible modest meaning as in the puns of the\nShakespearian period; but in our day, they compose a subterranean\nliterature of themselves, like segregated harlots among books. Should I\nsay that I blush for this face of Man? I ought to, perhaps, but I do\nnot: all I say is, the thing is there, a very real, a very persistent\nimage in the glass; no one who looks straight into it can avoid seeing\nit. Mixed with the humorous, as it often--rather usually--is, it seems\nto be one of the normal expressions of normal men. We deceive ourselves\ngreatly if we fancy that Man has become purified of such imaginations\nbecause they are not used openly in modern dramas and stories, as they\nwere in the older ones.\n\nIt may be dangerous to say it, but I believe from the evidence of\nliterature as a whole, that a moderate amount of amusement in smut is a\nsaving balance in the psychology of nearly every man and woman,--a sign\nof anchorage in a robust sanity, which takes things as they are--and\nlaughs at them. I believe it is a much more wholesome appearance, than\nthat betrayed in our fever-bred stories and sketches which deal with the\nabnormalities of men, and which are growing more and more in vogue, in\nspite of our cry about realism.\n\nPersonally, I am more interested in the abnormalities, which I find very\nfascinating. And I am very eager to know whether they will prove to be\nthe result of the abnormal conditions of life which Modern Man has\ncreated for himself in his tampering with the forces of nature,--his\nstrenuous industrial existence, his turning of night into day, his\nwhirling himself over the world at a pace not at all in conformity with\nhis native powers of locomotion, and other matters in accordance. Or\nwill they prove to be the revenge of the dammed up, cribbed, cabined,\nand confined imagination, which can no longer exert itself upon\nexternals,--since the Investigating Man has explained and mastered these\nor is doing so--and now turns in to wreak frightful wreck upon the mind\nitself?\n\nAt any rate, the fact is that we have some very curious appearances in\nthe Mirror just now; madmen explaining their own madness, diseased men\npicking apart their own diseases, perverted men analyzing their own\nperversions, anything, everything but sane and normal men. Does it mean\nthat in our day there is nothing interesting in good health, in\nwell-ordered lives? Or does it mean that the rarest thing in all the\nworld is the so-called normal man, whom tacit consent assumes to be the\ncommonest? That everybody, while outwardly wearing a mask of reputable\ncommon sense, is within a raging conglomeration of psychic elements that\nhurl themselves on one another like hissing flames? Or does it mean\nsimply that the most powerful writers are themselves diseased, and can\nonly paint disease?\n\nI put these questions and do not presume to answer them. I point to the\nmirror,--the Ibsen Drama, the Andreyev Story, the Maeterlinck Poem, the\nArtzibashev novel,--and I say the image is there. Explain it as you can.\n\nFor the rest, let me recall to you what I told you was my intent:\n\nFirst: To insist on a more inclusive view of Literature; you see I would\nhave it extended both up and down,--_down_ even to the advertisement,\nthe sporting page, and the surreptitious anecdote,--_up_ to the fullest\nand most comprehensive statements of the works of reason.\n\nSecond: To suggest that readers acquire the habit of reading twice, or\nat least with a double intent. When serious literature is to be\nconsidered, I would insist on actually reading twice; but of course it\nwould be both impractical and undesirable to apply such a method to most\nof the print we look at.\n\nThose who are confirmed in the habits of would-be critics will have the\ngreatest trouble in learning to read a book from the simple man's\nstandpoint,--and yet no one can ever form a genuine appreciation of a\nwork who has not first forgotten that he is a critic, and allowed\nhimself to be carried away into the events and personalities depicted\ntherein. In that first reading, also, one should train himself to feel\nand hear the music of language,--this great instrument which Men have\njointly built, and out of which come great organ tones, and trumpet\ncalls, and thin flute notes, sweeping and wailing, an articulate\nstorm--a conjuring key whereby all the passions of the dead, the\nmillions of the dead, have given to the living the power to call their\nghosts out of the grave and make them walk. Yea, every word is the\nmystic embodiment of a thousand years of vanished passion, hope, desire,\nthought--all that battled through the living figures turned to dust and\nashes long ago. Train your ears to hear the song of it; it helps to feel\nwhat the writer felt.\n\nAnd after that read critically, with one eye on the page, so to speak,\nand the other on the reflection in the mirror, looking for the mind\nbehind the work, the things which interested the author and those he\nwrote for.\n\nThird: To suggest inquiry into the curious paradox of the people of the\nmost highly evolved scientific and mechanical age taking especial\ndelight in psychic abnormalities and morbidities,--whereby the most\nutterly unreasonable fictive creation becomes the greatest center of\ncuriosity and attraction to the children of Reason.\n\nA Mirror Maze is literature, wherein Man sees all faces of himself,\nlengthened here, widened there, distorted in another place, restored\nagain to due proportion, with every possible expression on his face,\nfrom abjectness to heroic daring, from starting terror to icy courage,\nfrom love to hate and back again to worship, from the almost sublime\ndown to the altogether grotesque,--now giant, now dwarf,--but always\nwith one persistent character,--his _superb curiosity to see himself_.\n\n\n\n\nThe Drama of the Nineteenth Century\n\n\nThe passions of men are actors, events are their motions, all history is\ntheir speech. In the long play of the ages a human being sometimes\nbecomes an event; a nation's passion takes a _personnel_. Such beings\nare the expression of the gathered mind-force of millions.\n\nHe only who keeps himself aloof from all feeling can remain the\nspectator of the hour. All that humanity which is held within the\nbeating, coiling, surging tides of passion, has no individuality; it\nsinks its personality to become a vein in the limb of this giant, a\npulse in the heart of that Titan. Only when out of the spirit of the\ntimes the event is born, only when the act is complete, the curtain rung\ndown, only then does the intellectuality of the vein, the pulse, rise to\nthe level of the dispassionate. Only then can it survey a tragedy and\nsay, \"This was necessary\"--a reaction, and say, \"This was inevitable.\"\n\nYet as a drop of blood is a quivering, living, flashing ruby beside the\ndead, pale pearl of a stagnant pool, so is one drop of feeling a shining\nthing, a living thing, beside the deadness of the intellect which judges\nwhile the heart is stone; beside those quiet bayous of brain which\nreflect back the images before them very purely, very stilly, giving no\nheed to the great rushing river of heart that rolls on, hurries on so\nclose beside them. Bye and bye, bye and bye, the river reaches the\ngrand, great sea, and the waters spread out calm and deep, so deep that\nthe stars of the upper sea, the lights of the higher life, shine far up\nfrom them as a babe smiles up into its mother's eyes, and up still to\nthe distant source of the light within the eyes.\n\nIt is to men and women of feeling that I speak, men and women of the\nmillions, men and women in the hurrying current! Not to the shallow\negotist who holds himself apart and with the phariseeism of\nintellectuality exclaims, \"I am more just than thou\"; but to those whose\nevery fiber of being is vibrating with emotion as aspen leaves quiver in\nthe breath of Storm! To those whose hearts swell with a great pity at\nthe pitiful toil of women, the weariness of young children, the\nhandcuffed helplessness of strong men! To those whose blood runs quick\nalong the veins like wild-fire on the dry grass of prairies when the\nwind whirls aside the smokings of the holocaust, and, courting the teeth\nof the flame, the black priestess, Injustice, beckons it on while her\nfeet stamp on the cinders of the sacrifice! To those whose heart-strings\nthrill at the touch of Love like the sweet, low, musical laugh of\nchildhood, or thrum with hate like the singing vibration of the\nbowstring speeding the arrow of Death! I speak to those whose eyes\nbehold all things through a haze of gray, or rose, or gold, born of\ntheir surroundings, and which mist slips away only when the gaze is\nleveled on that dead Past whose passions and whose deeds are ended: to\nwhom the present is always a morning with the dimness of morning around\nit--the past clear and still--no veil on its face, for the veil has been\nshredded asunder.\n\nFor he only who intensely perceives the nature of his surroundings, he,\nand he only, who has felt, and keenly felt, all the throbs and throes of\nlife, can judge with any degree of truth of the action of that which is\npast. You, you who have loved, you who have joyed, you who have\nsuffered, it belongs to you to people the silent streets of the silent\ncities with forms now vanished, to comprehend something of the passions\nwhich animated their action; it belongs to you to understand how the\nfury of a great energy, striking terrible aimless blows in the dark, may\nyet, across the chasm of awful mistake, touch the hand of a greater\nJustice.\n\nIf from a panoramic survey of the past some wisdom may be gathered, then\nlet the dramas of old ages tell us what have been the mainsprings of\ntheir motions; so we shall understand what action ushered in the drama\nof the nineteenth century.\n\n\"Westward the Star of Empire holds its way.\" Following the course of\nthose majestic spheres of fire which whirl each in its vast ellipse,\ntrending away in a long, southwesterly path athwart the heavens,\nobedient to that superior attraction which through all the universe\nholds good, the attraction of greater for lesser things, the tide of\nlife upon our world has risen and swelled and rolled away to the south\nand west. Away in the orient source of the sunlight, away where the\nglitter of ice shines up to meet the morning, nations have risen and\nplunged down impetuously over the sleeping regions of darkness and of\nheat, bearing with them the breeze-stirring life of the north and the\non-trending light of the east. And out of this conquered earth have\narisen the mixed passions of another life and another race. Still the\ngoverning stars wheel on, and the tide of life which paused only to\ngather strength rolls up again; and once more a nation is born, and new\npassions dictate the action of the peoples. Down, down it sweeps over\nthe Altaian hills, over the Himalayan ranges, over the land of the\nEuphrates and Tigris, over the deserts of Arabia the barren, the fields\nof Arabia the stony, and the grasses and waters of Arabia the happy, to\nthose low shores, the home of dark mausoleums and darker pyramids, on to\nthe now classic land of Greece, and golden Italy, and the home of the\ndark-eyed Moors. Sweeps till it touches the frothing sea, and brightly\nborne upon its upper crest shines the glory, the splendor, the\nmagnificence of the warring powers which dictated the action of Greece\nand Rome. For centuries their hoisted spears send back the burnished\nglitter of the sun, and then--the light dies out; down rushing from the\nNorth-land again the tide of vigor pours, and the health and strength of\nbarbarism conquers the weakness of a tottering civilization! Far\naway--away over the miles of sparkling sea, in the darkness and the\nsilence a continent lies waiting; waiting for the coming of the light,\nwaiting for the swelling of the tide. Slowly at last a ripple creeps up\nover the strange beach, and the flood rolls on, and again a continent\nbecomes a cradle, and the Empire Star sends on its rays to kiss the\nforehead of the rising world. Over the breadth of all our continent that\nmighty wave is flowing still.\n\nStanding to-day almost upon the threshold of another world, and looking\nback down this long-vista'd past, gradually there dawns upon\nReflection's vision, gradually there grows out of the confusion of forms\nand the Babel of sounds, a clearer perception of the motor powers which\nhave dictated the action of this past, a better idea of the grand plot\nwhich, driven by these motor powers, the passions are working out. For,\nabove the long procession of scenes and events, above the monster\nmassings of happiness and woe, above the War and Peace of centuries,\nabove the nations that have risen and fallen, above the life and above\nthe grave, the winged and shadowy embodiments of two great ideas float\nand rest. And those two principles are called Authority and Liberty; or,\nif it please you better, _God_ and Liberty. The one is all clad in the\npurple and scarlet of pomp and of power, while the other stands a\nglorious shining center in the white radiance of Freedom.\n\nYet not always; far back in time Authority stood on thrones and altars,\nwith the plumed sables of despotism waving on his brow, while in his\nhands he held two iron gyves, the one to fetter thought, the other to\nfetter action; and these two gyves were called _the Church and State_.\n\nLiberty! Ah, Liberty was then a name scarcely to pass the lips; dreamed\nof only in solitude, spoken of only in dungeons! Yet out of the blackest\nmire the whitest lily blooms! Out of the dungeon, out of the sorrow, out\nof the sacrifice, out of the pain, grew this child of the heart; and\npure and strong she grew until the sabled plumes have tottered on the\ndespot's brow, and a great palsy shakes the hands that once so firmly\nheld the gyves of Church and State. For, ever seeking to overthrow each\nother, the one for the aggrandizement of self, the other for the love of\nall mankind, these two powers have contended; and every energy, every\npassion, every desire, good or evil, has been ranged on this side or on\nthat, blunderingly or wisely, and nations have swung to and fro in their\nbreath as upon a hinge. And one by one the powers of Authority have been\ncrippled, and step by step Liberty has advanced, until to-day mankind is\nbeginning to measure the forces that, struggling blindly together, are\nyet evolving light, to drink in the sublime ideal of freedom. Yet, oh,\nhow long the struggle with vested ignorance, with greed in power!\n\nWhen upon the Drama of the Nineteenth Century the curtain rose, Liberty,\ntriumphant on the younger shores, lay prone and hurled in Europe.\nAgainst fifteen centuries of crowned and throned and tithed curse and\nwoe unutterable, she had risen with such a fearful convulsive strength\nthat when she had mown down king, priest and throne, and gorged the\nguillotine with blood, she sank back, exhausted from the struggle, and\nthe hated tyrant rose again. The wild desire to conquer, to possess, to\ncontrol, to hold in subjection, seemed to dominate with an unconquerable\nstrength, and the gathered mind-force of millions of people wrought\nitself into the single brain of Napoleon Bonaparte. This human being\nbecame an event--this nation's passion took a _personnel_! The spirit of\nthe times produced this man, and Authority smiled as one after another\nthe despots of Europe plotted and planned, only to be overthrown by this\nincarnation of Ambition, while the scenes were shifted from the\nVine-land to the Rhine-land, from the sun-land to the snow-land, and\nthrough them all the great event glowed out, lit high by the rust-red\nlight.\n\nHow well the plot was working! The Empire triumphant, nations subjected,\nthe fetter of action closing its terrible teeth! Liberty manacled on the\nleft! The armies of God massing their forces--advancing--preparing to\nclose down the iron jaw of the iron gyve upon the right; to imprison\nthought, to re-establish the union of fetters, to link up the broken\nchains, to burden human hope and human will and human life once more\nwith the awful oppression of Church and State!\n\nBut Liberty will not, cannot die! Wounded and bruised and pinioned\nsore, condemned to the use of instruments that were none of hers, she\nwrought with England's jealousy, with Wellington's emulation, with fear,\nwith love, with hate! Impelled by one motive or another the nations of\nthe coalition moved in concert. Napoleon had been Marengo--he had been\nAusterlitz! He became _Waterloo!_ And when across that awful field\nrolled the last long cannon boom, when the silence settled, when the\nQuick and the Dead lay sleeping and the Wounded died, Justice and\nSuffering touched hands across the gulf of blood, and Liberty heard them\nwhisper, _\"Sic semper tyrannis.\"_ In the tableau that followed, she, the\nideal of our dreams, still stood pale and fettered; but a smile lit up\nher face and a light gleamed in her eyes as she saw Authority reel and\nstagger from the blow which, though it did not sever, yet shattered half\nthe strength of both its fetters.\n\nFor the strength of God lies in a vast unity, an ownership of ideas\nbacked up by the brute force under the command of the individual in whom\nthat ownership of ideas is vested; while the strength of Liberty lies in\nthe very essence of things themselves, the fact that no law or force\never _can_ destroy the individualities of existence; and of necessity\nthe natural tendency to break all bonds which seek to control thought,\nand all force which locks up those bonds entailing liberty of action as\nthe outcome of liberty of thought. And just in proportion as Churches\nhave been dismembered and States have been broken up, no matter that\neach new Church and each new State were but another form of despotism,\njust in that proportion has the principle of liberty been served; for\neach new religious establishment has been an assertion of the right to\nthink differently from the fashionable creed, each change has been a\nmovement away from the centralization of power.\n\nSo with Waterloo in the background, with Authority lashed to impotent\nrage before it, and Liberty pinioned, yet with the lit smile still upon\nher countenance, the tableau light flames up and dies, and the curtain\nfalls upon the first great act. Those who think, those who feel, those\nwho hope, know why that smile was there. For looking away over the long\nblue roll of water that swelled like an interlude between, she beheld\nthe sublime opening scene of the act that followed.\n\nFar up the wonderful stage the distant mountains lift their circling\ncrests, at their feet the waters sweep like a march of music, vast acres\nof untrodden grass-land shower their emerald wealth, nearer the front\nthe lower hills rise up, and then the short Atlantic slope, all rife\nwith busy life, bends down to meet the sea. On the right the hoar-frost\nsheens and shines on the majestic northern forests, while the glittering\nearth, dipped in its bath of frozen crystal, spreads like a field of\ndiamonds; on the left the white flakes of the orange bloom fall like a\nshimmering bridal veil, the wind floats up like a perfume, and the hazy,\nlazy languor of warmth creeps all about. Behind it all, behind the hills\nand the prairies and the lifted summits, the mystical golden light of\nthe west drops down, filling the dim-lit distance with the glory of\npromise. The silver light of the Empire Star glides over the Atlantic\nslope, and its rays, like guiding fingers, point onward to the gathering\nshadows.\n\nNow the Passions of men begin to move upon this vast platform with an\nenergy never before witnessed. Diverted from their old-time channels of\nstruggle against the oppression of Gods and kings and the bitterness\nof birth-hatred, with a freedom of opportunity denied in the old\nworld, and with such unstinted natural resources waiting for the magic\ntransformer, the genius of humanity, Ambition of power, Avarice,\nPride, Jealousy, all those motors born out of the old _r\u00e9gime_ of a\nState-propped God, bred and multiplied through generations till they\nhave come to be looked upon as natural laws of human existence, begin\nto work together to plant this untrodden earth, to sow in its furrows\nthe seed of a newer race--and, paradoxical as it may sound, to work for\ntheir own destruction, their final elimination from the human brain.\nOr perhaps it were more correct to say, that, with the barriers of old\ninstitutions taken away, they naturally begin their retransformation\ninto those beautiful sentiments from which they were originally warped,\ndistorted, misshapen by that warped, distorted, misshapen idea called\nGod. So do they inaugurate the grand era of development; so do they\nanswer the oft-repeated question, \"What incentive would there be for\nlabor or genius if the institutions that compel them to struggle were\nbroken down?\" Look at the stage of the past and see! Never before had\nthought been so free, never before had ability been less cramped, less\nstarved or less compelled! And never before did genius dare so much for\npurposes so great; never before did the engines which drive the tide\nof life along a continent send forth a stream of so much vigor. A new\nlight breaks along the pathway of the stars, and swells and rolls and\nfloods the great scene with a dawn-burst so magnificent that the very\nhills blush in its rising splendor. It is the dawn which the night of\nGod so long held shrouded; it is that which is born when Superstition\ndies; it is that Phoenix which rises from the ashes of religion; it\nis that clear blent flame of all the great forces of nature, brought\nto the knowledge of mankind by delving Reason, and shot like northern\nstreamers from the heart of her the Church of God so long held\nthrottled--Science!\n\nIt is that which shone reflected in the eyes of Liberty when pale and\nmanacled she stood before the field of Waterloo! The ray of the under\nearth came up to join the ray of the clouds shot down, the energies of\nsky and mine and sea were clasped to bring down the wealth of the\nmountains to the shore, and to transport the life of the now populous\nstrip of slope to the unclaimed regions of the west.\n\nIn the broad blaze of light the scene is shifted, the golden effulgence\nmelts and flows round that sea-girdled kingdom, where quietly but surely\nthe two great engines of Authority are being shriven apart. The\ndynasties of kings are growing dusty--much of their power is but a\nlegend; the Church is shrinking in her garments. The desires of this\npeople are slow to move, but deeply rooted and strong; and so far as\nthey have moved forward, they have never moved back. There have been no\ngigantic strides, no reactions. Little by little the idea of\ndivinely-delegated power has been crippled till the English bishop and\nthe English lord have become mere titled mockeries in comparison with\ntheir ancient feudal meaning. But stop! Close lying there, almost\nbeneath her stretching shadows, another island flashes like a green star\nin its sea-blue setting. And from that island there rises up the cry of\na great devotion, clinging blindly to its greatest curse, its\npriest-hedged God, while persecuted even unto death by the fanaticism of\nanother faith; and the pleading of Hunger while day long and night long\nthe shuttle flies in the flax loom, and the earth yields her golden\nfruition, only to lade the ships that bear it away from the famine-white\nlips and the toil-hardened hands that produced it. Blindly Devotion\nprays to its God, that God whom it calls all-wise, all-powerful and\nall-just, and the English Lord, who cannot thus subdue his own\ncountrymen, reaches out the long arm of the law across the channel for\nhis rent--and, with God looking on, it is given; and still while the\nhollow-eyed women kneel at the altar for help, the scene widens out, and\naway in the distance the seven-hilled city lifts up from the sea, and\nfrom the dome of the Vatican, from that great mortared hill of God, the\nVicar of Christ calls out, \"My tribute, my Peter pence!\" And with God\nlooking on, it is given! And then from the foot of that tear-stained\naltar, where so many lips of Woe have pressed, where so many helpless\nhands have clasped, where so many hearts have broken, comes the ironical\npromise of Jehovah, \"Ask and thou shalt receive.\"\n\nOh, God is a very promising personage indeed--very promising, but, like\nsome of his disciples, very poor pay.\n\nLiberty! Shadowed, invisible! Yet a muffled voice is repeating the words\nwhich not so long ago rang from the lips of one who stood almost beneath\nthe shadow of the scaffold, who walks to-day in prison gloom:\n\n \"Ye see me only in your cells, ye see me only in the grave,\n Ye see me only wand'ring lone beside the exile's sullen wave!\n Ye fools! Do I not also live where you have sought to pierce\n in vain?\n Rests not a nook for me to dwell in every heart, in every brain?\n Not every brow that boldly thinks erect with manhood's honest\n pride?\n Does not each bosom shelter me that beats with honor's generous\n tide?\n Not every workshop brooding woe, not every hut that harbors\n grief?\n Ha! Am I not the breath of life that pants and struggles for\n relief?\"\n\nAh, poor, panting, struggling, misery-laden Ireland! How God laughs with\nglee to see his shackles weight your misery!\n\nThe scene is shifting, the stage is dark'ning--a strange eclipse\nobscures the shafted light! Darker, darker! Now a low, red fire gleams\nlike a winking eye along the foreground; it runs, it hisses like a\nsnake; there another leaps up, there another; France, Germany,\nItaly--the continent blazes with the fires of the Commune! That spirit\nwhich, drunken with blood, reeled from the guillotine at '93, to be\ncrushed beneath the upbuilding of the Empire, has once more arisen. And\nout of the hot hells of Fury, and Jealousy, and Hate, out of the\npitiless struggle between \"vested rights\" and wrongs with high ancestral\nlineage, and the great outcrying of a piteous ignorance against an\noppression whose injustice it feels but cannot analyze, grows the\nsublime idea which priests have anathematized and States have\noutlawed--\"the sacred dogma of =Equality.=\"\n\nIn so far as that ideal was made possible of conception, in so far as\nthe masses began to understand something of the causes of their ills, in\nso far the purpose of Liberty was served: no matter that the arms of\nOppression were triumphant, the dawn of the thought of equal liberty\nupon the mass of the unthinking was a far greater victory than any\ntriumph of arms.\n\nSo when the fires died down, and the low reflection gleamed for an\ninstant over those quiescent Indian valleys and Altaian ranges, where\nthe main plot of old centuries had been laid, and then paled out before\nthe white flare lighting the tableau of the second act, Liberty stood\nwith chained hands lifted toward her enemy, while a proud look, playing\nlike an iridescent flame in her eyes, said, plain as lips could speak\nit, \"I have unbound their thoughts; they will one day unbind my hands.\"\n\nSlowly the curtain falls on the fair prisoner and the glowering God.\n\nThe solemn ocean interlude rolls in again; again the rising curtain\nshows the curving slope, the rock-romance of hills, the wide, green\nvalley with its threading silver, the sweeping mountains with the mirage\nof the blue Pacific lifted high in the sky behind them, the frosted\npines, the orange groves. Moving upon the nearer stage two great masses\nof humanity are seen facing each other; the fires of ambition, of\nstubborn pride, of determination for the mastery flash like flint-sparks\nin the eyes of both. Rage is gathering as the stage-light darkens!\n\nYet these two opposing forces are not all. From under the groves of\nbridal bloom comes a mournful, chant-like requiem; under the bloom four\nmillion voices cry in pain; upon the darkened faces, upturned to that\ndarkening day, fall the white petals helplessly, as Hope falls on the\nfaces of the dead--to die beside them. In the beautiful land of the sun\nfour million human beings clank the chains of the chattel slave! Ah!\nwhat music!\n\nLiberty! Liberty was a wraith, fleeting ghost-like through the lonely\nrice-swamps, terrible _ignis fatuus_ of the quagmire, strange,\nmystical, vanishing moon-shimmer on the darkly ominous waters lying\nso silent, so level, beneath the droop of Spanish moss and cypress!\nThere it was they drove thee, _there_--=there=--where the quaking earth\nshivered with its branded burden, where the fever and the miasm were\nthy breathing, and thy sacred eyes were dimmed with winding-sheets\nof mist that floated, O so dankly, O so coldly, a steam of tears\nthat rose as fast as their dews might fall: there wast thou exiled,\nThou, the God-hunted, Thou, the Law-driven, =Thou, the immortal=!\nYet, Oh, so dear men love thee, Liberty, that even here in thy last\nterrible citadel of woe, Humanity linked arms with Death, and wooed\nthee still! Wooed thee, with the ringing bay of bloodhounds in its\nears; wooed thee, with the wolf of hunger gnawing at its throat; wooed\nthee with the clinging miasm winding its anacondine folds around its\nfever-thin body; wooed thee with the dark pathos of a dying eye, while\nthe diseased and hungered limbs lay stiffening in their agony. And\nthou wast true, O Liberty! Out of thy bitter exile thou didst call to\nthem, and point them on to hope; and thou didst call, too, to those\nstrange-eyed dreamers, whose faces shone amidst the rank and file of\nthose dominated by local Hate alone, as shines a clear star among\ndriving clouds. Against them Authority has hurled his curses. Spit upon\nby the godly, despised by the law abiding, they yet have dared to say\nto Church and Law, \"Think what you please of me, but free the slave.\"\nAye, the Church persecuted, and the Law hunted down, and for the love\nof God, men set traps to catch their fellow-men: even the \"wise men,\"\nthe wise men at Washington, against whose mandates it is treason to\nspeak, aye, a matter for the scaffold in these days, even the wise men\nbuilt a trap to uphold the divine institution and sent it forth to the\npeople labelled, \"The Fugitive Slave Law\", and as in other days, human\nbeings died for their opinions--_but the opinions did not die_. Has not\none of our latter-day martyrs said, \"Men die, but principles live\"?\n\nSee! The light which has been slowly fading from the right and left\nshines with a frightful brilliancy upon one point: North and South lie\ndarkened, but Harper's Ferry glows! There is a wild, mad charge, a\nshifting of the light, a scaffold, a doomed old man bending his grand,\nwhite head, to mount the fatal steps with a child-slave's kiss yet warm\nupon his lips, and then--only a dull, lifeless pendulum in human form,\nswinging to and fro. And the Church and the Law were satisfied, when\nthose dumb lips were cold, and the dead limbs were stiff, and God and\nHarper's Ferry had no more to fear from old John Brown.\n\nBut the Church and the Law have not always been wise; they have not\nalways understood that the martyrs _to_ Creed and Code have done as much\nby their death for the propagation of their principles as the martyrs\n_of_ creed and code; and God and the State sowed a wind whose reaping\nwas a terrible whirlwind, when they hung John Brown.\n\nAcross the dim platform the Passions of hate and pride move toward each\nother; it is the old combat of the forces of Authority, each contending\nnot for the vindication of right, but for the maintenance of power over\nthe other. It is a terrific struggle of brute strength and strategy and\ncunning and ferocity, and well might those who conceived the ideal\nbeautiful of freedom, shrink horror-struck from the blood-soaked path\ntheir feet must tread to reach it. Not strange if some should pause and\nshudder and cry out, \"Is it worth the sacrifice?\" But up from the dust\nwhere Hope lay trodden, and out of the trenches where the sacrificed lay\nhid, and over the plains all scarred with bullets and plowed with\nshells, breathed the whisper, \"It is not vain.\" It was not in vain; for\nas at Waterloo the struggle of ambition against ambition defeated the\nfirst purpose of Authority, the centralization of power, and gave a\npartial victory to her whom both hated, so Antietam, Fredericksburg,\nVicksburg, Gettysburg, while in themselves representing only the brutish\nstruggle of opposition, based on the desire to domineer, really wrought\nout the victory of that ideal which dwelt in the minds of those\nanathematized by God and outlawed by the State. For when the hot lips\nof the iron mouths grew cold, Liberty forsook her lonely fastness, came\nforth upon the desolated plain, and mounting still to the summits of the\nblue-hazed hills looked away over the ruined homes, the depopulated\ncities, the gloom-clouded faces, and though her tears fell fast, an\nineffable tenderness shone upon her features as the torrent of pale\nlight flowed round her form, defining its snow-whiteness in relief\nagainst the sable of four million freedmen smiling o'er their stricken\nchains.\n\nSwiftly following the tableau fire comes the eastern scene, where, in\nthe very center of its power the Church is shaken by an invader, and\nGaribaldi becomes the _personnel_ of the event. Then follows the\nConclave of the Vatican, where by that singular logic known to the Roman\nChurch, the vote of fallible beings renders the pope infallible; upon\nthe heels of this, the breaking of that strong tooth of the Church in\nthe expulsion of the Order of the Society of Jesus by the German\nReichstag, and the overthrow of kingcraft in France.\n\nThe curtain falls. Behind, the scene is being prepared for the last\ngreat act!\n\nAnd now, in the interval of waiting, let us think. So far we have been\nsurveying the completed. While we can understand something of the\npassions which animated this past, can feel something of the pulsations\nwhich throbbed in its arteries, flowed in its veins, we yet can speak of\nit without over-riding emotion either upon one side or the other. The\nriver of heart has reached the sea--the troubled waters have spread out\ndeep, and up from their depths shine the still reflections of those\ngreat lights which gilt the stages of the past. Calmly now we can look\nat the reaction from the French Revolution to the Empire, and say, \"This\nwas inevitable,\"--of Napoleon's fall, \"this was necessary\"; of the\nawakening of Science, \"this was a natural result\"; of the uprising of\n'48, \"this was the premature birth of an idea forced upon the people by\nthe oppression of Authority\"; we can forget the choking agony of John\nBrown, and declare his death a victory. We can look upon the awful waste\nof blood in the Civil War and say, \"It was pitiful, but the goblet of\nwoe must needs have been spilled full of red life wine, ere the hoarse\nand hollow throat of tyranny were satisfied.\" We can see where each of\nthe contending principles has lost and gained, and measuring the sum\ntotals against each other, _must_ decide that the old despotism is\nlosing ground; that instead of the supreme authority of God, the supreme\nsovereignty of the Individual is the growing idea.\n\nBut now we have come to a stage where we can no longer be cool\nspectators. In what happens now we too must be part and parcel of the\naction; we too must hope, and toil, and struggle and suffer. We are no\nlonger looking through the clear still atmosphere of the dead: around\nour forms the wheeling mists are circled, and before our eyes the haze\nlies thick--the haze of gold or the haze of gray. The dimness of the\n\"yet to be\" befogs our sight, and the rush of hope and fear blinds all\nour faculties. You who stand well upon the heights of love, of comfort,\nof happiness, heeding not the darkness and the sorrow beneath you,\nbehold, with up-cast eyes, the great figures of God and Freedom wound\nabout, showered with light. To you there is no menace in their darting\neyes, there is no purpose in their full-drawn statures, there is no\njarring in their clarion voices. No! for your senses are stupid in your\nluxury, your brains are dulled, too dulled to think, your ears are\nglutted with the ring of gold. In your vain and foolish hearts you dream\nthat what you see there is a shadowy bridal; that there, at last,\nReligion and Science, Statecraft and Freedom, are meeting to embrace\neach other.\n\nAh, go on, book-makers, press-writers, doctors and lawyers and preachers\nand teachers! Go on talking your incompatibilities; go on teaching your\nabsurdities! Dream out your short-lived dream! At your feet, beneath the\nshadow of your capitols and domes, under the tuition of your few-facted,\nmuch-fictioned literature, from out your chaos of truth-flavored lies,\nfrom before your pulpits, your rostrums and your seats of learning,\nsomething is growing. Something that is looking _you_ in the eyes, that\nis analyzing your statements, that is revolving your institutions in its\nbrain, that is crushing your sophistries in its merciless machinery as\nfine as grain is ground between the whitened mill-rollers. Freethought\nis looking at you, gentlemen!--more than that, it questions you, it puts\nyou on the witness-stand, it cross-examines you. It says, \"Do you\nbelieve in God?\" and you answer, \"Yes.\" \"Do you believe him to be\nomnipotent, omniscient, and all-just?\" \"Certainly; less than this would\nnot be God.\" \"Then you believe he has the power to order all things as\nhe wills, and being all-just he wills all things according to justice?\"\n\"Yes.\" \"Then you believe him to be the impartially-loving father of all\nhis created children?\" \"Yes.\" \"And each one of those children has an\nequal right to life and liberty?\" \"Yes.\" Then look upon this earth\nbeneath you, this earth of beings whose lives are of so poor account to\nyou, and tell us, where _is_ God and _what_ is he doing?\n\nEveryone has a right to life! What mockery! When the control of the\nnecessaries of life is given to the few by the State, and above the seal\nof the law the priest has set the seal of the Church! Verily,\n\n \"You do take my life\n When you take that whereby I live.\"\n\nIs this your Divine Justice?\n\nWhat irony to tell me I am free if at that same time you have it in your\npower to withhold the means of my existence! Free! Will you look down\nhere at these whose sight is shadowed with the ebon shadow of despair,\nthese, the homeless, the disinherited, the product of whose toil you\ntake and leave them barely enough to live upon--live to toil on and keep\nyou in your luxury! You, the monied idlers, you, the book-makers and the\njournalists, who do more to cry down truth, to laud our social lies, our\neconomic despots and our pious frauds, than any other propaganda can!\nYou, the doctors, whose drugs have cursed the world with poison-eaten\nbodies, corroded the health of unborn generations with your medicated\nslime, and when the sources of life have yielded to the hungry body so\npoor a stream that for lack of air, and earth, and sun, and food, and\nclothing, and recreation, it drooped and sickened, have bottled up some\nnauseating stuff, and with oracular wisdom have taught them to imagine\nit could undo what years of misery had done! You, the law-makers, who\nhave twisted Nature's code till to be natural is to be a criminal; you,\nwho have lawed away the earth that was not yours to give; you, who even\nseek to charter the sea and make the commandment \"across the middle of\nthis river thou shalt not go unless thou render tribute unto C\u00e6sar!\"\nyou, who never inquire \"what is _justice,_\" but \"what is law!\" And you,\nthe teachers, you who prate of the glory of knowledge as the remedy for\nthe evils of the world, and boast your compulsory law of education,\nwhile a stronger law than all the wordy sentences ever graven upon\nstatute books, is driving the children out of the schoolground into the\nfactory, into the saw-mill, into the shaft, into the furrow, into the\nmyriad camps of toil, to the dust of the wheel, to the heat of the\nfurnace, till their pallid cheeks and bloodless lips are bleached like\nbones beneath the desert sun, and their clogged lungs rattle in their\nbreathing pain! Will you look at these, the under-stratum of your social\nearth, and tell them they are free? Will you tell them ignorance is\ntheir greatest curse and education their only remedy? Will you say to\nthese children, \"We have provided free schools for you, and now we\ncompel you to attend them whether you have anything to eat and wear or\nnot\"? Will you tell these people there is a good, kind, merciful God who\nloves them, meting out justice to them from the skies?\n\nNo, you _will_ not, you _cannot_. The words will die upon your lips ere\nyou utter them.\n\nDo you know what it is they see up there above you, they whose eyes look\nthrough the mist of gray and the shroud of darkness? They see your God\nof justice a pitiless slave-driver, his Church more brutal than the\nlash, his State more merciless than the bloodhound; they see themselves\na thousand million serfs more hopelessly enthralled, more helplessly\nchained down than e'en the lashed and tortured body of the chattel\nslave. For them there is no refuge, no escape; in every land the Master\nrules; no fugitive slave law need now be passed--there is no place to\nflee--the whole horizon is iron-bound. White and black alike are yoked\ntogether, and the master yields no distinction, shows no mercy. The bare\npittance of existence is the meed for him who toils, and for him who\n_cannot_--starvation! with a preacher to help him die! That is the\njustice that they see there, in the shadow lines above your golden haze.\nAnd they see, too, a conflict preparing between those two antagonistic\nforces such as never before the world has witnessed. They see your God\nconcentrating his strength to fight so bitter a battle with Liberty as\nshall crush the spirit of individuality forever from the race. They see\nhim ranging his forces, those forces blood-imbrued through all the\nanguished past, the blacklist, the club, the sword, the rifle, the\nprison, aye, the scaffold; they see them all, and know that ere your God\nwill yield his vested rights, the noblest of the race will have been\nstricken, the most unselfish will have been tortured in his dungeons,\nthe white robes of innocence will have been reddened in her own martyr's\nblood, and Death will have shadowed many and many a home, unless you\nshall hearken to the voice of Liberty and save yourselves while there is\nyet time. They see the wide stage spreading out, they see the passions\nmoving over it; they see there, in the center, beneath the rolling\nbrilliance of the Empire State, the tragic inauguration of the act! They\nsee a grim and blackened thing, a silent thing, the demoniac effigy of\nTorquemada's spirit, the frozen laugh of the Dark Ages at our boasted\ncivilization; they see twelve stolid fools before this Nineteenth\nCentury gallows; they see the hiding place of that thing masquerading\nunder the sacred name of Justice, which shrinks even from the gaze of\nthe lauding press and the imbecile jurymen, and does unknown its deed of\nmurder; they see four shrouded forms, they hear four muffled voices, a\nbroken sentence, and--an awful hush! And then, O crowning irony of all,\nthey see advancing to speak to them over the bodies of the murdered (and\nmouthed back from a hundred pulpits comes the echo), Jehovah masked as\nJesus. Ah, the divine cowardice of it! Mild is the light in the Nazarene\neyes, tender the tone of the Nazarene voice!\n\n\"Ah, people whom I love! For whom my life was given long ago on Calvary!\nWhat rashness is it that you meditate? Is it that you are weary of the\nyoke of love I lay on you? Is this your faith? Have I not promised you a\nsweet release when your dark pilgrimage on earth is o'er? Exiles ye are\nupon this world of pain and if oppression comes to weigh you down, if\nhunger shows his long fangs at your hearth, if your chilled limbs are\ncramped with bitter cold the while your neighbor hoards his fuel up, if\nyou are driven out upon the street with crying children clinging\npiteously and begging you for shelter from the storm, if your hard toil\nis taken by the law to satisfy a corporation's greed, if fever and\ndistress gnaw at your heart and still you tread the weary wine-press\nout, knowing no rest until the death-hour comes; if all these things\ndiscourage and perplex, know 'tis for love of you I order it. For thus\nwould I point you to paradise, win you from all the pleasure of the\nworld, and fix your hopes on Heaven's eternity. 'Whom the Lord loveth,\nhim he chasteneth'; so then it is for love that these things are. For\nlove of you I press your life-blood out; for love of you I load you down\nwith pain; for love of you I take your rights away; for love of you I\ninstitute the law that slaves you to the grasping millionaire; for love\nof you I pile the glutted hoards of Vanderbilt and Gould and Rothschild\nand the rest; for love of you I rent the right to breathe in a poor\ntenement of dingy dirt; for love of you I make machines a curse; for\nlove of you I make you toil long hours, and those who cannot toil, I\nturn adrift to wander as they may--sons into dens where thievery is\nlearned as a fine art, daughters to barter their virginity till\ncompetition forces down the price of lust and death is left them as a\nlast resort. Ah, what a golden crown, and sweet-toned harp, what a\nresplendent whit robe, await the soul whom so God loves while on the\nearth it dwells. Aye, for the love of you these men were murdered, and\nfor my glory; and through my holy love they roast in hell: for they\nwould take away the instruments whereby I lure you to my blest abode.\nThey would have taught you what your freedom meant; they would have told\nyou to regain your rights; they would have contradicted my commands and\nlost you heaven, perchance--and if not heaven, _hell_. Keep to your\nfaith, my people, trust in God! Break not the altars where your fathers\nknelt; trust to your teachers, keep within the law; bow to the Church\nand kiss the State's great toe! So shall good order be observed, obeyed,\nand as 'Peace reigned in Warsaw,' so anon shall 'Peace, good-will to men\nreign on the earth.'\"\n\nThese are the words that fall from the lips of him you call \"the\nmerciful,\" \"the just.\" These are the sounds that sink into the ears of\nthose upon whose toil _you_ are dependent for your existence; judge you\nhow they will be received. And now, you, the dwellers on the lifted\nheights, listen to the voice that follows him, for these are words that\nconcern _you_, and if you listen to their warning you may yet save\nyourselves the desolation and the ruin that otherwise must come. This\ndeep, bell-pealing voice that echoes through the corridors of thought\ntill almost Death's chill sleepers might arise again, is the voice which\ncalled for centuries to the Empire, \"Cease your oppressions or the\npeople rise\"; and to the Kingdom, \"Curse not the new world with your\ntyrannies, it will rebel\"; and to the Master, \"Put not the lash upon\nyour bonded slave, for the time will come when every stroke will rise\nlike a warrior armed, to burn and waste and kill.\" The Empire laughed,\nthe Kingdom ignored, the Planter sneered; but the time came when laugh\nand sneer died to white ashes. The time came when \"France got drunk with\nblood, to vomit crime,\" when England \"lost the brightest jewel in her\ncoronal,\" when the South waded in blood and tears and knelt her pride\nbefore a conqueror. And now, she, the liberator, the destined conqueror\nof God, calls out to you, \"Yield up your scepters ere they be torn from\nyou; give back the stolen earth, the mine, the sea! Give back the source\nof life, give back the light! For a black, bitter hour is waiting you,\nan awful gulf unfathomed in its depth, if now you do not pause and\nrender _justice_.\"\n\nAh, thou, whatever be thy awful name, which like a serpent's trail hath\nmarked the earth, whether Jehovah, Buddha, Joss, or Christ! Thou who\nhast done for _love_ what others do for most envenomed _hate_, how hast\nthou hated these the happy ones! Is this impartial justice then to\nthese, to pour the golden treasures of the earth into their laps, that\nthese may feast and toast and so forget thee and thy promised heaven?\nTruly thou hast been most unkind to them, since kindness means with thee\na tearing out of e'en the heart and entrails of existence. Bah! how thou\nliest! To what most pitiable trick of speech hast thou been forced!\nThink'st thou the dwellers in the darkness longer take thy creed of\ncrystalline deception! No! They laugh at thee, they spew thee out, they\nspit at thee.\n\nLove! Say! Look--this long procession coming here! Here are the\nmurderers, with their red-hued eyes; here the adulterers, with their\nlecherous glance; here are the prostitutes, with their mark of shame;\nhere are the gamblers, with their itching hands; here are the thieves,\nwith furtive lips and eyes; here are the liars with their dastard\ntongues; here all the train that Crime can muster up reviews before\nthee! And after them, a ghastly, fearful sight, follow the victims of\ntheir blackened hearts, slain, ruined, desolated by thy love! And now,\nbehold, another train comes on--a train whose name is legion! Here the\ndark, bruted faces from the mines, here the hard, sun-browned cheeks\nfrom out the furrow, here the dull visage from the lumber-camp, here\nthe wan eyes from whirling factory, here the gaunt giants from the\nfurnace fire, here the tarred hands from off the stream and sea, here\nall the aching limbs that stand behind the fashionable counter, here, O\npitiful sight of all, those whose home is in the street, whose table is\nthe garbage pile, the vast, helpless body of the unemployed. And, ever\nas they march, they drop, and drop, into the earth that swallows them,\nand over their graves the march goes on. These are thy victims, God!\nThese are the creatures of thy Church and Law! Speak no more of the\nbreaking of altars, thou who hast broken every altar that the human\nheart holds dear! Take thy position at the head of the murderers'\ncolumn! And when thou hast marched away into the past, thou and thy\npreachers and thy praters of justice, then will the world _return_ to\njustice and the great law of Nature reign upon the earth. Then will her\nbroad, green acres yield their wealth to him who toils, and him alone;\nthen will the store-houses of Nature yield her fuel and her light, not\nto the corporation whose high-priced lobbying can buy it, for in that\ntime no wealth nor intrigue can purchase the heritage of all, but to all\nthe sons and daughters of Labor. And then upon _this_ earth there shall\nbe no hungry mouths, no freezing limbs; no children spending the hours\nof youth in gaining a miserable livelihood, no women crying,\n\n \"It's Oh, to be a slave\n Along with the barbarous Turk,\n Where woman has never a soul to save\n If this is _Christian_ work!\"\n\nno men wandering aimlessly in search of a master for their slavery.\n\nBut O, careless dwellers upon the heights, awaken now!--do not wait till\nreason, persuasion, judgment, coolness are swept down before the rising\nwhirlwind. Bend your energies _now_ to the eradication of the Authority\nidea, to righting the wrongs of your fellow-men. Do it for your own\ninterest, for if you slumber on--ah me! ye will awaken one day when an\nominous rumble prefaces the waking of a terrific underground thunder,\nwhen the earth shakes in a frightful ague fit, when from out the parched\nthroats of the people a burning cry will come like lava from a crater,\n\"'Bread, bread, bread!' No more preachers, no more politicians, no more\nlawyers, no more gods, no more heavens, no more promises! Bread!\" And\nthen, when you hear a terrible leaden groan, know that at last, here in\nyour free America, beneath the floating banner of the stars and stripes,\nmore than fifty million human hearts have burst! A dynamite bomb that\nwill shock the continent to its foundations and knock the sea back from\nits shores!\n\n \"It is no boast, it is no threat,\n Thus History's iron law decrees;\n The day grows hot! O Babylon,\n 'Tis cool beneath thy willow trees!\"\n\n\n\n\n SKETCHES\n AND\n STORIES\n\n\n\n\nA Rocket of Iron\n\n\nIt was one of those misty October nightfalls of the north, when the\nwhite fog creeps up from the river, and winds itself like a corpse-sheet\naround the black, ant-like mass of human insignificance, a cold menace\nfrom Nature to Man, till the foreboding of that irresistible fatality\nwhich will one day lay us all beneath the ice-death sits upon your\nbreast, and stifles you, till you start up desperately crying, \"Let me\nout, let me out!\"\n\nFor an hour I had been staring through the window at that chill steam,\nthickening and blurring out the lines that zig-zagged through it\nindefinitely, pale drunken images of facts, staggering against the\ninvulnerable vapor that walled me in--a sublimated grave marble. Were\nthey all ghosts, those figures wandering across the white night, hardly\ndistinguishable from the posts and pickets that wove in and out, like\nhalf-dismembered bodies writhing in pain? My own fingers were curiously\nnumb and inert; had I, too, become a shadow?\n\nIt grew unbearable at last, the pressure of the foreboding at my heart,\nthe sense of that on-creeping of Universal Death. I ran out of doors,\nimpelled by the vague impulse to assert my own being, to seek relief in\nstruggle, even though foredoomed futile--to seek warmth, fellowship,\nsomewhere, though but with those ineffective pallors in the mist, that\ndissolved even while I looked at them. Once in the street, I ran on\nindifferently, glad to be jostled, glad of the snarling of dogs and the\ncurses of laborers calling to one another. The penumbra of the mist,\nthat menacing dim foreshadow, had not chilled these, then! On, on,\nthrough the alleys where human flesh was close, and when one listened\none could hear breathings and many feet, drifting at last into the\ncurrent that swept through the main channel of the city, and presently,\nwhirled round in an eddy, I found myself staring through the open door\nof the great Iron Works. Perhaps it was the sensation of warmth that\nheld me there first, some feeling of exhilaration and wakening defiance\nin the flash and swirl of the yellow flames--this, mixed with an\nindistinct desire to clutch at something, anything, that seemed\nstationary in the midst of all this that slipped and wavered and fell\naway.... No, I remember now: there was something before that; there was\na sound--a sound that had stopped my feet in their going, and smote me\nwith a long shudder--a sound of hammers, beating, beating, beating a\nterrific hail, momentarily faster and louder, and in between a panting\nas of some great monster catching breath beneath the driving of that\niron rain. Faster, faster--CLANG! A long reverberant shriek! The giant\nhad rolled and shivered in his pain. Involuntarily I was drawn down into\nthe Valley of the Sound, words muttering themselves through my lips as I\npassed: \"Forging, forging--what are they forging there? Frankenstein\nmakes his Monster. How the iron screams!\" But I heard it no more now; I\nonly saw!--saw the curling yellow flames, and the red, red iron that\npanted, and the Masters of the Hammers. How they moved there, like\ndemons in the abyss, their bodies swinging, their eyes tense and\na-glitter, their faces covered with the gloom of the torture-chamber!\n\nOnly _one_ face I saw, young and fair--young and very fair--whereon the\ngloom seemed not to settle. The skin of it was white and shining there\nin the midst of that black haze; over the wide forehead fell tumbling\nwaves of thick brown hair, and two great dark eyes looked steadily into\nthe red iron, as if they saw therein something I did not see; only now\nand then they were lifted, and looked away upward, as if beyond the\nsmoke-pall they beheld a vision. Once he turned so that the rose-light\ncast forth his profile as a silhouette; and I shivered, it was so fine\nand hard! Hard with the hardness of beaten iron, and fine with the\nfineness of a keen chisel. Had the hammers been beating on that fair\nyoung face?\n\nA comrade called, a sudden terrified cry. There was a wild rush, a mad\nstampede of feet, a horrible screech of hissing metal, and a rocket of\niron shot upward toward the black roof, bursting and falling in a\nburning shower. Three figures lay writhing along the floor, among the\nleaping, demoniac sparks.\n\nThe first to lift them was the Man with the white face. He had stood\nstill in the storm, and ran forward when the others shrank back. Now he\npassed by me, bearing his dying burden, and I saw no quiver upon brow or\nchin; only, when he laid it in the ambulance, I fancied I saw upon the\ndelicate curved lips a line of purpose deepen, and the reflection of the\niron-fire glow in the strange eyes, as if for an instant the door of a\nhidden furnace had been opened and smouldering coals had breathed the\nair. And even then he looked up!\n\nIt was all over in half an hour. There would be weeping in three little\nhomes; and one was dead, and one would die, and one would crawl, a\nseared human stump, to the end of his weary days. The crowd that had\ngathered was gone; they would not know the Stump when it begged from\nthem with its maimed hands, six months after, on some street corner.\n\"Fakir\" they would say, and laugh. There would be an entry on the\ncompany's books, and a brief line in the newspapers next day. But the\nwelding of the iron would go on, and the man who gave his easy money for\nit would fancy he had paid for it, not seeing the stiff figures in their\ngraves, nor the crippled beggar, nor the broken homes.\n\nThe rocket of iron is already cold; dull, inert, fireless, the black\nfragments lie upon the floor whereon they lately rained their red\nrevenge. Do with them what you will, you cannot undo their work. The men\nare clearing way. Only he with the white face does not go back to his\nplace. Still set and silent he takes his coat, \"presses his soft hat\ndown upon his thick, damp locks,\" and goes out into the fog and night.\nSo close he passed me, I might have touched him; but he never saw me.\nPerhaps he was still carrying the burden of the dying man upon his\nheart; perhaps some mightier burden. For one instant the shapely, boyish\nfigure was in full light, then it vanished away in the engulfing\nmist--the mist which the vision of him had made me forget. For I knew I\nhad seen a Man of Iron, into whose soul the iron had driven, whose\nnerves were tempered as cold steel, but behind whose still, impassive\nfeatures slumbered a white-hot heart. And others should see a rocket and\na ruin, and feel the Vengeance of Beaten Iron, before the mist comes\nand swallows all.\n\n * * * * *\n\nI had forgotten! Upon that face, that young, fair face, so smooth and\nfine that even the black smoke would not rest upon it, there bloomed the\nroses of Early Death. Hot-house flowers!\n\n\n\n\nThe Chain Gang\n\n\nIt is far, far down in the southland, and I am back again, thanks be, in\nthe land of wind and snow, where life lives. But that was in the days\nwhen I was a wretched thing, that crept and crawled, and shrunk when the\nwind blew, and feared the snow. So they sent me away down there to the\nworld of the sun, where the wind and the snow are afraid. And the sun\nwas kind to me, and the soft air that does not move lay around me like\nfolds of down, and the poor creeping life in me winked in the light and\nstared out at the wide caressing air; stared away to the north, to the\nland of wind and rain, where my heart was,--my heart that would be at\nhome.\n\nYes, there, in the tender south, my heart was bitter and bowed, for the\nlove of the singing wind and the frost whose edge was death,--bitter and\nbowed for the strength to bear that was gone, and the strength to love\nthat abode. Day after day I climbed the hills with my face to the north\nand home. And there, on those southern heights, where the air was resin\nand balm, there smote on my ears the sound that all the wind of the\nnorth can never sing down again, the sound I shall hear till I stand at\nthe door of the last silence.\n\nCling--clang--cling--From the Georgian hills it sounds; and the snow and\nthe storm cannot drown it,--the far-off, terrible music of the Chain\nGang.\n\nI met it there on the road, face to face, with all the light of the sun\nupon it. Do you know what it is? Do you know that every day men run in\nlong procession, upon the road they build for others' safe and easy\ngoing, bound to a chain? And that other men, with guns upon their\nshoulders, ride beside them--with orders to kill if the living links\nbreak? There it stretched before me, a serpent of human bodies, bound to\nthe iron and wrapped in the merciless folds of justified cruelty.\n\nClank--clink--clank--There was an order given. The living chain divided;\ngroups fell to work upon the road; and then I saw and heard a miracle.\n\nHave you ever, out of a drowsy, lazy conviction that all knowledges, all\narts, all dreams, are only patient sums of many toils of many millions\ndead and living, suddenly started into an uncanny consciousness that\nknowledges and arts and dreams are things more real than any living\nbeing ever was, which suddenly reveal themselves, unasked and unawaited,\nin the most obscure corners of soul-life, flashing out in prismatic\nglory to dazzle and shock all your security of thought, toppling it with\nvague questions of what is reality, that you cannot silence? When you\nhear that an untaught child is able, he knows not how, to do the works\nof the magicians of mathematics, has it never seemed to you that\nsuddenly all books were swept away, and there before you stood a superb,\nsphinx-like creation, Mathematics itself, posing problems to men whose\neyes are cast down, and all at once, out of whim, incorporating itself\nin that wide-eyed, mysterious child? Have you ever felt that all the\nworks of the masters were swept aside in the burst of a singing voice,\nunconscious that it sings, and that Music itself, a master-presence, has\nentered the throat and sung?\n\nNo, you have never felt it? But you have never heard the Chain Gang\nsing!\n\nTheir faces were black and brutal and hopeless; their brows were low,\ntheir jaws were heavy, their eyes were hard; three hundred years of the\nscorn that brands had burned its scar upon the face and form of\nIgnorance,--Ignorance that had sought dully, stupidly, blindly, and been\nanswered with that pitiless brand. But wide beyond the limits of high\nman and his little scorn, the great, sweet old Music-Soul, the chords of\nthe World, smote through the black man's fibre in the days of the making\nof men; and it sings, it sings, with its ever-thrumming strings, through\nall the voices of the Chain Gang. And never one so low that it does not\nfill with the humming vibrancy that quivers and bursts out singing\nthings always new and new and new.\n\nI heard it that day.\n\nThe leader struck his pick into the earth, and for a moment whistled\nlike some wild, free, living flute in the forest. Then his voice floated\nout, like a low booming wind, crying an instant, and fell; there was the\nmeasure of a grave in the fall of it. Another voice rose up, and lifted\nthe dead note aloft, like a mourner raising his beloved with a kiss. It\ndrifted away to the hills and the sun. Then many voices rolled forward,\nlike a great plunging wave, in a chorus never heard before, perhaps\nnever again; for each man sung his own song as it came, yet all blent.\nThe words were few, simple, filled with a great plaint; the wail of the\nsea was in it; and no man knew what his brother would sing, yet added\nhis own without thought, as the rhythm swept on, and no voice knew what\nnote its fellow voice would sing, yet they fell in one another as the\nbillow falls in the trough or rolls to the crest, one upon the other,\none within the other, over, under, all in the great wave; and now one\nled and others followed, then it dropped back and another swelled\nupward, and every voice was soloist and chorister, and never one seemed\nconscious of itself, but only to sing out the great song.\n\nAnd always, as the voices rose and sank, the axes swung and fell. And\nthe lean white face of the man with the gun looked on with a stolid,\nparalyzed smile.\n\nOh, that wild, sombre melody, that long, appealing plaint, with its hope\nlaid beyond death,--that melody that was made only there, just now,\nbefore me, and passing away before me! If I could only seize it, hold\nit, stop it from passing! that all the world might hear the song of the\nChain Gang! might know that here, in these red Georgian hills, convicts,\nblack, brutal convicts, are making the music that is of no man's\ncompelling, that floods like the tide and ebbs away like the tide, and\nwill not be held--and is gone, far away and forever, out into the abyss\nwhere the voices of the centuries have drifted and are lost!\n\nSomething about Jesus, and a Lamp in the darkness--a gulfing darkness.\nOh, in the mass of sunshine must they still cry for light? All around\nthe sweep and the glory of shimmering ether, sun, sun, a world of sun,\nand these still calling for light! Sun for the road, sun for the stones,\nsun for the red clay--and no light for this dark living clay? Only heat\nthat burns and blaze that blinds, but does not lift the darkness!\n\n\"And lead me to that Lamp----\"\n\nThe pathetic prayer for light went trembling away out into the luminous\ngulf of day, and the axes swung and fell; and the grim dry face of the\nman with the gun looked on with its frozen smile. \"So long as they sing,\nthey work,\" said the smile, still and ironical.\n\n\"A friend to them that's got no friend\"--Man of Sorrows, lifted up upon\nGolgotha, in the day when the forces of the Law and the might of Social\nOrder set you there, in the moment of your pain and desperate accusation\nagainst Heaven, when that piercing \"Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?\" went\nup to a deaf sky, did you presage this desolate appeal coming to you out\nof the unlived depths of nineteen hundred years?\n\nHopeless hope, that cries to the dead! Futile pleading that the cup may\npass, while still the lips drink! For, as of old, Order and the Law, in\nshining helmets and gleaming spears, ringed round the felon of Golgotha,\nso stand they still in that lean, merciless figure, with its shouldered\ngun and passive smile. And the moan that died within the Place of Skulls\nis born again in this great dark cry rising up against the sun.\n\nIf but the living might hear it, not the dead! For these are dead who\nwalk about with vengeance and despite within their hearts, and scorn for\nthings dark and lowly, in the odor of self-righteousness, with\nself-vaunting wisdom in their souls, and pride of race, and iron-shod\norder, and the preservation of Things that Are; walking stones are\nthese, that cannot hear. But the living are those who seek to know, who\nwot not of things lowly or things high, but only of things wonderful;\nand who turn sorrowfully from Things that Are, hoping for Things that\nMay Be. If these should hear the Chain Gang chorus, seize it, make all\nthe living hear it, see it!\n\nIf, from among themselves, one man might find \"the Lamp,\" lift it up!\nPaint for all the world these Georgian hills, these red, sunburned\nroads, these toiling figures with their rhythmic axes, these brutal,\nunillumined faces, dull, groping, depth-covered,--and then unloose that\nsong upon their ears, till they feel the smitten, quivering hearts of\nthe Sons of Music beating against their own; and under and over and\naround it, the chain that the dead have forged clinking between the\nheart-beats!\n\nClang--cling--clang--ng--It is sundown. They are running over the red\nroad now. The voices are silent; only the chain clinks.\n\n\n\n\nThe Heart of Angiolillo\n\n\nSome women are born to love stories as the sparks fly upward. You see it\nevery time they glance at you, and you feel it every time they lay a\nfinger on your sleeve. There was a party the other night, and a\nfour-year old baby who couldn't sleep for the noise crept down into the\nparlor half frightened to death and transfixed with wonderment at the\ncrude performances of an obtuse visitor who was shouting out the woes of\nOthello. One kindly little woman took the baby in her arms and said:\n\"What would they do to you, if you made all that noise.\"--\"Whip me,\"\nwhispered the child, her round black eyes half admiration and half\nterror, and altogether coquettish, as she hid and peered round the\nwoman's neck. And every man in the room forthwith fell in love with her,\nand wanted to smother his face in the bewitching rings of dark hair that\ncrowned the dainty head, and carry her about on his shoulders, or get\ndown on his hands and knees to play horse for her, or let her walk on\nhis neck, or obliterate his dignity in any other way she might prefer.\nThe boys tolerated their fathers with a superior \"huh!\" Fourteen or\nfifteen years from now they will be playing the humble cousin of the\nhorse before the same little ringed-haired lady, and having sported Nick\nBottom's ears to no purpose, half a dozen or so will go off and hang\nthemselves, or turn monk, or become \"bold, bad men,\" and revenge\nthemselves on the sex. But her conquests will go on, and when those\ngracious rings are white as snow the children of those boys will follow\nin their grandfathers' and fathers' steps and dangle after her, and make\ndrawings on their fly leaves of that sweet kiss-cup of a mouth of hers,\nand call her their elder sister, and other devotional names. And the\nother girls of her generation, who were not born with that marvelous\nentangling grace in every line and look, will dread her and spite her,\nand feel mean satisfaction when some poor fool does swallow laudanum on\nher account. Smiles of glacial virtue will creep over their faces like\nslippery sunshine, when one by one her devotees come trailing off to\nthem to say that such a woman could never fill a man's heart nor become\nthe ornament of his hearthstone; the quiet virtues that wear, are all\ntheir desire; of course they have just been studying her character and\nthat of the foolish men who dance her attendance, but even those are not\ndoing it with any serious motives. And the neglected girls will serve\nhim with home-made cake and wine which he will presently convert into\nagony in that pearl shell ear of hers. And all the while the baby will\nhave done nothing but be what she was born to be through none of her own\nchoosing, which is her lot and portion; and that is another thing the\ngods will have to explain when the day comes that they go on trial\nbefore men; which is the real day of judgment.\n\nBut this isn't the baby's story, which has yet to be made, but the story\nof one who somehow received a wrong portion. Some inadvertent little\nangel in the destiny shop took down her name when the heroine of a\nromance was called for, and put her where she shouldn't have been, and\nthen ran off to play no doubt, not stopping to look twice. For even the\nmost insouciant angel that looked twice would have seen that Effie was\nno woman to play the game of hearts, and there's only one thing more\nundiscerning than an angel, and that is a social reformer. Effie ran up\nagainst both.\n\nThey say she had blood in her girlhood, that it shone red and steady\nthrough that thin, pure skin of hers; but when I saw her, with her\nnursing baby in her arms, down in the smutching grime of London, there\nwas only a fluctuant blush, a sort of pink ghost of blood, hovering back\nand forth on her face. And that was for shame of the poverty of her neat\nbare room. Not that she had ever known riches. She was the daughter of\nScotch peasants, and had gone out to service when she was still a child;\nher chest was hollowed in and her back bowed with that unnatural labor.\nThere was no gloss on the pale sandy hair, no wilding tendrils clinging\nround the straight smooth forehead, no light of coquetry or grace in the\nglimmering blue eyes, no beauty in her at all, unless it lay in the\nfine, hard sculptured line of her nose and mouth and chin when she\nturned her head sideways. You could read in that line that having spoken\na word to her heart, she would not forget it nor unsay it; and if it\ntook her down into Gethsemane, she would never cry out though by all\nforsaken.\n\nAnd that was where it had taken her then. Some ready condemner of all\nthat has been tried for less than a thousand years, will say it was\nbecause she had the just reward of those who, holding that love is its\nown sanction and that it cannot be anything but degraded by seeking\npermissions from social authorities, live their love lives without the\nconsent of Church and State. But you and I know that the same dark\ngarden has awaited the woman whose love has been blessed by both, and\nthat many such a life lamp has flickered out in a night as profound as\npoverty and utter loneliness could make it. So if it was justice to\nEffie, what is it to that other woman? In truth, justice had nothing to\ndo with it; she loved the wrong man, that was all; and married or\nunmarried, it would have been the same, for a formula doesn't make a\nman, nor the lack of it unmake him. The fellow was superior in\nintellect. It is honesty only which can wring so much from those who\nknew them both, for as to any other thing she sat as high over him as\nthe stars are. Not that he was an actively bad man; just one of those\nweak, uncertain, tumbling about characters, having sense enough to know\nit is a fine thing to stand alone, and vanity enough to want the name\nwithout the game, and cowardice enough to creep around anything stronger\nthan itself, and hang there, and spread itself about, and say, \"Lo, how\nstraight am I!\" And if the stronger thing happens to be a father or a\nbrother or some such tolerant piece of friendly, self-sufficient energy,\nhe amuses himself awhile, and finally gives the creeper a shake and\nsays, \"Here, now, go hang on somebody else if you can't stand alone\",\nand the world says he should have done it before. But if it happens to\nbe a mother or a sister or a wife or a sweetheart, she encourages him to\nthink he is a wonderful person, that all she does is really his own\nmerit, and she is proud and glad to serve him. If after a while she\ndoesn't exactly believe it any more, she says and does the same; and the\nworld says she is a fool,--which she is. But if, in some sudden spurt of\nmasculine self-assertiveness, she decides to fling him off, the world\nsays she is an unwomanly woman,--which again she is; so much the better.\n\nEffie's creeper dabbled in literature. He wanted to be a translator and\nseveral other things. His appearance was mild and gentlemanly, even\nsuper-modest. He always spoke respectfully of Effie, and as if\nmomentously impressed with a sense of duty towards her. They had started\nout to realize the free life together, and the glory of the new ideal\nhad beckoned them forward. So no doubt he believed, for a pretender\nalways deceives himself worse than anybody else. But still, at that\nparticular period, he used to droop his head wearily and admit that he\nhad made a great mistake. It was nobody's fault but his own, but of\ncourse--Effie and he were hardly fitted for each other. She could not\nwell enter into his hopes and ambitions, never having had the\nopportunity to develop when she was younger. He had hoped to stimulate\nher in that direction, but he feared it was too late. So he said in a\ndelicate and gentlemanly way, as he went from one house to the other,\nand was invited to dinner and supper and made himself believe he was\nlooking for work. Effie, meanwhile, was taking home boys' caps to make,\nand worrying along incredibly on bread and tea, and walking the streets\nwith the baby in her arms when she had no caps to make.\n\nOf course when a man drinks other people's teas a great many times, and\nsits in their houses, and borrows odd shillings now and then, and\nassumes the gentleman, he is ultimately brought to the necessity of\nasking some one to tea with him; so one spring night the creeper\napproached Effie rather dubiously with the statement that he had asked\ntwo or three acquaintances to come in the next evening, and he supposed\nshe would need to prepare tea. The girl was just fainting from\nstarvation then, and she asked him wearily where he thought she was to\nget it. He cast about a while in his pusillanimous way for things that\n_she_ might do, and finally proposed that she pawn the baby's\ndress,--the white dress she had made from one of her own girlhood\ndresses, and the only thing it had to wear when she took it out for air.\nThat was the limit, even for Effie. She said she would take anything of\nher own if she had it, but not the baby's; and she turned her face to\nthe wall and clung to the child.\n\nWhen the tea-time came next day she went out with the baby and walked up\nand down the surging London streets looking in the windows and crushing\nback tears. What the creeper did with his guests she never knew, for she\ndid not return till long after dusk, when she was too weary to wander\nany more, and she found no one there but himself and a dark stranger,\nwho spoke little and with an Italian accent, but who measured her with\nserious, intense eyes. He listened to the creeper, but he looked at her;\nshe was quite fagged out and more bloodless than ever as she sat\nmotionless on the edge of the bed. When he went away he lifted his hat\nto her with the grace of an old time courtier, and begged her pardon if\nhe had intruded. Some days after that he came in again, and brought a\ntoy for the baby, and asked her if he might carry the child out a little\nfor her; it looked sickly shut up there, but he knew it must be heavy\nfor her to carry. The creeper suddenly discovered that he could carry\nthe baby.\n\nAll this happened in the days when a pious queen sat on the throne of\nSpain. With eyes turned upward in much holiness, she failed to see the\nthings done in her prisons, or hear the groans that rose up from the\n\"zero\" chamber in the fortress of Montjuich, though all Europe heard,\nand even in America the echo rang. While she told her beads her minister\ngave the order to \"torture the Anarchists\"; and scarred with red-hot\nirons, maimed and deformed and maddened with the nameless horrors that\nthe good devise to correct the bad, even unto this day the evidences of\nthat infamous order live. But two men do not live,--the one who gave the\norder, and the one who revenged it.\n\nIt happened one night, in April, that Effie and the creeper and their\nsometime visitor met all three in one of those long low smothering\nLondon halls where many movements have originated, which in their\ndeveloped proportions have taken possession of the House of Commons, and\neven stirred the dust in the House of Lords. There was a crowd of\nexcited people talking all degrees of sense and nonsense in every\nlanguage of the continent. Letters smuggled from the prison had been\nreceived; new tales of torture were passing from mouth to mouth; fresh\npropositions to arouse a general protest from civilization were bubbling\nup with the anger of every indignant man and woman. Drifting to the\nbuzzing knots Effie heard some one translating: it was the letter of the\ntortured Nogu\u00e8s, who a month later was shot beneath the fortress wall.\nThe words smote her ears like something hot and stinging:\n\n\"You know I am one of the three accusers (the other two are Ascheri and\nMolas) who figure in the trial. I could not bear the atrocious tortures\nof so many days. On my arrest I spent eight days without food or drink,\nobliged to walk continually to and fro or be flogged; and as if that\ndid not suffice, I was made to trot as though I were a horse trained\nat the riding school, until worn with fatigue I fell to the ground.\nThen the hangmen burnt my lips with red-hot irons, and when I declared\nmyself the author of the attempt they replied, 'You do not tell the\ntruth. We know that the author is another one, but we want to know\nyour accomplices. Besides you still retain six bombs, and along with\nlittle Oller you deposited two bombs in the Rue Fivaller. Who are your\naccomplices?'\n\n\"In spite of my desire to make an end of it I could not answer anything.\nWhom should I accuse since all are innocent? Finally six comrades were\nplaced before me, whom I had to accuse, and of whom I beg pardon. Thus\nthe declarations and the accusations that I made.... I cannot finish;\nthe hangmen are coming.\n --Nogu\u00e8s.\"\n\nSick with horror Effie would have gone away, but her feet were like\nlead. She heard the next letter, the pathetic prayer of Sebastian\nSunyer, indistinctly; the tortures had already seared her ears, but the\ncrying for help seemed to go up over her head like great sobs; she felt\nherself washed round, sinking, in the desperate pain of it. The piteous\nreiteration, \"Listen you with your honest hearts,\" \"you with your pure\nsouls,\" \"good and right-minded people,\" \"good and right-feeling people,\"\nwailed through her like the wild pleading of a child who, shrieking\nunder the whip \"Dear papa, good, sweet papa, please don't whip me,\nplease, please,\" seeks terror-wrung flattery to escape the lash. The\nlast cry, \"Aid us in our helplessness; think of our misery,\" made her\nquiver like a reed. She walked away and sat down in a corner alone; what\ncould she do, what could any one do? Miserable creature that she was\nherself, her own misery seemed so worthless beside that prison cry. And\nshe thought on, \"Why does he want to live at all, why does any one want\nto live, why do I want to live myself?\"\n\nAfter a while the creeper and his friend came to her, and the latter sat\ndown beside her, undemonstrative as usual. At the next buzz in the room\nthey two were left alone. She looked at him once as she said, \"What do\nyou think the people will do about it?\"\n\nHe glanced at the crowd with a thin smile: \"Do? Talk.\"\n\nIn a little time he said quietly: \"It does you no good here. I will take\nyou home and come back for David afterward.\" She had no idea of\ncontradicting him; so they went out together. At the threshold of her\nroom he said firmly, \"I will come in for a few minutes; I have to speak\nto you.\"\n\nShe struck a light, put the baby on the bed, and looked at him\nquestioningly. He had sat down with his back against the wall, and with\nrigidly folded arms stared straight ahead of him. Seeing that he did not\nspeak, she said softly, falling into her native dialect, as all Scotch\nwomen do when they feel most: \"I canna get thae poor creetyer's cries\noot o' ma head. It's no human.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said shortly, and then with a sudden look at her, \"Effie, what\ndo you think love is?\"\n\nShe answered him with surprised eyes and said nothing. He went on: \"You\nlove the child, don't you? You do for it, you serve it. That shows you\nlove it. But do you think it's love that makes David act as he does to\nyou? If he loved you, would he let you work as you work? Would he live\noff you? Wouldn't he wear the flesh off his fingers instead of yours? He\ndoesn't love you. He isn't worth you. He isn't a bad man, but he isn't\nworth you. And you make him less worth. You ruin him, you ruin yourself,\nyou kill the child. I can't see it any more. I come here, and I see you\nweaker every time, whiter, thinner. And I know if you keep on you'll\ndie. I can't see it. I want you to leave him; let me work for you. I\ndon't make much, but enough to let you rest. At least till you are well.\nI would wait till you left him of yourself, but I can't wait when I see\nyou dying like this. I don't want anything of you, except to serve you,\nto serve the child because it's yours. Come away, to-night. You can have\nmy room; I'll go somewhere else. To-morrow I'll find you a better place.\nYou needn't see him any more. I'll tell him myself. He won't do\nanything, don't be afraid. Come.\" And he stood up.\n\nEffie had sat astonished and dumb. Now she looked up at the dark tense\neyes above her, and said quietly, \"I dinna understand.\"\n\nA sharp contraction went across the strong bent face: \"No? You don't\nunderstand what you are doing with yourself? You don't understand that I\nlove you, and I can't see it? I don't ask you to love me; I ask you to\nlet me serve you. Only a little, only so much as to give you health\nagain; is that too much? You don't know what you are to me. Others love\nbeauty, but I--I see in you the eternal sacrifice; your thin fingers\nthat always work, your face--when I look at it, it's just a white\nshadow; you are the child of the people, that dies without crying. Oh,\nlet me give myself for you. And leave this man, who doesn't care for\nyou, doesn't know you, thinks you beneath him, uses you. I don't want\nyou to be his slave any more.\"\n\nEffie clasped her hands and looked at them; then she looked at the\nsleeping baby, smoothed the quilt, and said quietly: \"I didna take him\nthe day to leave him the morra. It's no my fault if ye're daft aboot\nme.\"\n\nThe dark face sharpened as one sees the agony in a dying man, but his\nvoice was very gentle, speaking always in his blurred English: \"No,\nthere is no fault in you at all. Did I accuse you?\"\n\nThe girl walked to the window and looked out. Some way it was a relief\nfrom the burning eyes which seemed to fill the room, no matter that she\ndid not look at them. And staring off into the twinkling London night,\nshe heard again the terrible sobs of Sebastian Sunyer's letter rising\nup and drowning her with its misery. Without turning around she said,\nlow and hard, \"I wonder ye can thenk aboot thae things, an' yon deils\nburnin' men alive.\"\n\nThe man drew his hand across his forehead. \"Would you like to hear that\nthey,--one,--the worst of them, was dead?\"\n\n\"I thenk the worl' wadna be muckle the waur o't,\" she answered, still\nlooking away from him. He came up and laid his hand on her shoulder.\n\"Will you kiss me once? I'll never ask again.\" She shook him off: \"I\ndinna feel for't.\" \"Good-bye then. I'll go back for David.\" And he\nreturned to the hall and got the creeper and told him very honestly what\nhad taken place; and the creeper, to his credit be it said, respected\nhim for it, and talked a great deal about being better in future to the\ngirl. The two men parted at the foot of the stairs, and the last words\nthat echoed through the hallway were: \"No, I am going away. But you will\nhear of me some day.\"\n\nNow, what went on in his heart that night no one knows; nor what\nindecision still kept him lingering fitfully about Effie's street a few\ndays more; nor when the indecision finally ceased; for no one spoke to\nhim after that, except as casual acquaintances meet, and in a week he\nwas gone. But what he did the whole world knows; for even the Queen of\nSpain came out of her prayers to hear how her torturing prime minister\nhad been shot at Santa Agueda, by a stern-faced man, who, when the\nwidow, grief-mad, spit in his face, quietly wiped his cheek, saying,\n\"Madam, I have no quarrel with women.\" A few weeks later they garrotted\nhim, and he said one word before he died,--one only, \"Germinal.\"\n\nOver there in the long low London hall the gabbling was hushed, and some\none murmured how he had sat silent in the corner that night when all\nwere talking. The creeper passed round a book containing the history of\nthe tortures, watching it jealously all the while, for said he,\n\"Angiolillo gave it to me himself; he had it in his own hands.\"\n\nEffie lay beside the baby in her room, and hid her face in the\npillow to keep out the stare of the burning eyes that were\ndead; and over and over again she repeated, \"Was it my fault,\nwas it my fault?\" The hot summer air lay still and smothering,\nand the immense murmur of the city came muffled like thunder\nbelow the horizon. Her heart seemed beating against the walls\nof a padded room. And gradually, without losing consciousness,\nshe slipped into the world of illusion; around her grew the\nstifling atmosphere of the torture-chamber of Montjuich, and the\nchoked cries of men in agony. She was sure that if she looked up\nshe should see the demoniac face of Portas, the torturer. She\ntried to cry, \"Mercy, mercy,\" but her dry lips clave. She had\na whirling sensation, and the illusion changed; now there was\nthe clank of soldiers' arms, a moment of insufferable stillness\nas the garrotte shaped itself out of the shadows in her eyes,\nthen loud and clear, breaking the sullen quiet like the sharp\nringing of a storm-bringing wind, \"Germinal.\" She sprang up: the\nlong vibration of the bell of St. Pancras was waving through\nthe room; but to her it was the prolongation of the word,\n\"Germ-inal-l-l--germinal-l-l--\" Then suddenly she threw out her\narms in the darkness, and whispered hoarsely, \"Ay, I'll kiss ye\nthe noo.\"\n\nAn hour later she was back at the old question, \"Was it my fault?\"\n\nPoor girl, it is all over now, and all the same to the grass that roots\nin her bone, whether it was her fault or not. For the end that the man\nwho had loved her foresaw, came, though it was slow in the coming. Let\nthe creeper get credit for all that he did. He stiffened up in a year or\nso, and went to Paris and got some work; and there the worn little\ncreature went to him, and wrote to her old friends that she was better\noff at last. But it was too late for that thin shell of a body that had\nstarved so much; at the first trial she broke and died. And so she\nsleeps and is forgotten. And the careless boy-angel who mixed all these\ndestinies up so unobservantly has never yet whispered her name in the\near of the widowed Lady Canovas del Castillo.\n\nNor will the birds that fly thither carry it now; for _it was not\n\"Effie.\"_\n\n\n\n\nThe Reward of an Apostate\n\n\nI have sinned: and I am rewarded according to my sin, which was great.\nThere is no forgiveness for me; let no man think there is forgiveness\nfor sin: the gods cannot forgive.\n\nThis was my sin, and this is my punishment, that I forsook my god to\nfollow a stranger--only a while, a very brief, brief while--and when I\nwould have returned there was no more returning. I cannot worship any\nmore,--that is my punishment; I cannot worship any more.\n\nOh, that my god will none of me? That is an old sorrow! My god was\nBeauty, and I am all unbeautiful, and ever was. There is no grace in\nthese harsh limbs of mine, nor was at any time. I, to whom the glory of\na lit eye was as the shining of stars in a deep well, have only dull and\nfaded eyes, and always had; the chiseled lip and chin whereover runs the\nradiance of life in bubbling gleams, the cup of living wine was never\nmine to taste or kiss. I am earth-colored, and for my own ugliness sit\nin the shadow, that the sunlight may not see me, nor the beloved of my\ngod. But, once, in my hidden corner, behind the curtain of shadows, I\nblinked at the glory of the world, and had such joy of it as only the\nugly know, sitting silent and worshiping, forgetting themselves and\nforgotten. Here in my brain it glowed, the shimmering of the dying sun\nupon the shore, the long gold line between the sand and sea, where the\nsliding foam caught fire and burned to death. Here in my brain it shone,\nthe white moon on the wrinkling river, running away, a dancing ghost\nline in the illimitable night. Here in my brain rose the mountain\ncurves, the great still world of stone, summit upon summit sweeping\nskyward, lonely and conquering. Here in my brain, my little brain,\nbehind this tiny ugly wall of bone stretched over with its dirty yellow\nskin, glittered the far high blue desert with its sand of stars, as I\nhave watched it, nights and nights, alone, hid in the shadows of the\nprairie grass. Here rolled and swelled the seas of corn, and blossoming\nfields of nodding bloom; and flower-flies on their hovering wings went\nflickering up and down. And the quick spring of lithe-limbed things went\nscattering dew across the sun; and singing streams went shining down the\nrocks, spreading bright veils upon the crags.\n\nHere in my brain, my silent unrevealing brain, were the eyes I loved,\nthe lips I dared not kiss, the sculptured heads and tendriled hair. They\nwere here always in my wonder-house, my house of Beauty, the temple of\nmy god. I shut the door on common life and worshiped here. And no\nbright, living, flying thing, in whose body Beauty dwells as guest, can\nguess the ecstatic joy of a brown, silent creature, a toad-thing,\nsquatting on the shadowed ground, self-blotted, motionless, thrilling\nwith the presence of All-Beauty, though it has no part therein.\n\nBut the gods are many. And once a strange god came to me. Sharp upon the\nshadowy ground he stood, and beckoned me with knotted fingers. There was\nno beauty in his lean figure and sunken cheeks; but up and down the\nmuscles ran like snakes beneath his skin, and his dark eyes had somber\nfires in them. And as I looked at him, I felt the leap of prisoned\nforces in myself, in the earth, in the air, in the sun; all throbbed\nwith the pulse of the wild god's heart. Beauty vanished from my\nwonder-house; and where his images had been I heard the clang and roar\nof machinery, the forging of links that stretched to the sun, chains for\nthe tides, chains for the winds; and curious lights went shining through\nthick walls as through air, and down through the shell of the world\nitself, to the great furnaces within. Into those seething depths, the\ngod's eyes peered, smiling and triumphing; then with an up-glance at the\nsky and a waste-glance at me, he strode off.\n\nThis is my great sin, for which there is no pardon: I followed him, the\nrude god Energy; followed him, and in that abandoned moment swore to be\nquit of Beauty, which had given me nothing, and to be worshiper of him\nto whom I was akin, ugly but sinuous, resolute, daring, defiant, maker\nand breaker of things, remoulder of the world. I followed him, I would\nhave run abreast with him; I loved him, not with that still ecstasy of\nflooding joy wherewith my own god filled me of old, but with impetuous,\neager fires, that burned and beat through all the blood-threads of me.\n\"I love you, love me back,\" I cried, and would have flung myself upon\nhis neck. Then he turned on me with a ruthless blow, and fled away over\nthe world, leaving me crippled, stricken, powerless, a fierce pain\ndriving through my veins--gusts of pain!--And I crept back into my old\ncavern, stumbling, blind and deaf, only for the haunting vision of my\nshame and the rushing sound of fevered blood.\n\nThe pain is gone. I see again; I care no more for the taunt and blow of\nthat fierce god who was never mine. But in my wonder-house it is all\nstill and bare; no image lingers on the blank mirrors any more. No\nsinging bell floats in the echoless dome. Forms rise and pass; but\nneither mountain curve nor sand nor sea, nor shivering river, nor the\nfaces of the flowers, nor flowering faces of my god's beloved, touch\naught within me now. Not one poor thrill of vague delight for me, who\nfelt the glory of the stars within my finger tips. It slips past me like\nwater. Brown without and clay within! No wonder now behind the ugly\nwall; an empty temple! I cannot worship, I cannot love, I cannot care.\nAll my life-service is unweighed against that faithless hour of my\nforswearing.\n\nIt is just; it is the Law; I am forsworn, and the gods have given me the\nReward of An Apostate.\n\n\n\n\nAt the End of the Alley\n\n\nIt is a long narrow pocket opening on a little street which runs like a\ntortuous seam up and down the city, over there. It was at the end of the\nsummer; and in summer, in the evening, the mouth of the pocket is hard\nto find, because of the people, in it and about, who sit across the\npassage, gasping at the dirty winds that come loafing down the street\nlike crafty beggars seeking a hole to sleep in--like mean beggars,\nbereft of the spirit of free windhood. Down in the pocket itself the air\nis quite dead; one feels oneself enveloped in a scum-covered pool of it,\nand at every breath long filaments of invisible roots, swamp-roots, tear\nand tangle in your floundering lungs.\n\nI had to go to the very end, to the bottom of the pocket. There, in the\ndeepest of these alley-holes, lives the woman to whom I am indebted for\nthe whiteness of this waist I wear. How she does it, I don't know;\npoverty works miracles like that, just as the black marsh mud gives out\nlilies.\n\nAt the very last door I knocked, and presently a man's voice, weak and\nsuffocated, called from a window above. I explained.--\"There's a chair\nthere; sit down. She'll be home soon.\" And the voice was caught in a\ncough.\n\nThis, then, was the consumptive husband she had told me of! I looked up\nat the square hole dimly outlined in the darkness, whence the cough\nissued, and suddenly felt a horrible pressure at my heart and a curious\nsense of entanglement, as if all the invisible webs of disease had\nmomentarily acquired a conscious sense of prey within their clutch, and\ntightened on it like an octopus. The haunting terror of the unknown, the\ndim horror of an inimic Presence, recoil before the merciless creeping\nand floating of an enemy one cannot grasp or fight, repulsive turning\nfrom a Thing that has reached behind while you have been seeking to face\nit, that is there awaiting you with the frightful ironic laughter of the\nSilence--all this swept round and through me as I stared up through the\nnight.\n\nUp there on the bed he was lying, he who had been meshed in the fatal\nweb for three long years--and was struggling still! In the darkness I\nfelt his breath draw.\n\nThe sharp barking of a dog came as a relief. I turned to the broken\nchair, and sat down to wait. The alley was hemmed in by a high wall, and\nfrom the farther side of it there towered up four magnificent old trees,\nwhose great crowns sent down a whispering legend of vanished forests and\nthe limitless sweep of clean air that had washed through them, long ago,\nand that would never come again. How long, how long since those far days\nof purity, before the plague spot of Man had crept upon them! How strong\nthose proud old giants were that had not yet been strangled! How\nbeautiful they were! How mean and ugly were the misshapen things that\nsat in the doorways of the foul dens that they had made, chattering,\nchattering, as ages ago the apes had chattered in the forest! What\ncurious beasts they were, with their paws and heads sticking out of the\ncoverings they had twisted round their bodies--chattering, chattering\nalways, and always moving about, unable to understand the still strong\ngrowths of silence.\n\nSo a half hour passed.\n\nAt last I saw a parting in the group of bodies across the entrance of\nthe pocket, and a familiar weary figure carrying a basket, coming down\nthe brickway. She stopped half way where a widening of the alley\nfurnished the common drying place, and a number of clothes lines crossed\nand recrossed each other, casting a net of shadows on the pavement;\nafter a glance at the sky, which had clouded over, she sighed heavily\nand again advanced. In the sickly light of the alley lamp the rounded\nshoulders seemed to droop like an old crone's. Yet the woman was still\nyoung. That she might not be startled, I called \"Good evening.\"\n\nThe answer was spoken in that tone of forced cheerfulness which the\nwretched always give to their employers; but she sank upon the step with\nthe habitual \"My, but I'm glad to sit down,\" of one who seldom sits.\n\n\"Tired out, I suppose. The day has been so hot.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I've got to go to work and iron again till eleven o'clock, and\nit's awful hot in that kitchen. I don't mind the washing so much in\nsummer; I wash out here. But it's hot ironing. Are you in a hurry?\"\n\nI said no, and sat on. \"How much rent do you pay?\" I asked.\n\n\"Seven dollars.\"\n\n\"Three rooms?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"One over the other?\"\n\n\"Yes. It's an awful rent, and he won't fix anything. The door is half\noff its hinges, and the paper is a sight.\"\n\n\"Have you lived here long?\"\n\n\"Over three years. We moved here before he got sick.\n\nI don't keep nothing right now, but it used to be nice. It's so quiet\nback here away from the street; you don't hear no noise. That fence\nought to be whitewashed. I used to keep it white, and everything clean.\nAnd it was so nice to sit out here in summer under them trees. You could\njust think you were in the park.\"\n\nA curious wonder went through me. Somewhere back in me a voice was\nsaying, \"To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not, it\nshall be taken away even that which he hath.\" This horrible pool had\nbeen \"nice\" to her! Again I felt the abyss seizing me with its\ntentacles, and high overhead in the tree-crowns I seemed to hear a\nspectral mockery of laughter.\n\n\"Yes,\" I forced myself to say, \"they are splendid trees. I wonder they\nhave lived so long.\"\n\n\"'Tis funny, aint it? That's a great big yard in there; the man that\nused to own it was a gardener, and there's a lot of the curiousest\nflowers there yet. But he's dead now, and the folks that's got it don't\nkeep up nothing. They're waiting to sell it, I suppose.\"\n\nAbove, over our heads, the racking cough sounded again. \"Aint it\nterrible?\" she murmured. \"Day and night, day and night; he don't get no\nrest, and neither do I. It's no wonder some people commits suicide.\"\n\n\"Does he ever speak of it?\" I asked. Her voice dropped to a\nsemi-whisper. \"Not now so much, since the church people's got hold of\nhim. He used to; I think he'd a done it if it hadn't been for them. But\nthey've been kind o' talkin' to him lately, and tellin' him it wouldn't\nbe right,--on account of the insurance, you know.\"\n\nMy heart gave a wild bound of revolt, and I shut my teeth fast. O man,\nman, what have you made of yourself! More stupid than all the beasts of\nthe earth, for a dole of the things you make to be robbed of,\nliving,--to be robbed of and poisoned with--you consent to the death\nthat eats with a million mouths, eats inexorably. You submit to\nunnamable torture in the holy name of--Insurance! And in the name of\nInsurance this miserable woman keeps alive the bones of a man!\n\nI took my bundle and went. And all the way I felt myself tearing through\nthe tendrils of death that hung and swayed from the noisome wall, and\ncaught at things as they passed. And all the way there pressed upon me\npictures of the skeleton and the woman, clothed in firm flesh, young and\njoyous, and thrilling with the love of the well and strong. Ah, if some\none had said to her then, \"Some day you will slave to keep him alive\nthrough fruitless agonies, that for your last reward you may take the\nprice of his pain\"!\n\n\nII.--ALONE\n\nI was wrong. I thought she wanted the insurance money, but I\nmisunderstood her. I found it out one wild October day more than a year\nlater, when for the second time I sought the end of the alley.\n\nThe sufferer had \"suffered out\"; the gaunt and wasted shell of the man\nlay no more by the window in the upper story. The woman was free. \"Rest\nat last,\" I thought, \"for both of them.\"\n\nBut it was not as I thought.\n\nI expected ease to come into the woman's drawn face, and relaxation to\nher stooping figure. But something else came upon both, something quite\nunwonted and inexplicable; a wandering look in the eyes, a stupid drop\nto the mouth, an uncertainty in her walk, as of one who is half minded\nto go back and look for something. There was, too, an irritating\nirregularity in the performance of her work, which began to be annoying.\n\nAt last, on that October day, this new unreliability reached the limit\nof provocation. I was leaving the city; I needed my laundry, needed it\nat once; and here it was four o'clock in the afternoon, the train due at\nnight, and packing impossible till the wash came. It was five days\noverdue.\n\nThe wind was howling furiously, the rain driving in sheets, but there\nwas no alternative; I must get to the \"End of the Alley\" and back,\nsomehow.\n\nThe gray, rain-drenched atmosphere was still grayer in the\nalley,--still, still grayer at the end. And what with the gray of it and\nthe rain of it, I could scarcely see the thing that sat facing me when I\nopened the door,--a sort of human blur, hunched in a rocking-chair, its\nhead sunken on its breast.\n\nIn response to my startled exclamation, the face was lifted vacantly for\na second, and then dropped again. But I had seen: drunk, dead drunk!\n\nAnd this woman had never drunk.\n\nI looked around the wretched room. By the window, where the gray light\ntrailed in, stood a table covered with unwashed dishes; some late flies\nwere crawling in the gutters of slop, besotted derelicts of insects,\nstupidly staggering up and down the cracked china. On the stove stood a\nnumber of flat-irons, but there was no fire. A mass of unironed clothes\nlay on an old couch and over the backs of two unoccupied chairs. On the\nwall above the couch, hung the portrait of the dead man.\n\nI walked to the slumping figure in the rocker, and with ill-contained\nbrutality demanded: \"So this is why you did not bring my clothes! Where\nare they?\"\n\nI heard my own voice cutting like the edge of a knife, and felt\nhalf-ashamed when that weak, shaking thing lifted up its foolish face,\nand stared at me with watery, uncomprehending eyes.\n\n\"My clothes,\" I reiterated; \"are they here or upstairs?\"\n\n\"Guess-s-so,\" stammered the uncertain voice, \"g-guess so.\"\n\n\"Nothing for it but to find them myself,\" I muttered, beginning the\nsearch through the pile on the couch. Nothing of mine there, so I needs\nmust climb to the Golgotha on the second floor, from which the Cross had\ndisappeared, but which still bore traces of its victim's long\ncrucifixion,--a pair of old bed-slippers still by the window, a\nsleeping-cap on the wall. Some cannot but leave so the things that have\ntouched their dead.\n\nOne by one I found the \"rough-dry\" garments, here, there, in the\nhallway, in the garret, hanging or crumpled up among dozens of others.\nAnd all the while I hunted, the rain beat and the wind blew, and a low\nthird sound kept mingling with them, rising from the lower floor. My\nheart smote me when I heard it, for I knew it was the woman sobbing. The\nself-righteous Pharisee within me gave an impatient sneer: \"Alcohol\ntears!\" But something else clutched at my throat, and I found myself\nglancing at the dead man's shoes.\n\nWhen I went downstairs, I avoided the rocking-chair, tied up my bundle,\ncounted out the money, laid it on the table, and then turning round\nsaid, deliberately and harshly: \"There is your money; don't buy whisky\nwith it, Mrs. Bossert.\"\n\nCrying had a little sobered her. She looked up, still with less light in\nher face than in an intelligent dog's, but with some dim\nself-consciousness. It was as a face that had appeared behind deforming\nbubbles of water. She half lifted her hand, let it fall, and stammered,\n\"No, I won't, I won't. It don't do nobody no good.\"\n\nThe senseless desire to preach seized hold of me. \"Mrs. Bossert,\" I\ncried out, \"aren't you ashamed of yourself? A woman like you, who went\nthrough so much, and so long, and so bravely! And now, when you could\nget along all right, to act like this!\"\n\nThe soggy mouth dropped open, the glazy eyes stared at me, fixedly and\nfoolishly, then shifted to the portrait on the wall; and with a mawkish\nsimper, as of some old drab playing sixteen, she slobbered out, nodding\nto the portrait: \"All--for the love--o' him.\"\n\nIt was so utterly ludicrous that I laughed. Then a cold rage took me:\n\"Look here,\" I said (and again I heard my own voice, grim and quiet,\ncutting the air like a whip), \"if you believe, as I have heard you say,\nthat your husband can look down on you from anywhere, remember you\ncouldn't do a thing to hurt him worse than you're doing now. 'Love'\nindeed!\"\n\nThe lash went home. The stricken figure huddled closer; the voice came\nout like a dumb thing's moan: \"Oh--I'm all alone.\"\n\nThen suddenly I understood. I had taken it for mockery, and profanation,\nthat leering look at the shadow on the wall, that driveling stammer,\n\"All--for the love--o' him.\" And it had been a solemn thing! No lover's\nword spoken in the morning of youth with the untried day before it,\nunder the seductive witchery of answering breath and kisses, rushing\nblood and throbbing bodies; but the word of a woman bent with service,\nseamed with labor, haggard with watching; the word of a woman who, at\nthe washtub, had kept her sufferer by the work of her hands, and watched\nhim between the snatches of her sleep. The immemorial passion of a\ncommon heart, that _is_ not much, that _had_ not much, and has lost\nall. Years were in it. For years she had had her burden to carry; and\nshe had carried it to the edge of the grave. There it had fallen from\nher, and her arms were empty. Nothing to do any more. Alone.\n\nShe sat up suddenly with a momentary flare of light in her face.--\"As\nlong as I had him,\" she said, \"I could do. I thought I'd be glad when he\nwas gone, a many and many a time. But I'd rather he was up there yet....\nI did everything. I didn't put him away mean. There was a hundred and\ntwenty-five dollars insurance. I spent it all on him. He was covered\nwith flowers.\"\n\nThe flare died down, and she fell together like a collapsing bag. I saw\nthe gray vacancy moving inward toward the last spark of intelligence in\nher eyes, as an ashing coal whitens inward toward the last dull red\npoint of fire. Then this heap of rags shuddered with an inhuman whine,\n\"A-l-o-n-e.\"\n\nIn the crowding shadows I felt the desolation pressing me like a vise.\nBehind that sunken heap in the chair gathered a midnight specter; for a\nmoment I caught a flash from its royal, malignant eyes, the Monarch of\nhuman ruins, the murderous Bridegroom of widowed souls, King Alcohol.\n\n\"After all, as well that way as another,\" I muttered; and aloud (but the\nwhip-cord had gone out of my voice), \"The money is on the table.\"\n\nShe did not hear me; the Bridegroom \"had given His Beloved Sleep.\"\n\nI went out softly into the wild rain, and overhead, among the lashing\narms of the leafless trees, and around the alley pocket, the wind was\nwhining: \"A-l-o-n-e.\"\n\n\n\n\nTo Strive and Fail\n\n\nThere was a lonely wind crying around the house, and wailing away\nthrough the twilight, like a child that has been refused and gone off\ncrying. Every now and then the trees shivered with it, and dropped a few\nleaves that splashed against the windows like big, soft tears, and then\nfell down on the dark, dying grass, and lay there till the next wind\nrose and whirled them away. Rain was gathering. Close by the gray patch\nof light within the room a white face bent over a small table, and\ndust-dim fingers swept across the strings of a zither. The low, pathetic\nopening chords of Albert's \"Herbst-Klage\" wailed for a moment like the\nwind; then a false note sounded, and the player threw her arms across\nthe table and rested her face upon them. What was the use? She knew how\nit ought to be, but she could never do it,--never make the strings\nstrike true to the song that was sounding within, sounding as the wind\nand the rain and the falling leaves sounded it, as long ago the wizard\nAlbert had heard and conjured it out of the sound-sea, before the little\nblack notes that carried the message over the world were written. The\nweary brain wandered away over the mystery of the notes, and she\nwhispered dully, \"A sign to the eye, and a sound to the ear--and that is\nhis gift to the world--his will--and he is dead, dead, dead;--he was so\ngreat, and they are so silly, those little black foolish dots--and yet\nthey are there--and by them his soul sings--\"\n\nThe numb pain at her heart forced some sharp tears from the closed eyes.\nShe bent and unbent her fingers hopelessly, two or three times, and then\nlet them lie out flat and still. It was not their fault, not the\nfingers' fault; they could learn to do it, if they only had the chance;\nbut they could never, never have the chance. They must always do\nsomething else, always a hundred other things first, always save and\nspare and patch and contrive; there was never time to do the thing she\nlonged for most. Only the odd moments, the unexpected freedoms, the\nstolen half-hours, in which to live one's highest dream, only the\ncastaway time for one's soul! And every year the fleeting glory waned,\nwavered, sunk away more and more sorrowfully into the gray, soundless\nshadows of an unlived life. Once she had heard it so clearly,--long ago,\non the far-off sun-spaced, wind-singing fields of home,--the wild sweet\nchoruses, the songs no man had ever sung. Still she heard them sometimes\nin the twilight, in the night, when she sat alone and work was over;\nhigh and thin and fading, only sound-ghosts, but still with the\nincomparable glory of a first revelation, a song no one else has ever\nheard, a marvel to be seized and bodied; only,--they faded away into the\nnodding sleep that would conquer, and in the light and rush of day were\nmournfully silent. And she never captured them, never would; life was\nhalf over now.\n\nWith the thought she started up, struck the chords again, a world of\nplaint throbbing through the strings; surely the wizard himself would\nhave been satisfied. But ah, once more the fatal uncertainty of the\nfingers.... She bit the left hand savagely, then touched it, softly and\nremorsefully, with the other, murmuring: \"Poor fingers! Not your\nfault.\" At last she rose and stood at the window, looking out into the\nnight, and thinking of the ruined gift, the noblest gift, that had been\nhers and would die dumb; thinking of the messages that had come to her\nup out of the silent dark and sunk back into it, unsounded; of the\nvoices she would have given to the messages of the masters, and never\nwould give now; and with a bitter compression of the lips she said:\n\"Well, I was born to strive and fail.\"\n\nAnd suddenly a rush of feeling swept her own life out of sight, and away\nout in the deepening night she saw the face of an old, sharp-chinned,\nwhite-haired, dead man; he had been her father once, strong and young,\nwith chestnut hair and gleaming eyes, and with his own dream of what he\nhad to do in life. Perhaps he, too, had heard sounds singing in the air,\na new message waiting for deliverance. It was all over now; he had grown\nold and thin-faced and white, and had never done anything in the world;\nat least nothing for himself, his very own; he had sewn\nclothes,--thousands, millions of stitches in his work-weary life--no\ndoubt there were still in existence scraps and fragments of his\nwork,--in same old ragbag perhaps--beautiful, fine stitches, into which\nthe keen eyesight and the deft hand had passed, still showing the\nartist-craftsman. But _that_ was not his work; that was the service\nsociety had asked of him and he had rendered; himself, his own soul,\nthat wherein he was different from other men, the unbought thing that\nthe soul does for its own outpouring,--that was nowhere. And over there,\namong the low mounds of the soldiers' graves, his bed was made, and he\nwas lying in it, straight and still, with the rain crying softly above\nhim. He had been so full of the lust of life, so alert, so active! and\nnothing of it all!--\"Poor father, you failed too,\" she muttered softly.\n\nAnd then behind the wraith of the dead man there rose an older picture,\na face she had never seen, dead fifty years before; but it shone through\nthe other face, and outshone it, luminous with great suffering, much\novercoming, and complete and final failure. It was the face of a woman\nnot yet middle-aged, smitten with death, with the horror of utter\nstrangeness in the dying eyes; the face of a woman lost in a strange\ncity of a strange land, and with her little crying, helpless children\nabout her, facing the inexorable agony there on the pavement, where she\nwas sinking down, and only foreign words falling in the dying\nears!--She, too, had striven; how she had striven! Against the abyss of\npoverty there in the old world; against the load laid on her by Nature,\nLaw, Society, the triune God of Terror; against the inertia of another\nwill. She had bought coppers with blood, and spared and saved and\nendured and waited; she had bent the gods to her will; she had sent her\nhusband to America, the land of freedom and promise; she had followed\nhim at last, over the great blue bitter water with its lapping mouths\nthat had devoured one of her little ones upon the way; she had been\ndriven like a cow in the shambles at the landing stage; she had been\nrobbed of all but her ticket, and with her little children had hungered\nfor three days on the overland journey; she had lived it through, and\nset foot in the promised land; but somehow the waiting face was not\nthere, had missed her or she, him,--and lost and alone with Death and\nthe starving babes, she sank at the foot of the soldiers' monument, and\nthe black mist came down on the courageous eyes, and the light was\nflickering out forever. With a bitter cry the living figure in the room\nstretched its hands toward the vision in the night. There was nothing\nthere, she knew it; nothing in the heavens above nor the earth beneath\nto hear the cry,--not so much as a crumbling bone any more,--but she\ncalled brokenly, \"Oh, why must she die so, with nothing, nothing, not\none little reward after all that struggle? To fall on the pavement and\ndie in the hospital at last!\"\n\nAnd shuddering, with covered eyes and heavy breath, she added wearily,\n\"No wonder that I fail; I come of those who failed; my father, his\nmother,--and before her?\"\n\nBehind the fading picture, stretched dim, long shadows of silent\ngenerations, with rounded shoulders and bent backs and sullen, conquered\nfaces. And they had all, most likely, dreamed of some wonderful thing\nthey had to do in the world, and all had died and left it undone. And\ntheir work had been washed away, as if writ in water, and no one knew\ntheir dreams. And of the fruit of their toil other men had eaten, for\nthat was the will of the triune god; but of themselves was left no\ntrace, no sound, no word, in the world's glory; no carving upon stone,\nno indomitable ghost shining from a written sign, no song singing out of\nblack foolish spots on paper,--nothing. They were as though they had not\nbeen. And as they all had died, she too would die, slave of the triple\nTerror, sacrificing the highest to the meanest, that somewhere in some\nlighted ball-room or gas-bright theater, some piece of vacant flesh\nmight wear one more jewel in her painted hair.\n\n\"My soul,\" she said bitterly, \"my soul for their diamonds!\" It was time\nto sleep, for to-morrow--WORK.\n\n\n\n\nThe Sorrows of the Body\n\n\nI have never wanted anything more than the wild creatures have,--a broad\nwaft of clean air, a day to lie on the grass at times, with nothing to\ndo but slip the blades through my fingers, and look as long as I pleased\nat the whole blue arch, and the screens of green and white between;\nleave for a month to float and float along the salt crests and among the\nfoam, or roll with my naked skin over a clean long stretch of sunshiny\nsand; food that I liked, straight from the cool ground, and time to\ntaste its sweetness, and time to rest after tasting; sleep when it came,\nand stillness, that the sleep might leave me when it would, not\nsooner--Air, room, light rest, nakedness when I would not be clothed,\nand when I would be clothed, garments that did not fetter; freedom to\ntouch my mother earth, to be with her in storm and shine, as the wild\nthings are,--this is what I wanted,--this, and free contact with my\nfellows;--not to love, and lie and be ashamed, but to love and say I\nlove, and be glad of it; to feel the currents of ten thousand years of\npassion flooding me, body to body, as the wild things meet. I have asked\nno more.\n\nBut I have not received. Over me there sits that pitiless tyrant, the\nSoul; and I am nothing. It has driven me to the city, where the air is\nfever and fire, and said, \"Breathe this;--I would learn; I cannot learn\nin the empty fields; temples are here,--stay.\" And when my poor,\nstifled lungs have panted till it seemed my chest must burst, the Soul\nhas said, \"I will allow you, then, an hour or two; we will ride, and I\nwill take my book and read meanwhile.\"\n\nAnd when my eyes have cried out with tears of pain for the brief vision\nof freedom drifting by, only for leave to look at the great green and\nblue an hour, after the long, dull-red horror of walls, the Soul has\nsaid, \"I cannot waste the time altogether; I must know! Read.\" And when\nmy ears have plead for the singing of the crickets and the music of the\nnight, the Soul has answered, \"No: gongs and whistles and shrieks are\nunpleasant if you listen; but school yourself to hearken to the\nspiritual voice, and it will not matter.\"\n\nWhen I have beat against my narrow confines of brick and mortar, brick\nand mortar, the Soul has said, \"Miserable slave! Why are you not as I,\nwho in one moment fly to the utterest universe? It matters not where you\nare, _I_ am free.\"\n\nWhen I would have slept, so that the lids fell heavily and I could not\nlift them, the Soul has struck me with a lash, crying, \"Awake! Drink\nsome stimulant for those shrinking nerves of yours! There is no time to\nsleep till the work is done.\" And the cursed poison worked upon me, till\n_Its_ will was done.\n\nWhen I would have dallied over my food, the Soul has ordered, \"Hurry,\nhurry! Do I have time to waste on this disgusting scene? Fill yourself\nand be gone!\"\n\nWhen I have envied the very dog, rubbing its bare back along the ground\nin the sunlight, the Soul has exclaimed, \"Would you degrade me so far as\nto put yourself on a level with beasts?\" And my bands were drawn\ntighter.\n\nWhen I have looked upon my kind, and longed to embrace them, hungered\nwildly for the press of arms and lips, the Soul has commanded sternly,\n\"Cease, vile creature of fleshly lusts! Eternal reproach! Will you\nforever shame me with your beastliness?\"\n\nAnd I have always yielded: mute, joyless, fettered, I have trod the\nworld of the Soul's choosing, and served and been unrewarded. Now I am\nbroken before my time; bloodless, sleepless, breathless,--half-blind,\nracked at every joint, trembling with every leaf. \"Perhaps I have been\ntoo hard,\" said the Soul; \"you shall have a rest.\" The boon has come too\nlate. The roses are beneath my feet now, but the perfume does not reach\nme; the willows trail across my cheek and the great arch is overhead,\nbut my eyes are too weary to lift to it; the wind is upon my face, but I\ncannot bare my throat to its caress; vaguely I hear the singing of the\nNight through the long watches when sleep does not come, but the\nanswering vibration thrills no more. Hands touch mine--I longed for them\nso once--but I am as a corpse. I remember that I wanted all these\nthings, but now the power to want is crushed from me, and only the\nmemory of my denial throbs on, with its never-dying pain. And still I\nthink, if I were left alone long enough--but already I hear the Tyrant\nup there plotting to slay me.--\"Yes,\" it keeps saying, \"it is about\ntime! I will not be chained to a rotting carcass. If my days are to pass\nin perpetual idleness I may as well be annihilated. I will make the\nwretch do me one more service.--You have clamored to be naked in the\nwater. Go now, and lie in it forever.\"\n\nYes: that is what It is saying, and I--the sea stretches down there----\n\n\n\n\nThe Triumph of Youth\n\n\nThe afternoon blazed and glittered along the motionless tree-tops and\ndown into the yellow dust of the road. Under the shadows of the trees,\namong the powdered grass and bushes, sat a woman and a man. The man was\nyoung and handsome in a way, with a lean eager face and burning eyes, a\nforehead in the old poetic mould crowned by loose dark waves of hair;\nhis chin was long, his lips parted devouringly and his glances seemed to\neat his companion's face. It was not a pretty face, not even ordinarily\ngood looking,--sallow, not young, only youngish; but there was a\npeculiar mobility about it, that made one notice it. She waved her hand\nslowly from East to West, indicating the horizon, and said dreamingly:\n\"How wide it is, how far it is! One can get one's breath. In the city I\nalways feel that the walls are squeezing my chest.\" After a little\nsilence she asked without looking at him: \"What are you thinking of,\nBernard?\"\n\n\"You,\" he murmured.\n\nShe glanced at him under her lids musingly, stretched out her hand and\ntouched his eyelids with her finger-tips, and turned aside with a\ncurious fleeting smile. He caught at her hand, but failing to touch it\nas she drew it away, bit his lip and forcedly looked off at the sky and\nthe landscape: \"Yes,\" he said in a strained voice, \"it is beautiful,\nafter the city. I wish we could stay in it.\"\n\nThe woman sighed: \"That's what I have been wishing for the last fifteen\nyears.\"\n\nHe bent towards her eagerly: \"Do you think--\" he stopped and stammered,\n\"You know we have been planning, a few of us, to club together and get a\nlittle farm somewhere near--would you--do you think--would you be one of\nus?\"\n\nShe laughed, a little low, sad laugh: \"I wouldn't be any good, you know.\nI couldn't do the work that ought to be done. I would come fast enough\nand I would try. But I'm a little too old, Bernard. The rest are young\nenough to make mistakes and live to make them good; but when I would\nhave my lesson learned, my strength would be gone. It's half gone now.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't,\" burst out the youth. \"You're worth half a dozen of those\nyoung ones. Old, old--one would think you were seventy. And you're not\nold; you will never be old.\"\n\nShe looked up where a crow was wheeling in the air. \"If,\" she said\nslowly, following its motions with her eyes, \"you once plant your feet\non my face, and you will, you impish bird--my Bernard will sing a\ndifferent song.\"\n\n\"No, Bernard won't,\" retorted the youth. \"Bernard knows his own mind,\neven if he is 'only a boy.' I don't love you for your face, you--\"\n\nShe interrupted him with a shrug and a bitter sneer. \"Evidently! Who\nwould?\"\n\nA look of mingled pain and annoyance overspread his features. \"How you\ntwist my words. You are beautiful to me; and you know what I meant.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she said, throwing herself backward against a tree-trunk and\nstretching out her feet on the grass, ripples of amusement wavering\nthrough the cloudy expression, \"tell me what do you love in me.\"\n\nHe was silent, biting his lower lip.\n\n\"I'll tell you then,\" she said. \"It's my energy, the life in me. That is\nyouth, and my youth has overlived its time. I've had a long lease, but\nit's going to expire soon. So long as you don't see it, so long as my\nlife seems fuller than yours--well--; but when the failure of life\nbecomes visible, while your own is still in its growth, you will turn\naway. When my feet won't spring any more, yours will still be dancing.\nAnd you will want dancing feet with you.\"\n\n\"I will not,\" he answered shortly. \"I've seen plenty of other women; I\nsaw all the crowd coming up this morning and there wasn't a woman there\nto compare with you. I don't say I'll never love others, but now I\ndon't; if I see another woman like you--But I never could love one of\nthose young girls.\"\n\n\"Sh--sh,\" she said glancing down the road where a whirl of dust was\nmaking towards them, in the center of which moved a band of bright young\nfigures, \"there they come now. Don't they look beautiful?\" There were\nfour young girls in front, their faces radiant with sun and air, and\ndaisy wreaths in their gleaming hair; they had their arms around each\nother's waists and sang as they walked, with neither more accord nor\ndiscord than the birds about them. The voices were delicious in their\nyouth and joy; one heard that they were singing not to produce a musical\neffect, but from the mere wish to sing. Behind them came a troop of\nyoung fellows, coats off, heads bare, racing all over the roadside,\njostling each other and purposely provoking scrambles. The tallest one\nhad a nimbus of bright curls crowning a glowing face, dimpled and\nsparkling as a child's. The girls glanced shyly at him under their\nlashes as he danced about now in front and now behind them, occasionally\ntossing them a flower, but mostly hustling his comrades about. Behind\nthese came older people with three or four very little children riding\non their backs.\n\nAs the group came abreast of our couple they stopped to exchange a few\nwords, then went on. When they had passed out of hearing the woman sat\nwith a sphinx-like stare in her eyes, looking steadily at the spot where\nthe bright head had nodded to her as it passed.\n\n\"Like a wildflower on a stalk,\" she murmured softly, narrowing her eyes\nas if to fix the vision, \"like a tall tiger-lily.\"\n\nHer companion's face darkened perceptibly. \"What do you mean? What do\nyou see?\" he asked.\n\n\"The vision of Youth and Beauty,\" she answered in the tone of a\nsleep-walker, \"and the glory and triumph of it,--the immortality of\nit--its splendid indifference to its ruined temples, and all its humble\nworshipers. Do you know,\" turning suddenly to him with a sharp change in\nface and voice, \"what I would be wicked enough to do, if I could?\"\n\nHe smiled tolerantly: \"You, wicked? Dear one, you couldn't be wicked.\"\n\n\"Oh, but I could! If there were any way to fix Davy's head forever, just\nas he passed us now,--forever, so that all the world might keep it and\nsee it for all time, I would cut it off with this hand! Yes, I would.\"\nHer eyes glittered mercilessly.\n\nHe shook his head smiling: \"You wouldn't kill a bug, let alone Davy.\"\n\n\"I tell you I would. Do you remember when Nathaniel died? I felt bad\nenough, but do you know the week before when he was so very sick, I\nwent out one day to a beautiful glen we used to visit together. They had\nbeen improving it! they had improved it so much that the water is all\ndying out of the creek; the little boats that used to float like pond\nlilies lie all helpless in the mud, and hardly a ribbon of water goes\nover the fall, and the old giant trees are withering. Oh, it hurt me so\nto think the glory of a thousand years was vanishing before my eyes and\nI couldn't hold it. And suddenly the question came into my head: 'If you\nhad the power would you save Nathaniel's life or bring back the water to\nthe glen?' And I didn't hesitate a minute. I said, 'Let Nathaniel die\nand all my best loved ones and I myself, but bring back the glory of the\nglen!\"\n\n\"When I think,\" she went on turning away and becoming dreamy again, \"of\nall the beauty that is gone that I can never see, that is lost\nforever--the beauty that had to alter and die,--it stifles me with the\npain of it. Why must it all die?\"\n\nHe looked at her wonderingly. \"It seems to me,\" he said slowly, \"that\nbeauty worship is almost a disease with you. I wouldn't like to care so\nmuch for mere outsides.\"\n\n\"We never long for the thing we are rich in,\" she answered in a dry,\nchanged voice. Nevertheless his face lighted, it was pleasant to be rich\nin the thing she worshiped. He had gradually drawn near her feet and now\nsuddenly bent forward and kissed them passionately. \"Don't,\" she cried\nsharply, \"it's too much like self-abasement. And besides--\"\n\nHis face was white and quivering, his voice choked. \"Well--what\nbesides--\"\n\n\"The time will come when you will wish you had reserved that kiss for\nsome other foot. Some one to whom it will all be new, who will shudder\nwith the joy of it, who will meet you half way, who will believe all\nthat you say, and say like things in fullness of heart. And I perhaps\nwill see you, and know that in your heart you are sorry you gave\nsomething to me that you would have ungiven if you could.\"\n\nHe buried his face in his hands. \"You do not love me at all,\" he said.\n\"You do not believe me.\"\n\nA curious softness came into the answer: \"Oh, yes, dear, I believe you.\nYears ago I believed myself when I said the same sort of thing. But I\ntold you I am getting old. I can not unmake what the years have made,\nnor bring back what they have stolen. I love you _for your face_\", the\nwords had a sting in them, \"and for your soul too. And I am glad to be\nloved by you. But, do you know what I am thinking?\"\n\nHe did not answer.\n\n\"I am thinking that as I sit here, beloved by you and others who are\nyoung and beautiful--it is no lie--in a--well, in a triumph I have not\nsought, but which I am human enough to be glad of, envied no doubt by\nthose young girls,--I am thinking how the remorseless feet of Youth will\ntramp on me soon, and carry you away. And\"--very slowly--\"in my day of\npain, you will not be near, nor the others. I shall be alone; age and\npain are unlovely.\"\n\n\"You won't let me come near you,\" he said wildly. \"I would do anything\nfor you. I always want to do things for you to spare you, and you never\nlet me. When you are in pain you will push me away.\"\n\nA fairly exultant glitter flashed in her face. \"Yes,\" she said, \"I know\nmy secret. That is how I have stayed young so long. See,\" she said,\nstretching out her arms, \"other women at my age are past the love of\nmen. Their affections have gone to children. And I have broken the law\nof nature and prolonged the love of youth because--I have been strong\nand stood alone. But there is an end. Things change, seasons change,\nyou, I, all change; what's the use of saying 'Never--forever,\nforever--never,' like the old clock on the stairs? It's a big lie.\"\n\n\"I won't talk any more,\" he said, \"but when the time comes you will\nsee.\"\n\nShe nodded: \"Yes, I will see.\"\n\n\"Do you think all people alike?\"\n\n\"As like as ants. People are vessels which life fills and breaks, as it\ndoes trees and bees and other sorts of vessels. They play when they are\nlittle, and then they love and then they have children and then they\ndie. Ants do the same.\"\n\n\"To be sure. But I don't deceive myself as to the scope of it.\"\n\nThe crowd were returning now, and by tacit consent they arose and joined\nthe group. Down the road they jumped a fence into a field and had to\ncross a little stream. \"Where is our bridge?\" called the boys. \"We made\na bridge. Some one has stolen our bridge.\"\n\n\"Oh, come on,\" cried Davy, \"let's jump it.\" Three ran and sprang; they\nlanded laughing and taunting the rest. Bernard sought out his beloved.\n\"Shall I help you over?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" she said shortly, \"help the girls,\" and brushing past him she\njumped, falling a little short and muddying a foot, but scrambling up\nunaided. The rest debated seeking an advantageous point. At last they\nfound a big stone in the middle, and pulling off his shoes, Bernard\nwaded in the creek, helping the girls across. The smallest one,\nlarge-eyed and timid, clung to his arm and let him almost carry her\nover.\n\n\"He does it real natural,\" observed Davy, who was whisking about in the\ndaisy field like some flashing butterfly.\n\nThey gathered daisies and laughed and sang and chattered till the sun\nwent low. Then they gathered under a big tree and spread their lunch on\nthe ground. And after they had eaten, the conversation lay between the\nsallow-faced woman and one of the older men, a clever conversation\nfilled with quaint observations and curious sidelights. The boys sat all\nabout the woman questioning her eagerly, but behind in the shadow of the\ndrooping branches sat the girls, silent, unobtrusive, holding each\nother's hands. Now and then the talker cast a furtive glance from\nBernard's rather withdrawn face to the faces in the shadow, and the\nenigmatic smile hovered and flitted over her lips.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThree years later on the anniversary of that summer day the woman sat at\nan upstairs window in the house on the little farm that was a reality\nnow, the little co-operative farm where ten free men and women labored\nand loved. She had come with the others and done her best, but the cost\nof it, hard labor and merciless pain, was stamped on the face that\nlooked from the window. She was watching Bernard's figure as it came\nswinging through the orchard. Presently he came in and up the stairs.\nHis feet went past her door, then turned back irresolutely, and a low\nknock followed. Her eyebrows bent together almost sternly as she\nanswered, \"Come in.\"\n\nHe entered with a smile: \"Can I do anything for you this morning?\"\n\n\"No,\" she said quietly, \"you know I like my own cranky ways. I--I'd\nrather do things myself.\" He nodded: \"I know. I always get the same\nanswer. Shall you go to the picnic? You surely will keep our\nfoundation-day picnic?\"\n\n\"Perhaps--later. And perhaps not.\" There was a curious tone of\nrepression in the words.\n\n\"Well,\" he answered good-naturedly, \"if you won't let me do anything for\nyou, I'll have to find some one who will. Is Bella ready to go?\"\n\n\"This half hour. Bella. Here is Bernard.\" And Bella came in. Bella, the\ntimid girl with the brilliant complexion and gazelle soft eyes, Bella\nradiant in her youth and feminine daintiness, more lovely than she had\nbeen three years before.\n\nShe gave Bernard a lunch basket to carry and a shawl and a workbag and a\nsun umbrella, and when they went out she clung to his arm besides. She\nstopped near one of their own rose bushes and told him to choose a bud\nfor her, and she put it coquettishly in her dark hair. The woman watched\nthem till they disappeared down the lane; he had never once looked back.\nThen her mouth settled in a quiet sneer and she murmured: \"How long is\n'forever'? Three years.\" After a while she rose and crossed to an old\nmirror that hung on the opposite wall. Staring at the reflection it gave\nback, she whispered drearily: \"You are ugly, you are eaten with pain! Do\nyou still expect the due of youth and beauty? Did you not know it all\nlong ago?\" Then something flashed in the image, something as if the\nfeatures had caught fire and burned. \"I will not,\" she said hoarsely,\nher fingers clenching. \"I will not surrender. Was it he I loved? It was\nhis youth, his beauty, his life. And younger youth shall love me still,\nstronger life. I will not, I will not die alive.\" She turned away and\nran down into the yard and out into the fields. She would not go on the\ncommon highway where all went, she would find a hard way through woods\nand over hills, and she would come there before them and sit and wait\nfor them where the ways met. Bareheaded, ill-dressed and careless she\nran along, finding a fierce pleasure in trampling and breaking the brush\nthat impeded her. There was the road at last, and right ahead of her an\nold, old man hobbling along with bent back and eyes upon the ground.\nJust before him was a bad hole in the road; he stopped, irresolute, and\nlooked around like a crippled insect stretching its antenna to find a\nway for its mangled feet. She called cheerily, \"Let me help you.\" He\nlooked up with dim blue eyes helplessly seeking. She led him slowly\naround the dangerous place, and then they sat down together on the\nlittle covered wooden bridge beyond.\n\n\"Ah!\" murmured the old man, shaking his head, \"it is good to be young.\"\nAnd there was the ghost of admiration in his watery eyes, as he looked\nat her tall straight figure.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered sadly, looking away down the road where she saw\nBella's white dress fluttering, \"it is good to be young.\"\n\nThe lovers passed without noticing them, absorbed in each other.\nPresently the old man hobbled away. \"It will come to that too,\" she\nmuttered looking after him. \"The husks of life!\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Old Shoemaker\n\n\nHe had lived a long time there, in the house at the end of the alley,\nand no one had ever known that he was a great man. He was lean and\npalsied and had a crooked back; his beard was grey and ragged and his\neyebrows came too far forward; there were seams and flaps in the empty,\nyellow old skin, and he gasped horribly when he breathed, taking hold of\nthe lintel of the door to steady himself when he stepped out on the\nbroken bricks of the alley. He lived with a frightful old woman who\nscrubbed the floors of the rag-shop, and drank beer, and growled at the\nchildren who poked fun at her. He had lived with her eighteen years, she\nsaid, stroking the furry little kitten that curled up in her neck as if\nshe had been beautiful.\n\nEighteen years they had been drinking and quarreling together--and\nsuffering. She had seen the flesh sucking away from the bones, and the\nskin falling in upon them, and the long, lean fingers growing more lean\nand trembling, as they crooked round his shoemaking tools.\n\nIt was very strange she had not grown thin; the beer had bloated her,\nand rolls of weak, shaking flesh lapped over the ridges of her uncouth\nfigure. Her pale, lack-lustre blue eyes wandered aimlessly about as she\ntalked: No--he had never told her, not even in their quarrels, not even\nwhen they were drunken together, of the great Visitor who had come up\nthe little alley, yesterday, walking so stately over the sun-beaten\nbricks, taking no note of the others, and coming in at the door without\nasking. She had not expected such an one; how could she? But the Old\nShoemaker had shown no surprise at the Mighty One. He smiled and set\ndown the teacup he was holding, and entered into communion with the\nStranger. He noticed no others, but continued to smile; and the infinite\ndignity of the Unknown fell upon him, and covered the wasted old limbs\nand the hard, wizened face, so that all we who entered, bowed, and went\nout, and did not speak.\n\nBut we understood, for the Mighty One gave understanding without words.\nWe had been in the presence of Freedom! We had stood at the foot of\nTabor, and seen this worn, old, world-soiled soul lose all its dross and\ncommonplace, and pass upward smiling, to the Transfiguration. In the\nhands of the Mighty One the crust had crumbled, and dropped away in\nimpalpable powder. Souls should be mixed of it no more. Only that which\npassed upward, the fine white playing flame, the heart of the long,\nlife-long watches of patience, should rekindle there in the perennial\nascension of the great Soul of Man.\n\n\n\n\nWhere the White Rose Died\n\n\nIt was late at night, a raw, rough-shouldering night, that shoved men in\ncorners as having no business in the street, and the few people in the\nnorthbound car drew themselves into themselves, radiating hedgehog\nquills of feeling at their neighbors. Presently there came in a curious\nfigure, clothed in the drapery of its country's honor, the blue flannel\nflapping very much about its legs. I looked at its feet first, because\nthey were so very small and girlish, and because the owner of them\nadjusted the flapping pants with the coquetry of a maiden switching her\nskirts. Then I glanced at the hands: they also were small and womanish,\nand constantly in motion. At last, the face, expecting a fresh young\nboy's, not long away from some country village. It was the sunk, seamed\nface of a man of forty-five, seared, and with iron-gray eyebrows, but\nlit by twinkling young eyes, that gleamed at everything good-humoredly.\nThe sailor's pancake with its official lettering was pushed rakishly\ndown and forward, and looking at hat and wearer, one instinctively\nturned milliner and decorated the \"shape\" with aigrette and bows,--they\nwould nod so accordant with the flirting head. Presently the restless\nhands went up and gave the hat another tilt, went down and straightened\nthe \"divided skirt,\" folded themselves an instant while the little feet\nbegan tattooing the car floor, and the scintillant eyes looked general\ninvitation all round the car. No perceptible shrinkage of quills,\nhowever, so the eyes wandered over to their image in the plate glass,\nand directly the hat got another coquettish dip, and the skirts another\nflirt and settle.\n\nThe conductor came in: some one to talk to at last! \"Will you let me off\nat Ninth and Race?\"\n\nThe dim chill of a smile shivered over the other faces in the car. Ninth\nand Race! Who ever heard a defender of his country's glory ask a\nconductor on a street car in Philadelphia for any other point than Ninth\nand Race!\n\nThe conductor nodded appreciatively. \"Just come to the city, I suppose,\"\nhe said interlocutively.\n\nThe sailor plucked off his hat, exhibiting his label with child-like\nvanity: \"S. S. Alabama. Here for three days just. Been over in New\nYork.\"\n\n\"Like it?\" remarked the conductor, prolonging his stay inside the car.\n\nThe hat went on again, proudly. \"Sixteen years in the service. Yes, sir.\n_Six_-teen years. The service is all right. The service is good enough\nfor me. Live there. Expect to die there. Sixteen years. You won't forget\nto let me off at Ninth and Race.\"\n\n\"No. Going to see Chinatown?\"\n\n\"Sure. Chinatown's all right. Seen it in Hong Kong. Want to see it in\nPhiladelphia.\"\n\nO cradle of my country's freedom! These are your defenders,--these to\nwhom your chief delight is your stews and your brothels, your fantans\nand your opium dens, your sinks of filth and your cesspools of slime!\nLet them only be as they were \"at Hong Kong\"--or worse--and \"the\nservice\" asks no more. He will live in it and die in it, and it's good\nenough for him. Oh, not your old-time patriotic legends, nor the halls\nof the great Rebel Birth, nor the solemn, silent Bell that once\nproclaimed liberty throughout the land, nor the piteous relics of your\ndead wise men, nor any dream of your bright, pure young days when yet\nyou were \"a fair greene country towne,\" swims up in the vision of \"the\nservice\" when he sets his foot within your borders, filling him with\ndevotion to Our Lady Liberty, and drawing him to New World pilgrim\nshrines. Not these, oh no, not these. But your leper spot, your Old\nWorld plague-house, your breeding-ground of pest-begotten human vermin!\nSo there is Chinatown, and electric glare enough upon it, and rat-holes\nenough within it, \"the service\" is good enough for him,--he will shoot\nto order in your defense till he dies!\n\nRat-tat-tat went the little feet upon the floor, and the pancake got\nanother rakish pull. Presently the active figure squared sharply about\nand faced the door. The car had stopped, and a drunken man was\nstaggering in. The sailor caught him good-humoredly in his arms, swung\nhim about, and seated him beside himself with a comforting \"Now you're\nall right, sir; sit right here, my friend.\"\n\nThe drunkard had a sodden, stupid face and bleary eyes from which the\nalcohol was oozing. In his shaking hand he held a bunch of delicate\nhalf-opened roses, hothouse roses, cream and pink; the odor of them\ndrifted faintly through the car like a whiff of summer. Something like a\nsigh of relaxation exhaled from the hedge-hogs, and a dozen\ncommiserating eyes were fastened on the ill-fated flowers,--so fragile,\nso sweet, so inoffensive, so wantonly sacrificed. The hot, unsteady,\nclutching hand had already burned the stems, and the pale, helpless\nfaces of the roses drooped heavily.\n\nThe drunkard, full of beery effervescence, cast a bubbling look over the\ncar, and spying a young lady opposite, suddenly stood up and offered\nthe bouquet to her. She stared resolutely through him, seeing and\nhearing nothing, not even the piteous child-blossoms, with their\npleading, downbent heads, and with a confused muttering of \"No offense,\nno offense, you know,\" the man sank back again. As he did so the\nuncertain fingers released one stem, and a cream-white bloom went\nfluttering down, like a butterfly with broken wings. There it lay,\njolting back and forth on the dirty floor, and no one dared to pick it\nup.\n\nPresently the drunkard sopped over comfortably on the sailor's shoulder,\nwho, with a generally directed wink of bonhomie, settled him easily,\nbestowing a sympathetic pat upon the bloated cheek. The conductor\ndisturbed the situation by asking for his fare. The drunkard stupidly\nrubbed his eyes and offered his flowers in place of the nickel. Again\nthey were refused; and after a fluctuant search in his pockets between\nintervals of nodding, the dirty, over-fingered bit of metal was\nproduced, accepted--and still the dying blossoms shivered in the\ntorturer's hands.\n\nHe was drowsing off again, when, by some sudden turn of the obstructed\nmachinery in his skull, his lids opened and he struggled up; the image\nof myself must have swum suddenly across the momentarily acting\neye-nerve, and with gurgling deference, at the immanent risk of losing\nhis equilibrium once more, he proffered the bouquet to me, grabbing the\nheads and presenting them stem-end towards. A smothered snuffle went\nround the car.\n\nI wanted them, Oh, how I wanted them! My heart beat suffocatingly with\nthe sense of baffled pity and rage and cowardice. Who was he, that\ndrunken sot, with his smirching, wabbling hand, that I should fear to\ntake the roses from him? Why must I grind my teeth and sit there\nhelpless, while those beautiful things were crushed and blasted and torn\nin living fragments? I could take them home, I could give them drink,\nthey would lift up their heads, they would open wide, for days they\nwould make the room sweet, and the pale, soft glory of their inimitable\npetals would shine like a luminous promise across the winter. Nobody\nwanted them, nobody cared; this sodden beast in the flare-up of his\nconsciousness wished to be quit of them. _Why_ might I not take them?\nSomething sharp bit and burned my eyelids as I glanced at the one on the\nfloor. The conductor had stepped on it and crushed it open; and there\nlay the marvelous creamy leaves, curled at their edges like kiss-seeking\nlips, each with its glory greater than Solomon's, all fouled and ruined\nin the human reek.\n\nAnd I dared not save the others! Miserable coward!\n\nI forced my hands tighter in my pockets and turned my head away towards\nthe outside night and the backward slipping street. Between me and it, a\ndim reflection wavered, the image of the thing that stood there before\nme; and somewhere, like a far-off, dulled bell, I heard the words, \"And\nGod created man in his own image, in the image of God created He him.\"\nThe sailor, no doubt with the kindly intention of relieving me from\nannoyance, and not averse to play with anything, made pretence of\nseizing the roses. Then the drunkard, in an abandon of generosity, began\ntearing off the blossoms by the heads, scrutinizing, and casting each\naway as unfit for the exalted service of his \"friend,\" till the latter\nreaching out managed to get hold of a white one with a stem. He trimmed\nits sheltering green carefully, brought out a long black pin, stuck it\nthrough the stalk, and fastened the pale shining head against his dark\nblue blouse. All hedgehoggery smiled. We had thrust the roses through\nwith our forbidding quills,--what matter that a barbarian nail\ncrucified this last one? The drunkard slept again, limply holding his\nscattering bunch of headless stems and torn foliage. Pink and cream the\npetals strewed the floor. Where was the loving hand that had nursed them\nto bloom in this hard, unwonted weather; loved and nursed and--_sold_\nthem?\n\n\"Ninth and Race,\" sang out the conductor. The sailor sprang up with a\nmerry grin, bowed gaily to everyone, twinkled his fingers in the air\nwith a blithe \"Ta ta; I'm off for Chinatown,\" as he slid through the\ndoor, and was away in a trice, tripping down to the pestiferous sink\nthat was awaiting him somewhere. And on his breast he wore the pallid\nflower that had offered its stainless beauty to me, that I had\nloved,--and had not loved enough to save. The rest were dead; but that\none--somewhere down there in a den where even the gas-choked lights were\nleering like prostitutes' eyes, down there in that trough of swill and\nswine, that pure, still thing had yet to die.\n\n\n\n\n _An Important Human Document_\n\n PRISON MEMOIRS\n OF\n AN ANARCHIST\n\n By\n ALEXANDER BERKMAN\n\n\nAn earnest portrayal of the revolutionary psychology of the author, as\nmanifested by his _Attentat_ during the great labor struggle of\nHomestead, in 1892.\n\nThe whole truth about prisons has never before been told as this book\ntells it. The MEMOIRS deal frankly and intimately with prison life in\nits various phases.\n\n $1.25, BY MAIL $1.40\n\n MOTHER EARTH PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION\n 74 WEST 119TH STREET\n NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n ANARCHISM\n _=And Other Essays=_\n\n By EMMA GOLDMAN\n\n\nIncluding a biographic SKETCH of the author's interesting career, a\nsplendid PORTRAIT, and twelve of her most important lectures, some of\nwhich have been suppressed by the police authorities of various cities.\nThis book expresses the most advanced ideas on social\nquestions--economics, politics, education and sex.\n\n _Second Revised Edition_\n\nEmma Goldman--the notorious, insistent, rebellious, enigmatical Emma\nGoldman--has published her first book, \"Anarchism and Other Essays.\" In\nit she records \"the mental and soul struggles of twenty-one years,\" and\nrecites all the articles of that strange and subversive creed in behalf\nof which she has suffered imprisonment, contumely and every kind of\npersecution. The book is a vivid revelation of a unique personality. It\nappears at a time when Anarchistic ideas are undoubtedly is the\nascendant throughout the world.--_Current Literature._\n\nEmma Goldman's book on \"Anarchism and Other Essays\" ought to\nbe read by all so-called respectable women, and adopted as a\ntest-book by women's clubs throughout the country.... For courage,\npersistency, self-effacement, self-sacrifice in the pursuit of\nher object, she has hitherto been unsurpassed among the world's\nwomen.... Repudiating as she does practically every tenet of what\nthe modern State holds good, she stands for some of the noblest\ntraits in human nature.--_Life._\n\nEvery thoughtful person ought to read this volume of papers by the\nforemost American Anarchist. In whatever way the book may modify or\nstrengthen the opinion already held by its readers, there is no doubt\nthat a careful reading of it will tend to bring about greater social\nsympathy. It will help the public to understand a group of\nserious-minded and morally strenuous individuals, and also to feel the\nspirit that underlies the most radical tendencies of the great labor\nmovement of our day.--Hutchins Hapgood in _The Bookman._\n\n Price $1.00 By Mail $1.10\n\n _ORDER THROUGH YOUR BOOK DEALER OR SEND TO_\n\n Mother Earth Publishing Association\n 74 WEST 119th STREET, NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n The Modern Drama\n _Its Social and Revolutionary Significance_\n\n By\n EMMA GOLDMAN\n\n\nThis volume contains a critical analysis of the Modern Drama, in its\nrelation to the social and revolutionary tendencies of the age. It\nembraces fifty plays of twenty-four of the foremost dramatists of six\ndifferent countries, dealing with them not from the technical point of\nview, but from the standpoint of their universal and dynamic appeal to\nthe human race.\n\n CONTENTS\n PREFACE\n THE SCANDINAVIAN DRAMA: Ibsen, Strindberg, Bj\u00f6rnson\n THE GERMAN DRAMA: Hauptmann, Sudermann, Wedekind\n THE ENGLISH DRAMA: Shaw, Pinero, Galsworthy, Kennedy, Sowerby\n THE IRISH DRAMA: Yeats, Lady Gregory, Robinson\n THE RUSSIAN DRAMA: Tolstoy, Tchekhov, Gorki, Tchirikov, Andreyev\n INDEX\n\n Price $1.00 net. By mail $1.15\n\n Mother Earth Publishing Association\n 74 West 119th Street\n NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n WORKS BY PETER KROPOTKIN\n\n The Great French Revolution, 1789-1793 . . $2.00\n Mutual Aid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.00\n Memoirs of a Revolutionist . . . . . . . . 2.00\n Russian Literature . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.00\n Conquest of Bread . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.00\n Fields, Factories and Workshops (cloth) . .75\n Modern Science and Anarchism (new enlarged\n edition) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50\n The Terror in Russia . . . . . . . . . . . .15\n The State: Its Historic R\u00f4le . . . . . . . .10\n Anarchism: Its Philosophy and Ideal . . . .05\n Anarchist Communism . . . . . . . . . . . .05\n The Place of Anarchism in Social Evolution .05\n The Commune of Paris . . . . . . . . . . . .05\n The Wage System . . . . . . . . . . . . . .05\n Expropriation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .05\n Law and Authority . . . . . . . . . . . . .05\n War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .05\n An Appeal to the Young . . . . . . . . . . .05\n\n\n The First Five Books, 10 Cents Postage Extra\n The Complete Set, $9.00\n\n\n\n\n MOTHER EARTH SERIES\n\n Free Speech for Radicals\n Theodore Schroeder .25\n\n Psychology of Political Violence\n Emma Goldman .10\n\n Anarchism: What It Really Stands For\n Emma Goldman .10\n\n Syndicalism: The Modern Menace to Capitalism\n Emma Goldman .05\n\n Marriage and Love Emma Goldman .10\n\n Patriotism Emma Goldman .05\n\n Victims of Morality and the Failure of Christianity\n Emma Goldman .10\n\n Anarchy Versus Socialism Emma Goldman .10\n\n Anarchism and Malthus C. L. James .05\n\n The Modern School Francisco Ferrer .05\n\n A Talk About Anarchist Communism Between\n Two Workers Enrico Malatesta .05\n\n Syndicalism E. C. Ford and Wm. Z. Foster .10\n\n\n\n\n MISCELLANEOUS\n\n The Life, Trial and Death of Francisco Ferrer\n William Archer $1.50\n\n Anarchism--An able and impartial exposition\n of Anarchism Paul Eltzbacher 1.50\n\n What Is Property?--A brilliant arraignment\n of property and the State\n Pierre Proudhon 2.00\n\n The Ego and His Own Max Stirner .75\n\n The Life of Albert Parsons 1.50\n\n Speeches of the Chicago Anarchists Cloth, .75\n Paper cover, .30\n\n God and the State Michael Bakunin .25\n\n Francisco Ferrer: His Life, Work and\n Martyrdom .15\n\n The Origin and Ideals of the Modern School\n Francisco Ferrer .75\n\n News From Nowhere William Morris .50\n\n Useful Work Versus Useless Toil\n William Morris .05\n\n Monopoly William Morris .05\n\n Evolution and Revolution Elis\u00e9e Reclus .05\n\n The Bomb--A novel vividly portraying the\n Chicago Haymarket Events of 1887\n Frank Harris .75\n\n The Ballad of Reading Gaol Oscar Wilde .10\n\n The Soul of Man Under Socialism\n Oscar Wilde .10\n\n On the Duty of Civil Disobedience\n H. D. Thoreau .15\n\n\n By\n Price Mail\n Liberty and the Great Libertarians\n Compiled by C. T. Sprading 1.50 1.60\n\n The Science of Society\n Stephen Pearl Andrews 1.50 1.65\n\n England's Ideal Edward Carpenter 1.00 1.10\n\n Love's Coming of Age Edward Carpenter 1.00 1.10\n\n Syndicalism and the Co-Operative\n Commonwealth\n E. Pataud and E. Pouget (cloth) 1.00 1.10\n Paper, .75 .80\n\n My Life in Prison Donald Lowrie 1.25 1.40\n\n Free Political Institutions L. Spooner .50 .55\n\n Message of Anarchy Jethro Brown .25 .27\n\n On Liberty of the Press James Mill .15 .17\n\n Political Socialism B. E. Nillson .10 .12\n\n Land and Liberty W. C. Owen .10 .12\n\n The Social Evil Dr. J. H. Greer .10 .12\n\n A Vindication of Natural Society (cloth)\n Edmund Burke .50\n\n Non-Governmental Society Edward Carpenter .15\n\n Concentration of Capital W. Tcherkesoff .05\n\n The Pyramid of Tyranny\n F. Domela Nieuwenhuis .05\n\n Anarchy Enrico Malatesta .05\n\n The Basis of Trades Unionism Emile Pouget .05\n\n\n\n\n FREE SPEECH SERIES\n\n Obscene Literature and Compulsory Law\n (_Sold only to libraries and persons\n known to belong to the learned\n professions._)\n Theodore Schroeder $5.00\n\n Free Press Anthology Theodore Schroeder 2.00\n\n Due Process of Law Theodore Schroeder .25\n\n Freedom of the Press and Obscene\n Literature\n Theodore Schroeder .25\n\n In Defense of Free Speech\n Theodore Schroeder .10\n\n Liberal Opponents and Conservative\n Friends of Unabridged Freedom of\n Speech\n Theodore Schroeder .10\n\n Paternal Legislation Theodore Schroeder .05\n\n Our Vanishing Liberty of the Press\n Theodore Schroeder .05\n\n Law-Breaking by the Police Alden Freeman .05\n\n The Fight for Free Speech Alden Freeman .05\n\n\n\n\n THE ONLY ANARCHIST MONTHLY\n IN AMERICA\n\n MOTHER\n EARTH\n\nA revolutionary literary magazine devoted to Anarchist thought in\nsociology, economics, education, and life.\n\nArticles by leading Anarchists and radical thinkers.--International\nNotes giving a summary of the revolutionary activities in various\ncountries.--Reviews of modern books and the drama.\n\n TEN CENTS A COPY\n ONE DOLLAR A YEAR\n\n EMMA GOLDMAN _Publisher_\n ALEXANDER BERKMAN _Editor_\n\n 74 West 119th Street\n NEW YORK\n\n Bound Volumes 1906-1914, Two Dollars Per Volume","title":"Selected Works of Voltairine de Cleyre","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":137417}