The philosophy of Elbert Hubbard

by Elbert Hubbard

The Elks’ Creed

Here is a story told me the other day by a drummer traveling for the Solvay Process Company. We were on the New York Central, riding from Syracuse to Albany ❦ The incident has a fromage flavor that makes it look like lallapaloosala persiflage. However, it may be true, for no one is in such danger of the Ananias Club as he who has the courage to give the plain, unvarnished facts ❦ I am unable to recall his exact words, and so I use my own language. ¶ So say we, tell we the tale: My friend, the drummer, took the Owl, a midnight train from Chicago to Des Moines ❦ The section just across from his berth was occupied by a Vision in Gray. ¶ The chromatic ensemble was that known at Wanamaker’s as “elephant’s breath.” From the tip of her toe to the proudly defiant Henry of Navarre ostrich-plume, she was an ecstacy in silvery gray. The Chiaroscuro was as lissome, billowy, willowy, pearly, evasive and impressionistic as the fog that hangs low on the October corn, when the rising sun is a great, round, red ball on the rim of the dreamy and effete East ❦ From Land’s End to John O’Groat’s the symphony was satisfying and complete. Her hat was a milliner’s creation; her dress an architect’s dream, devised by Kirk Cutter in an artistic seizure; her hair was done up as provided by the Interstate Commerce Commission. Yet the woman was modest, refined, lady-like. Her high-sign only referred to the duds and haberdashery ❦ She was neither fly nor flip—merely bouffant, that’s all. She was as tall as the Solvay Process man, for he had observed it, being from Syracuse. ¶ The Pullman-car conductor came through and took up the tickets. The Vision in Gray had the whole section—she said so—she needed the upper berth for her clothes, and cautioned the porter that the space was hers. “Yassum! Comin’ up!” said George in reassuring tones that cost a quarter. He had no tissue envelope big enough for the hat, so it was covered with two copies of the Chicago News. ¶ The train started. Soon the curtains were drawn and the lights turned low; nothing was heard save the rumble and roar of the onward rush of the train, and the snores of an obese attorney, traveling for pleasure. Morning came. It often does. It came dim and foggy. Lights blinked, six o’clock whistles blew, calling workmen from their beds to toil ❦ The man from Syracuse was awakened by words of tumult and sounds of entreaty. The porter was swearing an alibi in a tearful Scipio Africanus voice: “Ah nevah saw dem close, Missus! Ah hope to die—Fo’ Gawd, I hope to die! I’se a Baptis’ an’ nevah done nothin’ bad in my life!” And from out the berth filled by the Vision came subdued feminine threats, which died away in half-sobs of anguish that shook the soul of the Solvay Process party, strong man though he was. ¶ The Pullman Conductor came. The train conductor was summoned ❦ The flagman who guards the rear end forgot his duties, as he stood in the aisle with his red flag, and attached to it two cartridges and a red light, ready to fire on a second’s notice of danger. The train conductor was trying to make a list of the things lost ❦ The upper berth was absolutely empty. The hat was gone; the dress, a tailor-made fabric, which the unseen said between sobs was worth two hundred dollars, was swallowed by oblivion. All the fluffy ruffles had disappeared. “Haven’t you a kimono?” asked the Pullman Conductor, not so much for information as to reveal his knowledge of technique. ¶ “I did have, but that has gone too,” was the anguish-laden response ❦ Alas! All she had was the suit of pajamas that she wore which clung close in this time of need. Even the gray chamois-shoes were gone. Two women had left the train at four o’clock in the morning at the Junction, but they carried nothing save hand-bags. “They could have put my clothes on over theirs,” murmured the lady from out the dismal depths of Lower Number Nine ❦ The train-hands retired to the smoking-room to consult. It was no joke to them—they were all under suspicion. ¶ Suddenly, the man from Syracuse had an Idea. He had with him an extra pair of trousers, and of course the regular business-suit he wore. Hastily he groped beneath his berth for his suitcase. With trembling hands he pulled forth the pants. He reached over and pushed them into the berth, saying: “Here, Miss, I am an Elk ❦ Don’t be afraid, I’m an Elk, and the first prong of my creed is to do good ❦ I am a respectable married man from Syracuse. I’ll help you out of this fix—put on these.” And then, his generosity increasing as the Good Samaritan instincts in his cosmos began to find expression, he handed over his coat and vest. “Then here is my raincoat, which will come to your feet!” “Oh, thanks, kind sir,” she said; “but I can not take your clothes—for what will you do?” The voice was flute-like, and modulated like an aeolian. “Oh, I don’t need any clothes,” said the liar from Onondaga County; “besides, I have another suit.” ¶ “But my hat! my hat!” moaned the lady. “Take this,” said the disciple of Chancellor Day. “Take this. I have my traveling-cap,” and he pushed the hat into the unseen depths ❦ It was a big, light-colored Roycroft Stetson. “Do your hair up on top of your head, and pull the hat well down—it will be all right—don’t cry!” ¶ “But I have no shoes!” “Wear mine—I have a pair of slippers.” ❦ And he pushed his shoes through the curtain, and looked the other way. Only the onward roar of the train was heard as the conductors came back. “You are sure you had the clothes on when you boarded the train?” asked one conductor in a voice ill-concealing his resentment. “Never mind—I’ll get along—go away—I will make my claim on the road direct. Go away, please!” They were glad enough to get away. ¶ As the gloaming began to gloam, the porter turned up the lights. Now and then the electric bell buzzed. The obese party was calling for his shoes. A man had lost an umbrella. He got it. A lady in an upper berth wanted a stepladder. The porter was working like mad making up berths so as to brush his passengers and receive the offertory before they got to Des Moines. A party wearing a long raincoat and a big, light-colored Roycroft Stetson emerged cautiously from a berth, and hurried toward the ladies’ dressing-room ❦ “Hi, Kuhnel, t’other end of the kyar, if you don’ min’, please,” called the porter ❦ The berths were all made up. The porter had brushed everybody except the party wearing the big Stetson, drawn low, who occupied Number Nine. The porter had now concluded that the unpleasantness of the early morning was the result of a hoodoo—the failure to carry his rabbit’s foot. It was all a bad dream! “Brush!” he said, with a flourish, approaching the party in the long raincoat. The Stetson shook, and two sad, gray eyes looked straight at the colored brother ❦ He fled in dismay. George was out a quarter that he had counted on. The drummer from Syracuse, wearing his ulster buttoned to the chin, helped the soft-hatted party out of the car, through the station into the Hotel Savery bus. “I’ll send your clothes back as soon as I can buy more,” said the lady in her low, musical voice ❦ “Oh, don’t bother!” said Dionysius of Syracuse, blushing brick-dust. ¶ The drummer forgot to give her his address, and to take hers. He felt sort of guilty, being a respectable married man, and from Syracuse, as before stated. He did not go to the Hotel Savery, as usual. ¶ He bought a pair of shoes, a smart Stein-Bloch Company suit, saw his trade, and left for Omaha on the Two-ten.