PART VII.
CONCLUSIONS.
Let us assume that in the preceding pages we have proved the following propositions:
1. That the Trust cannot and must not be destroyed.
2. That the government could not and should not own and operate the Trusts.
3. That the Trust, if not interfered with, will work great injury to society and that therefore some stringent action must be taken.
4. That such action must be such as will not destroy the many virtues of the Trust.
INTERDEPENDENCE.
Let us assume that we have also proven the following propositions:
1. That every man is dependent upon his fellows for all the necessaries and comforts of life.
2. That every industry is dependent upon other industries.
3. That the natural, proper and inevitable tendency is toward specialization and localization.
4. That, as men specialize, and industries localize, a natural monopoly results.
5. That each man and each industry becomes an integral part of an immense industrial machine.
6. That harmonious action of this machine must exist, for the reason that if a single wheel is misplaced here, or an engineer refuses to respond there, the action of the entire machine is impaired.
In the face of these two groups of premises but one conclusion can be drawn, and that conclusion may be expressed in a single word—ORGANIZATION! Men, localities and industries being interdependent, society must organize for the general welfare. A league or association must be formed, in which every man, every locality and every industry is represented. Like all other societies, this association must have a common head or center. It need not be altruistic (as against egoistic), because the welfare of one must be the concern of all, if for no other than purely selfish motives. The whole must see that every part properly performs its work. A man can no longer be an isolated unit, for he is now an integral and necessary part of society. He not only owes duties to himself, he owes duties to society. He must recognize the mutuality of all true human interests.
GOVERNMENT.
Can such an association or society be organized? Can so immense a collection of bodies meet and combine with unanimity? Fortunately, we need not speculate on the correct answer to these questions. We have an illustrious example at hand. Society has already organized. The organization is improperly called government. Government is simply organized society. We elect a President as a public servant, not as a governor. He does not, or should not, reign over us, but serve us, and do our bidding. This is not a monarchy, but a democracy.
And so the great machine is already organized. Unfortunately we are not in the habit of looking at government as a huge industrial machine, and our law makers are too prone to assume arbitrary and tyrannical power, regardless of the theory of democracy upon which all our institutions rest. Furthermore, our lawmakers are mostly lawyers, rather than industrialites.
NATIONAL DIRECTION.
Either organized society (government) is supposed to protect its members (citizens), or it is not. If it is, then it is its duty to see that the necessaries of life are not monopolized and placed beyond the reach of its people. If it is not, then the organization is a failure, for without the means of sustenance a nation cannot exist. If, then, we may be permitted to view government as an organization of society having for its aim the welfare and protection of its members, why shall not that society have power to DIRECT the industrial machine? If all men and industries in the nation are interdependent, why shall there not be a NATIONAL DIRECTION, so that every industry shall be made to do its duty toward society? If people must have coal, or oil, or meat, or transportation, or gloves, and one set of men or one locality has a monopoly thereof, why shall not the nation DIRECT that those men or those localities shall do right by all other men and by all other localities? That they will not always do so in the absence of national direction is evidenced by the recent strike. The labor unions of the country are probably able and willing to support the strikers for years when a vital principle is involved, and so thoroughly is labor organizing that serious conditions are likely to obtain in that most important of all industries, transportation, to which industry all others are so closely related and on which they are so helplessly dependent.
FIXING PRICES.
If government is to "promote the general welfare" by assuming the obligation of keeping the necessaries of life within the reach of its people, it must of necessity prohibit the fixing of prices of those necessaries beyond the purchasing power of the people. Thus, if the coal operators having a monopoly of coal choose to make the price of that necessary $50 a ton, the national board of arbitrators (be it Congress or some other body), must fix a reasonable price and if the employees of any industry have a grievance, they cannot be allowed to strike and stop work—their grievances must be arbitrated by the National Board. Probably such a course would never become necessary, when the industrial organization is perfected and the readjustment accomplished, but the power of national direction must be ever present, if for no other purpose than to act as a warning.
FIXING HOURS OF WORK.
What is true of prices is equally true of the hours of work. Government will not owe every man a living, but it will owe every man an opportunity to earn a living. As the principle of co-operation develops and is utilized, so great would be the economy that many would naturally be thrown out of employment. Thus, rather than create a public poorhouse, or "idle house," the hours of daily work must be reduced to include all who are able and willing to labor.
If the tobacco manufacturers by combining and organizing the Shoe Trust have thrust say 50,000 travelling salesmen and jobbers out of employment, it should not complain if they are nationally directed to contribute toward their support in the same or in some other more useful and productive industry by being directed to reduce the hours of work of all men who are employed by it, thus making room for all who desire to labor. Co-operation and combination carry their responsibilities, and the co-operators must be presumed to intend the natural consequences of their acts. Hence, the nation is justified in directing a reduction in the hours of work whenever occasion requires.
And this is not so radical as at first appears. Many of our State Legislatures have heretofore passed laws fixing the price of gas, telephone service and railroad rates, and they have even fixed the hours of daily work in certain industries. Again, witness the volumes of law in regard to buildings, sweat shops, hotels, mines and railroads, designed and passed for "public safety" and protection, and for "the general welfare."
Again, witness what was done by all governments during the Great War!
LABOR'S SHARE.
Those who claim that "labor creates all wealth" must concede that the foreman, the superintendent, the president and the manager is just as much a laborer as the man who wields a hammer or drives a truck. That the latter do not often get a fair share of the product or of "what he produces" is, of course, true, for "rent, interest and profit" eat up much of the proceeds of his toil. Without delving needlessly into the profound question of the relations between capital and labor, be it said that labor can, by a system of national direction such as is here suggested, obtain a fair and just reward for its toil through a system of compulsory profit-sharing. There are already many cases in America of voluntary profit-sharing with employes, and employers have found that their men work better, quicker and more faithfully when given an interest in the business. This is not urged as a necessary part of the national direction idea, but as a most desirable part, and I am of opinion that in compulsory profit-sharing with employes lies the real solution and adjustment of the differences between capital and labor.
COMPULSION.
The word "compel" is a harsh word. It strikes at personal liberty and individual freedom and attacks that spirit of independence which makes men brave, honest and noble.
The theory of democracy assumes that every man has an inherent and absolute right to freedom and liberty in so far as in exercising that right he does not impair the rights of his fellows. He is the sole judge of what he wants and of what is best for him, but in satisfying those wants he must not interfere with the rights of others.
Law and government are designed to protect those rights, and in so doing the right of compulsion is implied. All our institutions, courts, laws and legislative departments rest upon the power of compulsion, and without that power our form of government becomes ineffective. We compel a man to keep his contract by applying to the court for an injunction; we compel the vicious to obey certain laws or we imprison him; we compel railroads to charge not more than a certain fare; we compel house owners to clear their sidewalks of snow; we compel men to pay other men what they owe, and if they do not, we compel the sheriff to take away his property; we compel importers to pay a tariff; we compel husbands to support their families, and we compel all to help support the government by taxation.
The more civilization advances, the more society finds it necessary to organize; and the more organized society is, the more compulsion is necessary, until men become more perfect. Every individual now owes duties to the collectivity as well as to himself, and the power of compulsion must be vested in the collectivity so that those duties may be enforced.
If we have arrived at that stage of progress when every man can be depended upon to perform his whole duty by respecting the rights of others, keeping his contracts and doing only those things which will benefit society, and if the Trust can be depended upon to charge reasonable prices, pay just wages and in all things respect the rights of others, then the word compulsion may be stricken from the political dictionary. If we have not, if men are still selfish, dishonest and inconsiderate of the rights of other men, then the right to compel must be a part of the political machinery.
TAXATION.
The question may be asked, What power can compel the Trusts to do that which they have been directed to do by the nation? For example, suppose the coal mines remained idle,—what if the operators refused to obey the national directory? It is not the purpose of this brief writing to draw up a complete code, showing in detail how each and every man, industry and question shall be handled, but simply to show that such a code can be drawn and its regulations enforced. How do we now compel the electric lighting companies to charge not more than a certain rate, the importers to pay a tariff, the gas companies to supply us with gas at certain prices, the law-breaker to pay his fine, and the corporations to pay their taxes and penalties? These methods are well known, and they would perhaps be adequate if adopted by the nation to compel its members to keep its rules and regulations. If not, a certainly effective means of inducement would be found in a tax on land values; for then, if a Trust refused to obey, the land upon which it rests could be so taxed as to render it unprofitable to hold it idle, and the Trust managers would soon be compelled either to operate or sell the plant. The land monopoly evil is serious and threatening, since all our land is owned by about ten per cent. of our people, and, unfortunately, we are in the habit of inviting men to buy vacant land and hold it idle while waiting for a rise in values. The earth being the source of all wealth, those who monopolize the land have a first lien upon all production. There appears to be no immediately practicable remedy for this deplorable and unnatural state of affairs, yet it is quite certain that whether or not the contention of the Single Taxers is sound, national direction will be a step in the right direction; for it will mean a more compact and more perfect organization of society, and then we shall be able to see more clearly just where the evils exist, just what is at fault, and just what would remedy the defects in our present system. Besides, it would permanently fix the taxing power in the national collectivity, and when the various methods of taxation were being considered in the national councils, the law of cause and effect could more easily be traced and distinguished owing to the solidarity of society and the specific information and complaint that would be forthcoming from the most competent and well informed sources.
CONSTITUTIONS.
Must the constitution be amended in order that NATIONAL DIRECTION shall be put into effect? And, if so, would it take eight or ten years before this could be done? And is that constitution of ours, which has carried us so successfully through a century and a quarter, so sacred that it should be kept, with religious fidelity, unchanged and unaltered? Recent events seem to cry out No!
As times and conditions change, so do men, opinions and laws, and so should constitutions. It is superstitious bigotry to hold that our revolutionary forefathers were infallible and that they could and did foresee the conditions that are present in the opening years of the second century after theirs.
On November 15th, 1777, the thirteen original colonies were banded together under what was called the "Articles of Confederation." Article II thereof said in part: "Each State retains its sovereignty, freedom and independence." Article III said: "The said States hereby severally enter into a firm league of friendship with each other, for their mutual and general welfare, binding themselves to assist each other." In the following articles they vested in the Congress full power to make such rules and regulations as it deemed best for the general welfare of all the people.
Now, if all of the industries and labor organizations of the nation were to meet and agree to do as did the thirteen States, each reserving the right to send delegates to an empowered convention, then that convention would have power to pass such laws as were necessary to carry out the remedies hereinbefore suggested.
If a constitution nearly a century and a half old, which has already been amended seventeen times, stands in the way of advancement and the general welfare, would any man say that the obstacle should not speedily be removed from that constitution?
The solution herein suggested does not necessarily require action by Congress, and therefore an amendment to the constitution may not be required. Nevertheless, a Congress could be empowered to act, and if it were properly constituted and contained business men and representatives from all industries and labor organizations, instead of lawyers and politicians, it would answer the very purpose. Perhaps in time the people will learn what kind of men to send to Congress. NATIONAL DIRECTION would not necessarily require an immense industrial department of government. NATIONAL DIRECTION is not national ownership. It does not embrace the idea of absolute control. It does not place the management of the Trusts in the hands of a department of government, or of a Congress, for each industry should continue to manage its own affairs, since it alone can be thoroughly conversant with the details of its own plant.
I have aimed to show:
1. That the Trust has as many virtues as faults.
2. That it can be so treated as to retain its virtues and to eliminate its faults.
3. That the Trust must not be destroyed.
4. That the government must not own and operate the Trust and Industrial Combinations.
5. That NATIONAL DIRECTION is the only scientific and practical solution.
The arguments herein are intended to show the advantages and practicability of NATIONAL DIRECTION of our industries, and the harmonious operation of those natural laws and forces which are incessantly working out their destiny. The inherent instincts of man, his nature, his desires, his ambitions, his weaknesses must all be considered in forming conclusions. That which is right will finally prevail. We may retard the onward march of civilization, but we cannot permanently check it. Not only does reason and logic urge the acceptance of the conclusions herein presented, as it appears to the writer, but unmistakable evidences of a natural movement in the direction indicated are now apparent.
If the premises given are sound, NATIONAL DIRECTION is desirable. If the conclusions are logical, NATIONAL DIRECTION is inevitable.
The Public
Who or what are the public? You say, the people! What people? Dr. Johnson defined the public as "A majority of society," but this is rather indefinite. "The public! the public!" exclaims Chamfort, "how many fools does it take to make the public?" Bancroft did not think the public fools, for he says, "The public is wiser than the wisest critic." If the public is the majority, who is to say that they are wise or unwise, right or wrong, fools or philosophers? Who or what is to be the court of last resort? Somebody has said that the majority is usually wrong, but who is to decide whether the majority or that "somebody" is wrong? Schiller had but little faith in the majority, for he wrote, "Votes should be weighed, not counted; the voice of the majority is no proof of justice:" and Bovee suggests that a better principle than this, that "the majority shall rule," is this other, that justice shall rule. And according to the code of Justinian, "Justice is the constant and perpetual desire to render every man his due." But, as a matter of fact, the majority seldom do rule, for while our public men and political bosses may say "The public be damned," as was publicly said by at least one man and echoed by at least a thousand, the public is pretty sure to get anything but justice, so long as such men are in control of the election machinery. The public have opinions, doubtless, but they have not yet found a way of expressing them when they want to, and not often do they get what they want. The public is a heterogeneous mass, without organization and without any settled community of interest. Sometimes, we call the public by the uncomplimentary name, the mob. Goethe thought the public particularly sensitive, for he said that "The public wishes itself to be managed like a woman; one must say nothing to it except what it likes to hear." He also thought them ungrateful, for he said, "He who serves the public is a poor animal; he worries himself to death, and no one thanks him for it." Hazlitt was of like mind, and he maintained that the public have neither shame nor gratitude.
When we say of a man that he is popular with the masses, we mean with the people; and it is interesting to speculate on how we form such an opinion. How do we know that a man is popular with the people? Certainly we have not asked all the people about it, and the few we have asked may not be representative. Perhaps we form our opinion of the public's opinion from one or more of these things: what the newspapers say, what those persons say with whom we have talked, and from our knowledge of the human heart generally. As for the last, we know that such virtues as honesty, self-sacrifice, ability and courage are universally admired, and that such vices as dishonesty, selfishness and cowardice are universally condemned; so that if we know what impression certain acts of a public official have made, we may come pretty near knowing whether that man is or is not popular. As to the newspapers, they are usually very close to the people, but they are sometimes closer to some other influence.
Certainly the public must not be put down as fools. They may be ignorant, when it comes to determining some great question over which the best minds of the world are in dispute; they may be illogical; they may be unreasoning; they may be sentimental; they may be unstable in judgment; but certainly they are not fools. Like children and animals, the most ignorant of the public have their instincts and intuitions, and while the sun of public opinion may fluctuate from cloud to cloud, it generally sets true at last. Like the Athenians, and sheep, the public are more easily driven in a flock than individually. Just as the crowd will make way for the man who pushes boldly forward, so will the public follow any good leader who knows enough about his business to appreciate the value of such sentiments as patriotism, humanity, unselfish devotion and human sympathy. While such a leader is in favor, the public are more than willing to be led, like so many sheep, but the most trivial incident will sometimes win their disfavor, and history shows that the public are perfectly willing to crown a man one day and to hang him the next. To gain the favor of the mob is not so difficult; but to serve the public so that they and their posterity will in after years honor his name, that is indeed difficult, and decidedly worth while.
Popularity
"I court not the votes of the fickle mob." Horace.
Public favor is fickle fancy. It is as capricious, uncertain and unreliable as the weather; and, while we may at times predict where it will bestow its alleged blessings, we can never with certainty tell how long it will remain there. Those who crave popularity should remember that it begins by making a man its tool, and usually ends in making him an object of contempt. A very trifling circumstance often creates popularity, and a single circumstance just as trifling usually destroys it. Was there ever a more popular man than Dewey after the Manila victory? Yet the trifling circumstance of transferring his gift-house to his new wife almost destroyed it. Hobson was equally popular after the Merrimac episode, but he forfeited it by numerous kissing exhibitions. Bird S. Coler was extremely popular while comptroller of New York and lost the governorship by an inch, but his popularity was as quickly forfeited as it was acquired. Louis XVI was extremely popular, but he died at the guillotine a despised and hated monarch. Marie Antoinette was equally popular, until she told the mob, who were crying for bread, to eat cake. Napoleon was universally popular until he divorced Josephine, and again popular at the cradle of the King of Rome. The memory of Cromwell was infamous for more than a century, but now he is a world hero. Robespierre was popular until he attempted to check the effusion of bloodshed.
Popularity knows no law and no precedent. It sometimes attaches to tyrants, for were not Caligula and Nero more popular than Germanicus? It sometimes attaches to ignorance, for who is today more popular than our champion batter or prize fighter? It sometimes attaches to immorality, for did it not adopt the infamous Pompadour and du Barry? It sometimes attaches to trifles, for was there ever such a fuss made over anything as the Teddybear? It sometimes delights in the downfall of royal favorites, and then exults in their reinstatements. It attaches to the great, at times, and then hails with shouts of exultation those who overthrow the great.
He who delights in popularity must be prepared to submit to the veriest subjugation, for he must obey the very ones whom he desires to command.
True merit heeds not the fulsome acclamations of capricious popularity, but goes on its way regardless. It asks itself "What is right?" not "What will the public applaud?" Merit as well as folly, loves appreciation, but the one hopes for it as a just reward, while the other seeks it as a theft.
There are two kinds of popularity: the popularity of men and the popularity of their productions, the latter being the more reliable and constant. The popularity of Roosevelt was mainly of the former kind, for it was his pleasing and picturesque personality that made him one of the most popular men of the last hundred years. As he recedes into history, we can tell better whether his name will remain a household word like Napoleon, Jackson, Lincoln, Webster, Grant, Bismarck and Gladstone's. It may be that certain popularity is ephemeral, for public opinion resembles a mind obeying by turns two directly opposite impulses, lauding a man to the skies one day, and, on the next, as it discovers him deficient in the merit it gratuitously ascribed to him, avenging itself by deprecating that which it had capriciously over-rated.
Popularity is the keystone of modern politics. Alas, too few men have we, who think, say, or act, without weighing the probabilities of its popularity. Our statesmen care more for what is popular than for what is right, and popularity is generally the sole consideration. To attain the honors of posterity and of history, a more solid merit is required than the ephemeral smile of popularity.
Popularity is a delusion.
It is an easy matter to become popular if one wants to, for all it requires is passive tolerance, and active commendation. Taking the individual, listen to his stories attentively, applaud his hobbies, rave over his phonograph, his pianola, or his pictures, or books, or his dog. A good listener is always popular. Taking the individual collectively, the public, the same rule holds good. Place your ear to the ground, study the whims of the people, learn how they worship, how they play and how they work, then preach their doctrines, pat them on the back, applaud their errors, and you can be popular. Rub the fur the right way and the cat won't scratch. Pioneers of thought seldom attain popularity. The man with a new idea, or who dares to preach something different, is usually put in jail while he is alive, and put in marble after he is dead. As Goethe says, "The public must be treated like women: they must be told absolutely nothing but what they like to hear."
Greatness
The first step to greatness is to be honest.—Johnson.
All great men are partially inspired.—Cicero.
All great men come out of the middle classes.—Emerson.
No really great man ever thought himself so.—Hazlitt.
The world knows nothing of its greatest men.—H. Taylor.
What millions died that Caesar might be great!—Campbell.
The great are only great because we carry them on our shoulders: when we throw them off they sprawl on the ground.—Montandre.
It is not in the nature of great men to be exclusive and arrogant.—Beecher.
None think the great unhappy but the great.—Young.
There is but one method, and that is hard labor.—Sydney Smith.
No man has come to true greatness who has not felt in some degree that his life belongs to his race, and that God gives him for mankind.—Phillips Brooks.
What is genius? Is it merely the ability to master details, as somebody has said, or is it the result of some natural endowments, faculties, or aptitudes for a particular thing? That it is some uncommon power of intellect, all admit; but whether it is a general or a specific power, is much disputed. Doctor Johnson's notion was that genius is nothing more or less than great general powers of mind, capable of being turned any way, or in any direction, and that "a man who has vigor may walk to the East just as well as to the West." Emerson held quite the contrary view, for he says that a man is born to some one thing, and that he is "like a ship in a river; he runs against obstructions on every side but one; on that side all obstruction is taken away, and sweeps serenely over a deepening channel into an infinite sea." And again, in Representative Men, "Each man is, by secret liking, connected with some district of nature, whose agent and interpreter he is, as Linnaeus, of plants; Huber, of bees; Fries, of lichens; Van Mons, of pears; Dalton, of atomic forms; Euclid, of lines; Newton, of fluxions." On the other hand, versatility of genius is not uncommon, for was not Leonardo da Vinci master of all the arts? did not Lord Brougham excel in everything, until they said of him "Science is his forte, omniscience his foible"? and was not our own Franklin equally famous for his several accomplishments? Nevertheless, it is quite certain that most of the great men of history, in art, arms or letters, displayed genius in only one line; yet this does not signify that they could not have displayed equal genius in one or more other lines. Perhaps the case could be stated thus: (1) A genius is a man of uncommon power of intellect; (2) Every man has a natural bent for some one line of effort; (3) A genius is apt to follow his natural bent, and thus excel in only one line; (4) A genius may also excel in one or more other lines, circumstances and environment leading him away from his natural inclinations.
What is greatness? Who were the greatest men of history? Who are the great and the greatest men of the time? These are questions on every tongue, yet who may say the answer? Seneca, Bacon, Carlyle, Goethe, Emerson, Colton and other philosophers have written volumes without answering any of these questions, and nobody yet has been able to give answers satisfactory to all. There are four kinds of greatness: village greatness, provincial greatness, world greatness and era greatness, for we know that a man may be great in his village, mediocre in his province, county, state or country, a nonentity in the world, and a nobody in the era following that in which he lived. A few men are accepted as great during their lifetimes, a few of these are accepted as great outside their own colonies, and only a very few of these survive their own eras. While it is true that a man is seldom a hero in his own home, and that greatness is seen to better advantage from a distance, yet some greatness is so weak that it dies before it is fullgrown. Greatness is often divided into two kinds,—greatness of men of action, and greatness of men of thought; yet this is an improper division, since all great men are men of action, and are always endowed with a force which may be called pneumatic energy.
Bismarck once said that a really great man is known by three signs—generosity in the design, humanity in the execution, moderation in success; but Brougham insists that "the true test of a great man is his having been in advance of his age." Schopenhauer, in estimating the greatness of great men, applies the inverted law of the physical, which stands for the intellectual and spiritual nature, the former being lessened by distance, the latter increased. But these views do not help us much in our effort to find what is greatness. When Sir William Jones was asked who was the greatest man, he answered, "The best: and if I am required to say who is the best, I reply he that deserved most of his fellow-creatures." Is this a correct test?—what fellow-creatures?—creatures of his own time, or of all time?—who is to judge what is best for them,—they or I?—and who is to say whether he is deserving or not, and deserving of what? Dempsey is a great fighter; Raphael was a great painter; Socrates a great philosopher; Hannibal a great general; Beecher a great preacher; Columbus a great discoverer; Browning a great poet; Gibbon a great historian; Lincoln a great agitator; Dana a great editor; Steinitz a great chess-player; and so on,—perhaps the greatest of their time, but would they be numbered among the greatest men? Is a great shoemaker a great man? Yet he is very deserving of his fellow-creatures, and he may be the greatest of his kind. Is a great hangman as great as a great divine, and is the greatest clown to be numbered among the greatest men of history?
Again, in selecting the great men, should there not be some limit in number and some method of declaring different degrees of greatness, because otherwise the man who wrote "Home, Sweet Home" might find a place alongside Shakespeare. Again, should a conqueror be classed among the great? Still again, are philosophers like Schopenhauer, Ibsen, Bernard Shaw and Nietzsche to be numbered among the great, when most people say that their philosophy is wrong, destructive and immoral? No wonder, then, that nobody has yet been able to give a satisfactory definition of Greatness. Alexander accomplished wonders: he conquered the then known world and wept for other worlds to conquer; but perhaps he was not so deserving of his fellows as some poor shoemaker. And take Napoleon: he made all Europe run blood; yet he certainly did much good; are we to balance his account and determine if the good outweighed the bad? Dante and Milton are always numbered among the greatest men, yet some do say that these great poets did more harm than good by perpetuating the false doctrines of Hell and Paradise. Was Robespierre a great man?—no one questions that great good came from the French Revolution, yet who will urge a monument to Robespierre, the personification of that Revolution? His intentions were good, however bad may have been the method, but so were Cromwell's regardless of his fanaticism; yet public opinion curses the one and crowns the other. Some men seem to accomplish world-wonders without effort, while others struggle against tremendous odds: of the two, the latter, of course, are the greater, because, as Bryant says, "Difficulty is a nurse of greatness—a harsh nurse, who rocks her foster children roughly, but rocks them into strength. The mind, grappling with great aims and wrestling with mighty impediments, grows by a certain necessity to the stature of greatness." Some say that greatness is founded in human sympathy, and that the man who shows the biggest heart plus the greatest ability to do, is the greatest man. Others say that greatness consists in reforming the world along religious lines, and still others maintain that greatness is merely righteousness—"He is not great, who is no greatly good" (Shakespeare). Was Caesar great? Remember Campbell's line,—"What millions died that Caesar might be great." Beecher was doubtless right when he said, "Greatness lies not in being strong, but in the right use of strength," but men may differ as to what is the right use, for, suppose he uses it to defend his people against some other people, and for a cause which he believes in, as did Robert E. Lee? He thought he was right, many others thought he was right, and he displayed qualities truly great, yet Beecher would say that Lee was not a great man. No great man ever yet lived who was conceded so to be by everybody. We see many who are great, in a sense, and many that are good; but we seldom see a man who is both great and good; and, according to Franklin, a great man must be both. Leonardo da Vinci was great at many things,—"master of all the arts," and as virtuous as most men, yet many people place Caesar and Alexander in the list of great men and leave da Vinci out. Perhaps Colton was right when he said, "Subtract from the great men all that he owes to opportunity, all that he owes to chance, and all that he has gained by the wisdom of his friends and the folly of his enemies, and the giant will often be seen to be a pigmy." Shall we class Joan of Arc among the great? She was the victim of an illusion and she accomplished that which was bound to come. Shall we nominate Diogenes? He was what would now be called a tramp and lived in a tub. Shall we give Socrates a niche? He was also something of a tramp, and we may never know how much he really said of the many wise things which Plato attributed to him. Shall we declare Washington and Jefferson great, and not Tom Paine, when the latter knew more than the other two together, and gave them most of their ideas? No, we don't do that, because they say that Paine's religious views were bad. Shall Theodore Roosevelt go on the list? Shall we put Martin Luther on, and not Voltaire? And how about poor John Brown?—he did not accomplish much but he tried mighty hard and died in the attempt. Shall Booker T. Washington's name not go on the immortal list just because he is black? If not, how about Confucius who was yellow? Shall Jesus' name be written on the scroll and not Buddha's or Mohammed's? The fact is that it is next to impossible to name a complete list of the great men of history,—to say nothing of the greatest men. One of the toughest problems I ever attempted to solve was once given me by a young student, who asked me to write down the names of the twenty-five greatest men. I spent many evenings on it, and the answer was published in many newspapers. The chief difficulty came in the attempt to limit the list to just twenty-five—it is easy to make a list of about twenty-five, or about fifty, or about ten.
As I remember it, the list was as follows:
| 1. Moses | 13. Dante |
| 2. Homer | 14. Copernicus |
| 3. Pericles | 15. Galileo |
| 4. Alexander | 16. Shakespeare |
| 5. Plato | 17. Bacon |
| 6. Aristotle | 18. Milton |
| 7. Archimedes | 19. Cromwell |
| 8. Julius Caesar | 20. Newton |
| 9. Augustus Caesar | 21. Napoleon |
| 10. Charlemagne | 22. Beethoven |
| 11. Alfred the Great | 23. Goethe |
| 12. Leonardo da Vinci | 24. Franklin |
| 25. Lincoln | |
This list is not yet satisfactory. It should contain John Fiske, who knew everything, Herbert Spencer, Darwin, Kant, Descartes, Emerson, Washington,—but hold! there is no end. Ten years from now I shall make another list and it will probably contain a new name, perhaps Roosevelt, Wilson, Bryan, Foch.
As Rochefoucauld says, "However brilliant an action may be, it ought not to pass for great when it is not the result of great design." Some men became famous—apparently great—by accident, or because of circumstances, but that is not greatness. I once became the manager of a dinner in honor of Mr. Bryan, and, like Byron, woke up one morning to find myself famous—think of it!—famous for getting up a dinner. But such fame is meteoric and has but a mushroom existence. Fielding says somewhere that Greatness is like a laced coat from Monmouth Street, which fortune lends us for a day to wear and tomorrow puts it on another's back; but he did not mean Greatness, but Fame, or Popularity, Greatness is not greatness if it is not lasting. If we cannot tell what greatness is, we can tell what it is not. The greatness of a man must be judged from the viewpoint of his own time, and we must make due allowance for his weaknesses and blunders; for was not Napoleon a believer in astrology, and could not any school-child today correct Aristotle in natural history and physiology? With this thought in mind we shall not have so much difficulty in singling out the great men of history. "Nature never sends a great man into the planet, without confiding the secret to another soul" (Emerson), and we soon discover them, but not often in their own time—it requires the perspective of history to get them in focus. Great men are the models of nations. As Longfellow says, "they stand like solitary towers in the City of God, and secret passages running deep beneath external nature give their thoughts intercourse with higher intelligence, which strengthens and consoles them, and of which the laborers on the surface do not even dream."
"Corporations are great engines for the promotion of the public convenience, and for the development of public wealth, and, so long as they are conducted for the purposes for which organized, they are a public benefit; but if allowed to engage, without supervision, in subjects of enterprise foreign to their charters, or if permitted unrestrainedly to control and monopolize the avenues to that industry in which they are engaged, they become a public menace; against which public policy and statutes design protection."
Leslie V. Lorillard, et al.—110 N. Y. 533.
The Martyrdom of Genius
It seems that those who have done the most good in this world have usually been the most unfortunate. The history-makers are our martyr heroes, abhored for their virtues, tortured for their courage, and persecuted for their good deeds. Verily, all the world's a stage, and the great actors appear upon it, say their lines, perform their parts, and then disappear behind the curtain amid a storm of hisses. Genius is seldom appreciated at short range. We praise dead saints, and persecute living ones: we roast our great men in one age, and boast of them in the next. Let us see if history does not bear out these assertions.—Alexander the Great died in his youth; Socrates was made to drink the fatal hemlock; Leonidas, the immortal Greek patriot, was hanged; Xerxes was assassinated in his sleep; Scipio was strangled in his bed; Seneca, the Roman moralist, was banished to Corsica; Hannibal took poison to prevent falling into the enemy's hands; Caesar was assassinated by his friends; Philip of Macedon was assassinated by his body guard; Archimedes was stabbed for not going to Marcellus till he had finished his problem; Belisarius was sentenced to death and blinded; Mohammed was despised and persecuted; Bruno was burned alive and his ashes thrown to the four winds of heaven; Dante was banished from Florence; Sir Walter Raleigh was beheaded; Admiral Coligny was murdered at the Massacre of St. Bartholomew; Joan of Arc was burned at the stake; Savonarola was burned on a heap of faggots for his religious preaching; Madam Roland was beheaded; Cardinal Wolsey died on his way to the scaffold; Milton was stricken blind; Martin Luther was excommunicated and persecuted; Anne Boleyn, the good and true wife of Henry VIII, was beheaded; Palissy the Potter had to burn his house to feed his furnace, and was imprisoned in the Bastile for his religious faith; Mary, Queen of Scots, was beheaded after a long imprisonment; Cervantes, creator of Don Quixote, was imprisoned for debt and suffered want; Edmund Spenser, author of "Faerie Queen," also died of want; Henry of Navarre was assassinated; Galileo was made to recant under penalty of death; Napoleon was sent to St. Helena; Oliver Cromwell was an exile, a price upon his head; Charles I. was beheaded, Marshal Ney, "Bravest of the Brave," was cruelly shot to death for alleged treason; Madame Racamier, the most beautiful and charming woman in history, died poor, blind and an exile; Voltaire was arrested, imprisoned and exiled; Beethoven, "The Shakespeare of Music," was stricken deaf; Mozart was buried in Potter's Field; the gallant Decatur and the illustrious Hamilton were cruelly shot by duelists; John Brown was shot for trying to free the slaves; Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley were assassinated; Madame De Stael was banished from Paris because Napoleon did not like her; Florence Nightingale became a chronic invalid; Marie Antoinette was beheaded; Garibaldi was condemned to death and compelled to flee his native land; Gen. Custer fought the Indians till none of his soldiers lived and then died upon the battle-field; Victor Hugo was made to flee Brussels; Lafayette in France was imprisoned and nearly starved to death; David Livingstone, explorer, died in the wilds of Africa; Tasso was exiled and imprisoned and died in poverty; Lovejoy was murdered; Wm. Lloyd Garrison and Wendell Phillips were mobbed on the streets of Boston; Sir Henry Vane was beheaded because he asserted liberty; William Penn was persecuted and imprisoned; Aristides was exiled; Aristotle had to flee for his life and swallowed poison; Pythagoras was persecuted and probably burned to death; Paul was beheaded; Spinoza was tracked, hunted, cursed and forbidden aid or food; Huss, Wyclif, Latimer and Lyndale were burned at the stake; Schiller was buried in a three-thaler coffin at midnight without funeral rites; Pompey was assassinated in Egypt by one of his own officers; Shelley, the poet, was drowned; William, Prince of Orange, was assassinated; Anaxagoras was dragged to prison for asserting his idea of God; Gerbert, Roger Bacon and Cornelius Agrippa, the great chemists and geometricians, were abhored as magicians; Petrarch lived in deadly fear of the wrath of the priests; Descartes was horribly persecuted in Holland when he first published his opinions; Racine and Corneille nearly died of starvation; Lee Sage, in his old age was saved from starvation by his son who was an actor; Boethius, Selden, Grotius and Sir John Pettus wrote many of their best works in jail; John Bunyan wrote Pilgrim's Progress while in prison; De Foe, author of the immortal Cruso, was imprisoned for writing a pamphlet, and so was Leigh Hunt for a similar offense; Homer was a beggar; Plautus turned a mill; Terence was a slave; Paul Borghese had fourteen trades, yet starved with them all; Bentivoglio was refused admission into the hospital he had himself erected; Camoens, author of the Lusiad, died in an alms house; Dryden lived in poverty and distress; Otway died prematurely through hunger; Steele was constantly pursued by bailiffs; Fielding was buried in a factory graveyard without a stone; Savage died in jail at Lisbon; Butler lived in penury and died in distress; Chatterton, pursued by misfortune, killed himself in his youth; Samuel Abbott, inventor of the process of turning potatoes into starch, was burned to death in his own factory; Chaucer exchanged a palace for a prison; Bacon died in disgrace; Ben Johnson lived and died in poverty; Bishop Taylor was imprisoned; Clarendon died in exile; Swift and Addison lived and died unhappy and unfortunate; Dr. Johnson died of scrofula, in poverty and pain; Goldsmith was always poor and died in squalor and misery; Smollett, several times fined and imprisoned, died at 33; Cowper was poor and tinged with madness. Of the American discoverers, Columbus was put in chains and died of poverty and neglect; Roldin and Bobadilla were drowned; Ovando was harshly superceded; Las Casas sought refuge in a cowl; Ojeda died in extreme poverty; Encisco was deposed by his own men; Nicuessa perished miserably by the cruelty of his party; Basco Nunez de Balboa was disgracefully beheaded; Narvaez was imprisoned in a tropical dungeon and afterwards died of hardship; Cortez was dishonored; Alvarado was destroyed in ambush; Almagro was garroted; Pizarro was murdered and his four brothers were cut off.
Doubtless, many other martyrs could be mentioned, but perhaps the foregoing will suffice to prove our case. As Napoleon once said, it is the cause and not the death that makes the martyr, and many of the foregoing martyrs perhaps deserved to die as they did. But, who may say? An additional list will be found in "Fox's Martyrs," but they are mostly religious martyrs, whereas the foregoing is general and fairly representative of every age and of every calling.
Gentlemen, Be Seated
When the interlocutor says these words, all the men sit down. They all assume that they are gentlemen; anyway, they know that they have been called such, and they accept the appellation. Any man will be offended if you say he is no gentleman. Every man wants to be known as a gentleman. The sign that reads "Gentlemen will not expectorate upon the floor—others must not," is very effective, because every man who reads it will obey, fearing that if he does not he will not be rated as a gentleman. You cannot appeal to him on any stronger ground; the dangers of tuberculosis, cleanliness, the ladies' skirts, and such, do not weigh so heavy as the argument that real gentlemen do not expectorate. Take the lowliest laborer, and you cannot pay him a higher compliment than to make him understand that you rate him as a gentleman. Even pickpockets, burglars and thugs pride themselves on being gentlemen, when off duty, and it is their highest ambition to get dressed up and to frequent the same hotels, restaurants and resorts that gentlemen frequent. And yet, if you ask any of these what a gentleman is, he cannot tell you. For that matter, who can? What is a gentleman? What are the qualifications and requirements? Can a person be a gentleman part of the time and not all the time, or is he born one way or the other? Can a person who was not born a gentleman acquire the title? Is it a matter of birth, a matter of character, a matter of conscience, a matter of dress, a matter of conduct, or a matter of education? Can a man who has been brought up in ignorance, crime, filth, squalor, and degradation be educated to be a gentleman, or will his real self pop out sometime and show that he is not? The dictionary definition of a gentleman is: "A man of good birth; every man above the rank of yeoman, comprehending noblemen; a man who, without a title, bears a coat of arms, or whose ancestors were freemen; a man of good breeding and politeness, as distinguished from the vulgar and clownish; a man in a position of life above a tradesman or mechanic; a term of complaisance." But none of these definitions covers the modern "gentleman"; not one is adequate. Chaucer's idea was that "He is gentle who doth gentle deeds." Calvert's was that a gentleman is a Christian product. Goldsmith's, that the barber made the gentleman. Locke's, that education begins the gentleman and that good company and reflection finishes him. Hugo's, that he is the best gentleman who is the son of his own deserts. Emerson's, that cheerfulness and repose are the badge of a gentleman. Steele's, that to be a fine gentleman is to be generous and brave. Spenser's, that it is a matter of deeds and manners. Shaftesbury's, that it is the taste of beauty and the relish of what is decent, just and amiable that perfects the gentleman. Byron's, that the grace of being, without alloy of fop or beau, a finished gentleman, is something that Nature writes on the brow of certain men. Beaconsfield's, that propriety of manners and consideration for others are the two main characteristics of a gentleman. Hazlitt's, that a gentleman is one who understands and shows every mark of deference to the claims of self-love in others, and exacts it in turn from them, and that propriety is as near a word as any to denote the manners of the gentlemen—plus elegance, for fine gentlemen, dignity for noblemen and majesty for kings.
Chesterfield's opinion ought to be worth considering—"A gentleman has ease without familiarity, is respectful without meanness, genteel without affectation, insinuating without seeming art." Likewise Ruskin's—"A gentleman's first characteristic is that fineness of structure in the body which renders it capable of the most delicate sensation; and of structure in the mind which renders it capable of the most delicate sympathies; one may say simply 'fineness of structure.'" The Psalmist describes a gentleman as one "that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart," and Samuel Smiles adds that a gentleman's qualities depend, not on fashion or manners, but or moral worth; not on personal possessions, but on personal qualities. Thackeray intimates that a gentleman must be honest, gentle, generous, brave, wise; and, possessing all these qualities, he must exercise them in the most graceful outward manner. That he must be a loyal son, a true husband, and an honest father. That his life ought to be decent, his bills paid, his taste high and elegant, and his aim in life lofty and noble. A more modern view is that of the great English philosopher, Herbert Spencer, who says that "Thoughtfulness for others, generosity, modesty and self-respect are the qualities that make the real gentleman or lady, as distinguished from the veneered article that commonly goes by that name." And here's another view:
Gentleman—A man that's clean outside and in; who neither looks up to the rich nor down on the poor; who can lose without squealing and who can win without bragging; who is considerate of women, and children and old people; who is too brave to lie, too generous to cheat, and who takes his share of the world and lets other people have theirs.
Originally gentleman was merely a designation, not a description, and it was meant to apply to men occupying a certain conventional social position. It had no reference to the qualities of heart, mind and soul. Later the word gentleman was given an exclusively ethical application. Both ideas are extremes, and both are wrong, because the former might apply to thieves, liars, cads, fops and ruffians, and the latter might apply to servants and slaves, many of whom are men of the best and truest type. There is an old saw that runs—
"What is a gentleman?
He is always polite,
He always does right,
And that is a gentleman."
If it is difficult to ascertain what a gentleman is, it is not difficult to ascertain what a gentleman is not. For example, a gentleman is not—
1. One who jumps into the one vacant seat when there are women standing.
2. One who smokes or swears in a public elevator in the presence of a lady.
3. One who dashes through swinging doors and lets them bang into the face of those behind.
4. One who jumps on the platform of a moving car when others are patiently waiting to get on.
5. One who eats with his knife, picks his teeth in public, spits on the floor, wipes his mouth on the tablecloth, coughs or sneezes in public without covering his mouth, or cleans his nails in a public place.
6. One who carries his umbrella extended horizontally under his arm, with the sharp ferrule sticking out behind to the inconvenience if not peril of others.
7. One who rushes into a car before those in it have time to get off.
8. One who occupies two seats for himself and his newspaper or parcels in a crowded car.
9. One who fails to apologize when he has unintentionally insulted another.
10. One who refuses to apologize or make amend when he has intentionally insulted another.
11. One who always wants to bet or to fight when he is getting the worst of an argument.
12. One who neglects to respect old age.
13. One who is mean, selfish and inconsiderate of the rights and convenience of others.
14. One who deliberately uses uncouth or vulgar language.
15. One who is intentionally neglectful of his appearance to the extent of wearing soiled linen in public and of neglecting his person so that he is obnoxious to the olfactory organs of those around him.
16. One who lacks tolerance and who wrangles with everybody who does not do as he would like them to do.
17. One who has a hot temper and does not know enough to put his foot on the soft pedal.
18. One who laughs at a drunken man or woman or who induces them to become so.
19. One who thinks that the world owes him a living and who proceeds to collect it from everybody he comes across, by foul means or fair.
20. One who does not know that women, children and elderly people are entitled to a preference and to unusual consideration on all occasions.
Gentlemen, be seated, and we will inquire still further as to what a gentleman is and is not. Of course, at this command you are all seated. The commander knew that there would be no exceptions in your judgment. But, even if you do not agree with the opinions of those quoted above, you have your own notions as to what is a gentleman, and it is a safe bet that not one of you live up to those qualifications. The most perfect of gentlemen sometimes fail to live up to their best. We all fall down once in a while.
Some people define gentlemen as follows:
Gentleman—One who does not wear detachable cuffs; one who changes his shirt every day; one whose clothes are of the latest pattern; one who wears a cane, a silk hat and patent leather shoes; one who has money and spends it freely; one who tips the waiter generously, and who would not soil his hands by shaking hands with a laborer; one who is above work and who would not associate with a common tradesman; one who respects to the point of worship anybody who has money and who detests to the point of hatred everybody who has not; one who has his nails manicured twice a week, and who always wears gloves in public; one who thinks that the greatest thing in the world is to belong to the smart set and to be fashionable.
Such people forget that the gentleman is solid mahogany, while the fashionable man is only veneer. They forget that the gentleman is not so much what he is without as what he is within. You cannot make a gentleman out of fine clothes, even if you add elegant manners. Nor will education complete him. When you educate the thief you do not necessarily cure his thievery, and you often make him a more accomplished thief. And some of the greatest thieves and cut-throats have the most elegant manners and wear the finest clothes. The real gentleman must be a gentleman clean through, from the center of his heart to the top of his brain. Culture and refinement in the true sense proceed from within. While they can be purchased at any good boarding-school, this is another brand, and partake of the qualities of varnish. They are a sort of polish.
Gentlemen, be seated. Ah, you do not seat yourselves so quickly! You begin to see the light. Perhaps you realize that you are not so much of a gentleman as you at first thought you were. You may have the instincts of a gentleman, you may have good breeding, good manners, education, refinement, good intentions, even culture, yet you know down in your secret souls that you have some qualities that are not those of the real, true gentleman. You may have gentleness, generosity, honesty, polish, and yet you lack some of the other ingredients that are used in the manufacture of a gentleman. But never you mind. None of us are perfect—not even the writer! And you frown when you are told that you are not gentlemen. But you are not. There is no such thing as a gentleman. How can there be when a gentleman is a perfect man? The thing to do is to try to be a gentleman. Let's try hard.
Gentlemen, be seated. You all sit, because you try to be gentlemen, and, for aught I know, you are as much gentlemen as anybody. Anyway, if you try, you are, to all intents and purposes; for, if a man does the best he can he is entitled to the highest honors, and what higher honors are there than to be known as a real gentleman?
Gentlemen, be seated, and we shall hear from a wonderful philosopher, Herr Friedrich Nietzsche. A million sages and diagnosticians, in all ages of the world, have sought to define the gentleman, and their definitions have been as varied as their minds, as we have already seen. Nietzsche's definition, according to Mencken's translation, is based on the fact that the gentleman is ever a man of more than average influence and power, and on the further fact that this superiority is admitted by all. The vulgarian may boast of his bluff honesty, but at heart he looks up to the gentleman, who goes through life serene and imperturbable. There is in the gentleman an unmistakable air of fitness and efficiency, and it is this that makes it possible for him to be gentle and to regard those below him with tolerance. The demeanor of highborn persons shows plainly that in their minds the consciousness of power is ever present. Above all things, they strive to avoid a show of weakness, whether it takes the form of inefficiency or of a too-easy yielding to passion or emotion. They never sink exhausted into a chair. On the train, when the vulgar try to make themselves comfortable, these higher folk avoid reclining. They do not seem to get tired after hours of standing at court. They do not furnish their homes in a comfortable, but in a spacious and dignified manner, as if they were the abodes of a greater and taller race of beings. To a provoking speech, they reply with politeness and self-possession—and not as if horrified, crushed, abashed, enraged or out of breath, after the manner of plebians. The gentleman knows how to preserve the appearance of ever-present physical strength, and he knows, too, how to convey the impression that his soul and intellect are a match for all dangers and surprises, by keeping up an unchanging serenity and civility, even under the most trying circumstances.
Thus spake Nietzsche, but he was really defining an aristocrat, or one of the so-called nobility, for which he had a profound respect. Here is still another definition:
Gentility—Perfect veracity, frank urbanity, total unwillingness to give offense; the gentleness of right-hearted, level-headed good nature; kindliness tactfully exercised through clear sense that duly appreciates current circumstances involving the personal rights, privileges and susceptibilities of others; and, while justly regarding these, acting on what they generally suggest so considerately and so gracefully that a pleasurable, heartfelt recognition of finest decency is inspired in others.
An old wag once said, "I never refuse to drink with a gentleman, and a gentleman is a man who invites me to take a drink." That is the Kentucky idea. But this is not:
Gentleman—One who has courage without bravado, pride without vanity, and who is innately—not studiously, but innately—considerate of the feelings of others.
And so the definitions vary inversely as the square of the desirability of the kind of gentleman we try to be. In brief, a gentleman is indefinable as it is unmistakable. You can always tell him when you meet him, but you cannot tell how or why.
Gentlemen, be seated. This is final. Just think over what you have heard, and see if there is not now a clear idea of what a gentleman is and is not. If you have read between the lines, you have seen the true lights on the subject. Wit and mirth and humorous allusions—such as they are—should not obscure the real issue. Do we not all know now what a gentleman is? Quite true that we cannot define it, without a very large vocabulary and thousands of words, yet we feel that we know. And, knowing what a gentleman is, surely we shall all try to be one. And then what more can the gods require?
Beards
And so the beard is coming in fashion again. Consoling thought to you of the fertile facial soil and with ugly contour or ungainly blemishes to conceal, but distressing to those chubby-faced, masculine beauties whose tender skins will not yield a plentiful crop. But, you have had your day, oh, ye of the germ-proof, Napoleonic countenance; so, discard your Gillettes, and make way for his majesty—The Beard. The halcyon days of the razor are no more, if we are to believe fickle Dame Fashion, and we are now to welcome the day of the shears. If nature has been stingy, and that glorious excrescence, the beard, is impossible to you, mon cher, pray accept our sympathy; but, please be generous enough to take the inevitable with good grace, and not worry us with foolish arguments about bearded barbarians and unsanitary savages. We know that you can make a strong case against the beard, but we imagine we can make one equally strong in its favor. All of your progenitors had them, including Adam—if we are to believe the ancient monuments, all of which show those gentlemen with a bushy beard of no mean dimensions. You say the ancient Egyptians wore no beards? Yes, but please observe that on occasions of high festivity, they wore false beards as assertions of their dignity and virility, and always represented their male deities with splendid hirsute adornments tip-tilted at the ends. It is true that they called the Greeks and Romans "barbarians" (bearded, unshaven, savages), and that about 300 B. C., the latter began to shave and in turn to call other peoples "barbarians"; but these incidents were only passing fancies, freaks and fashions soon to make way for the approaching, persistent reign of the beard. You say that Julian argued arduously against the beard? Yes, but would you take for a model a man whose whole body was bearded, and who prided himself on his long finger-nails and on the inky blackness of his hands? And don't forget that the reason Alexander abolished beards in his army was one that hardly fits your case, for was it not because the enemy had a habit of using the beard as a handle, much to the inconvenience—to say nothing of the discomfort—of the victim?
The beard has had an eventful career, and has always been the bone of contention between nations, churches, politicians, kings, gods, and barbers. As to the last, suffice it to say that beards existed before barbers, and that barbers are now as favorable to beards as they are unfavorable to safety razors. As for the churches, they have been alternately pro and con: Israel brought the beard safely out of Egyptian bondage; the Orientals cherished it as a sacred thing; the Scriptures abound with examples of how it was used to interpret pride, joy, sorrow, despondency, etc., the Greek church was for beards, and the Roman church against; the Popes of Naples wore beards at various periods; and now, most of our popes, priests and preachers keep their "chins new reaped." In Asia, wars have been declared on alleged grievances concerning shaving, and Nero offered some of the hairs of his beard to Jupiter Capitolinus who could well have bearded a dozen emperors from his own. Herodotus has more to say of beards than of belles, bibles and Belzebub, and the other poets and historians have found inspiration in like theme. In some times, beards denoted noble birth and in others they were tokens of depravity or of ostracism. The Roskolniki, a sect of schismatics, maintained that the divine image resided in the beard, and for ages the beard was the outward sign of a true man. In brief, the beard has had a Titanic struggle for existence, first up, then down, first on and then off. Just as it would attain the zenith of its glory, some beardless king would come along and dethrone it, as was the case in Spain, for example, when Philip V's tender chin refused to bear fruit, which calamity soon changed the fashion among the Spanish nobility. And, no sooner would the bald chin be established in favor, than some ugly-faced prince would come forward with an edict that the elect must again display the manly beard, as in France, when the young king's face was so disfigured with scars that he found a beard necessary to give him an appearance of respectability, whereupon all his faithful subjects found that they also had scars to conceal, much to the dismay of the barbers.
Then, again, the beard was often attacked by the assessors, as well as by the churches and fashions; for did not Peter the Great levy a heavy tax on all Russian beards, and did not Queen Elizabeth, in spite of bearded Raleigh, impose a tax of 3s. 4d. on all beards above a fortnight's growth? These were unfair handicaps to the beard, and greatly hampered its progress, but, beards, like truth, crushed to earth will rise again, and so always did the beard. For, observe that in the reign of Henry VIII the lawyers wore imposing beards, which became so fashionable that the authorities at Lincoln's Inn made them pay double common to sit at the great table; but mark that this was before 1535 when Henry raised his own crisp beard which afterwards became so celebrated. Beginning with the 13th century, when beards first came in fashion in England, up to the present, the poor beard has had a checkered career, but of late it has held its own with commendable persistency, and now all Europe is bearded, as it was in the beginning.
If the beard was sometimes held in respect, as in the Bastile, where an official was kept busy shaving the captives, and as in our own prisons, where the guests of the state are kept beardless, do you say that occasionally it was held in contempt and betokens laziness and rudeness? Yes, but, when your entire list of digressions is exposed, and your whole catalog of objections exhausted, you will find that His Majesty the Beard still waves triumphantly. It may be trod under foot for a time, but, just as the shaven beard will soon grow again, so will the beard that has been legislated against by court, church or fashion. In days of old, to touch the beard rudely was to assail the dignity of its owner; and when a man placed his hand upon his beard and swore by it, he felt bounden by the most sacred of oaths. We all have a certain reverence for traditions, and those of the beard are still respected, among the uncivilized as well as among the civilized. Was it not Juan de Castro, the Portuguese admiral, who borrowed a thousand pistoles and pledged one of his whiskers, saying, "All the gold in the world cannot equal this natural ornament of my valor?" Persius associated wisdom with the beard, and called Socrates "Magister Barbatus" in commendation of that gentleman's populous beard. And do not the sculptors and painters usually represent Jupiter, Hercules and Plato with the same tokens of strength, fortitude, sturdiness and virility? Who would favor a "beardless youth" to Numa Pimpolius—he of the magnificent flowing beard? Who would prefer a Shakespeare, a Longfellow, a Whitman, a Ruskin, a Charlemagne, shorn of their hirsute adornments? Or a Lincoln, Grant or Lee? But, of course, there are beards and beards; we are not lost in admiration at sight of such anomalies as those of John Mayo ("John the Bearded"), or of Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, nor even with that majestic forest of hair which was attached to Queen Mary's agent to Moscow, George Killingworth, whose beard measured five feet two inches, and which so pleased the grim Ivan the Terrible that he actually laughed and played with it. Coming down to the present, some of us will prefer the silky, golden beard, such as adorns the handsome countenance of Judge Wilkin, of the Children's Court; some the splendid snow-white beard of Hudson Maxim, or the shorter and less white beard of our able and amiable Edwin Markham; or the mixed, philosophic beard of General Vanderbilt; or, perchance, we prefer the sandy, semi-gray beard of that profound jurist, statesman, philosopher,—Judge Gaynor. And then there is the erudite Bernard Shaw, and our virtuous statesman Judge Hughes, and then there was the sage and honorable keeper of the public baths, Dr. Wm. H. Hale, and Oscar Hammerstein, the impressario. Yes, the beard is coming, so away with your safety razors, and supply your barber with shears. Away with your alum, salves and powders, and look up the old recipes for hair-restoring. The Roman youths used household oils to coax the hairs to grow, but the apothecaries of those days were not so cunning as ours, and soon we may expect to see the bill-boards and advertising pages filled with notices of new preparations guaranteed to grow a beard in a night, and directions how to care for, dress, comb, clip and preserve it. No doubt we shall soon become as careful of those sacred emblems of maturity and manhood, our whiskers, as Sir Thomas Moore was of his, who, as he put his head upon the block, carefully laid his beard out of the way, and then cracked a joke. What kind of a beard shall we wear? Consult the artists and barbers, and trim it as you do your hair—as best suits and becomes you. Charles the First adopted the Vandyke beard, after the artist of that name. Ruskin, and other philosophers, wore their beards as nature intended, trimming them about once every decade. Actors, waiters, and doctors will probably wear no beards, for obvious reasons, but they will all wish they could, if they read James Ward's "Defense of the Beard," in which eighteen excellent reasons are given, among which might be mentioned, protection to throat and chest, and Nature. And yet, on the other hand, there are serious objections to the beard, among which is the one made immortal by those classic lines of Homer—or was it Lewis Carroll?—which runneth thus:
"There was once a man with a beard,
Who said, 'It is just as I feared:
Two Owls and a Hen,
Four Larks and a Wren
Have all built their nests in my beard!'"
There has been some scientific inquiry as to why woman was made beardless, but the question was never satisfactorily settled until the poets became interested in the problem, and the result was as follows:
"How wisely Nature, ordering all below,
Forbade a beard on woman's chin to grow;
For, how could she be shaved—whate'ver the skill—
Whose tongue would never let her chin be still."
Gambling
In 1890, a reformed gambler named John Philip Quinn, wrote a book, "Fools of Fortune," which I read with interest when it first came out. Later I met this man and saw him expose numerous tricks of gamblers. The book comprehends a history of the vice in ancient and modern times, and in both hemispheres, and is an exposition of its alarming prevalence and destructive effects, with an unreserved and exhaustive disclosure of such frauds, tricks and devices as are practised by professional gambler, confidence man and bunko steerers; and the book was given to the world with the hope that it might extenuate the author's twenty-five years of gaming and systematic deception of his fellow men.
I wish every boy and every public official could read that book. Its pages are twice the size of these, and there are no less than 640 of them—a big and a valuable book. It would do more good in the world than a great many so-called religious books that I could mention; and, if I am ever rich, I would like to have it reprinted and sold for ten cents a copy so that everybody could get one.
Alongside of this book in my library is another, entitled, "What's the Odds," by Joe Ullman, the famous (or infamous) bookmaker. What a contrast! This book tells many "interesting" stories of the turf, of the pool-room and of the card-room, and it tends to cast a luring glamor around racing and all sorts of gaming.
By the side of this book in my library is another, entitled "Gambling: or Fortuna, Her Temple and Shrine. The True Philosophy and Ethics of Gambling," by James Harold Romain, which is an able defense of gambling. How much harm these two last-mentioned books may have done, no man may say. Certainly they have done no good. If ever a book should be suppressed by law, these two books should come first.
Mr. Romain says, "The keepers of gambling resorts are denounced, as though they were responsible for the gambling propensity in mankind. Resorts for gambling do not cause the passion. It is a tendency to which all men are prone, more or less. The essential fact is the existence of this passion. There can never be great difficulty in obtaining the means for its gratification."
Now, it is quite true that gambling is a tendency to which most people are prone, more or less, but that is no argument for increasing the temptation, nor for encouraging the vice. Men are prone to steal, to drink, to be dishonest, to lie, to cheat, to be immoral; but these tendencies must be checked and suppressed, not encouraged. Because some men will steal, should we license them and furnish them with ways and means to carry out their brutal instincts? Civilization is striving to eliminate man's brute passions. Thousands of institutions such as the law and the church, the prisons and reformatories, the libraries and the schools, are constantly combating man's animal tendencies. Shall we stop all this and let man's passions have full sway? Mr. Romain says, yes. He says, "In the name of liberty and equality, a brave battle has been fought for individuality. Unjust and unwise interference by the state has been ably resisted. It is demanded that private judgment be released from the embrace of authority. The truth is, one man has no natural right to make laws for another. True, he may repel another, when his own rights are infringed, but he has no right to govern him." Of course, this is anarchy. The doctrine of "no laws" is an exploded theory. By common consent, the world has come to an understanding that the majority of the people shall make laws to govern the whole, and there is no other way. What is detrimental to the community must be suppressed, and the law is the best suppressor.
While Fortuna may proudly enumerate her great votaries in America, including Aaron Burr, Edgar Allen Poe, William Wirt, Luther Martin, Gouverneur Morris, Daniel Webster, Henry Clay, General Hayne, Sam Houston, Andrew Jackson, Generals Burnett, Sickles, Kearney, Steedman, Hooker, Hurlbut, Sheridan, Kilpatrick, Grant, George D. Prentiss, Sargeant S. Prentiss, Albert Pike, A. P. Hill, Beauregard, Early, Ben Hill, Robert Toombs, George H. Pendleton, Thaddeus Stevens, Green of Missouri, Herbert and Fitch of California, Jerry McKibben, James A. Bayard, Benjamin F. Wade, Broderick, John C. Fremont, Judge Magowan, Charles Spencer, Fernando Wood and his brother Benjamin, Colonel McClure, Senator Wolcott, Senator Pettigrew, Senator Farwell, Matthew Carpenter, Thomas Scott, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Hutchinson of Chicago, and Pierre Lorillard; think of the long list of greater men who were not addicted to gambling. This list is fairly complete, yet it is by no means representative. If these men had the passion, they no doubt felt sorry for it and they would be the first to warn others of the vice. Some of them were ruined by it. It is a folly to be ashamed of, not to be proud of. It is a weakness, and all great men have their weaknesses. Think of the great men who were inveterate smokers and drinkers; yet we would not hold them up as examples for the young simply because they acquired these bad habits. Are we to emulate the faults of the great, or their virtues?
Of all the passions that have enslaved mankind, none can reckon so many victims as gambling. In the wrecking of homes, in the destroying of character, in the encouragement of dishonesty, in the dissolving of fortunes, gambling has only one rival—drink. The two are brothers. They walk hand in hand. One seldom exists without the other. If drink comes first, gambling follows shortly; if gambling gets hold of its victim first, drink soon joins his brother. And with these two terrible, fascinating, insidious habits firmly entrenched in a man's system, all the other vices are invited in to keep the others company. Smoking, a lesser evil, usually accompanies the rest, in fact usually comes first; but it is hardly to be classed as a vice, since it in itself has no immoral effects, and is simply a bad and an expensive habit, although it is one that many enjoy without harm or danger, even with profit. Gambling appeals to a latent instinct, and hence is all the more alluring. It is a disease that, when it once gets hold, seldom lets go. The victim may shake it off, for a time, but it will surely show its fangs again, and it will require a struggle and many of them, throughout life, to conquer it. It will crop out in divers ways and its influence will be felt in all transactions. True, all life and business is a gamble, in one sense—that is, a chance, but that is no reason why we should make gambling King. Our efforts should be directed to dethroning it, not to crowning it.
If you have a boy growing up, remember that he has a latent instinct to gamble. Remember that unless you show him the dangers of the vice, he will surely get the fever. It is just as sure as it is that he will be tempted to steal and to lie. You will observe him shooting marbles for gain. Then, craps. Then he will be playing cards for money. Then he will get interested in the penny-slot devices that are to be found in the cigar and candy stores. He will keep a sharp lookout for prize packages. He will take a chance in every lottery that he hears of, including those that are usually conducted in church fairs. Next, he will hear of faro, roulette and other games of chance, and soon he will find his way into a regular gambling den. He will probably lose, the first time, and then he will save up, and go again to recover his losses. If he loses again he will have all the more reason to go again, to get square. If he should win the first time, he will get the fever anyway, and he will at once see visions of an easy fortune ahead. Either way, he will stick to it, and to stick to it means ruin. He will need more money than you will give him, and he will be tempted to get money by dishonest means. If he does not steal, he will perhaps take something from the house and sell it in order to get money with which to gamble. If he cannot get that something in your home, he may be tempted to get it from some other home. He will sell his toys. He will go without shoes and spend the money at gambling. If he cannot get money, he will run away and earn it. He will forget all your teachings and do anything to get money. And, when once he gets into one of those gilded palaces of the devil, where big stakes are played for, where everything is bright, elegant and alluring, where one man is seen to make a fortune in a night, which sometimes happens, and where sumptuous tables are spread with all the luxuries and dainties of the season for the delight of the patrons, where wine and cigars are freely given to both winner and loser—then bid goodbye to your boy, for he is lost. The chances are that he will never get over it. The fascination will be too much for him. He will surely go again. Win or lose, he will look forward to the day when he can try his luck with the great Goddess of Chance. The yawning jaws of the tiger are ever open for fresh victims such as he, and if he gives them a chance they will inevitably close down on him. If he loses at first, he will begin to study "systems" to beat the game. He will spend sleepless nights studying how to win out. If he finds that, with all his studying, he still cannot retrieve his losses, he will try other forms of gambling, such as horse racing, but all with the same result. He is bound to lose in the end. But, the strange thing is, that you cannot make him believe this. Every man seems to have an inborn notion that he is different from everybody else; that he is, by some freak of nature, a marked man to win; that if he keeps it up long enough luck must change; that he above all others has been picked out by Dame Fortune to win; that it is only a question of time when luck will again smile upon him. So, he keeps it up, chasing the will o' the wisp, following the rainbow to find the proverbial pots of gold that are said to lie at the other end. History proves all this. The road to ruin is straight and clear. It is easy to follow. Walking is good. It is well lighted. The mirage of Fortune looms up big at the other end which seems just a little farther on. He may get weary and discouraged, at times, but Hope and Promise beckon him on. He sees his possessions vanishing, as he plods on, he sees his reputation and character leaving him, but he believes that these can easily be restored when he arrives at his destination. But he never arrives. He falls by the wayside. He dies, mourned by few, shunned by many, discouraged, desolate, homeless, friendless, forsaken—a worthless wreck.
Among the hundreds of thousands of gamblers, you can count the few prosperous ones on your fingers. Whether it be stock-market gamblers, race track gamblers, card gamblers, or what-not, the universal law is that they all must lose in the end. Every once in a while you read of some famous once-rich gambler who has just died poor and forsaken, fortune gone. The few successful ones are successful only for a short time. And the chances of your boy being one of the successful ones is about equal to his chances of becoming the king of England. The odds are all against it. In playing against the dealer, or bookmaker, or "house," the percentage is large against him. If by chance he should win, there are two chances to one that the gambler will get it all back and more too, at the next sitting. People say, "I will try it once more, and I am sure to win this time, and if I do I will quit the game forever." But the forever never comes. If they win, they will soon come to an understanding with themselves that they will try it just once more, to win just a little more, then stop. If they lose, they soon agree with themselves that they will try it just once more to get back what they lost. In either case they are bound to get back to the gaming table, and the gamblers all know this. Hence, when the professional gambler sees a winner leave his place, he does not frown; he only smiles, because he knows that the winner will soon be back to drop his winnings plus a little more.
And what are we to do with this common enemy of mankind? Are we to sit down and sigh, and say, "Well, people will gamble anyway, and if they are fools enough to throw away their money that way, let them do it"; or are we to bend our energies to suppress it? Are we to allow gambling houses to exist in our midst, thus inviting our young men to become victims? Are we to allow lotteries and petty gambling devices everywhere as we do now? Are our churches to encourage the vice at their fairs in order to make money to redeem the world? No, we must stamp it out wherever we find it.
Wedding Bells
Wedlock, indeed, hath oft compared been
To public feasts, where meet a public rout,
Where they that are without would fain go in,
And they that are within would fain go out.
Sir John Davies.
Let us listen, for a moment, to the merry jingle of the wedding bells, as they echo through the corridors of the Hall of Time. What is a wedding, and a marriage, and why? What object was sought, in the beginning, when custom demanded a marriage ceremony before cohabitation? Why has that ancient custom followed man to every far corner of the globe, and why do all peoples resent any effort to destroy that custom? Why so many different forms of ceremony, what do they mean, and why do they differ so?
Bolingbroke says that marriage was instituted because it was necessary that parents should know their own respective offspring; and that, as the mother can have no doubt that she is the mother, so a man should have all the assurance possible that he is the father: hence the marriage contract, and the various moral and civil rights, duties and obligations which follow as corollaries.
Monogamy was the original law of marriage, but in Genesis we are told that Lamech took unto himself two wives. The Jews, in common with other Oriental peoples, married when they were very young, but the Talmudists forbade marriage by a male under thirteen years and a day. There was not much ceremony, in the early days, except the removal of the bride from her father's house to that of the bridegroom, called "taking a wife," and in primitive ages this was done by seizure and force. The only "ceremony" took place on the preceding day, when the marriage had been agreed upon in advance, and consisted of a formal elaborate bath by the bride in the presence of her female companions. In later times, marriage ceremonies gradually became very elaborate, and have generally remained so and became more so ever since, in all parts of the world. Abraham appears to have the honor of having secured the first divorce in history, for we are told he sent Hagar and her child away from him. In Deuteronomy XXIV, it is stated that a man had the power to dispose of a faithless wife by writing her bill of divorcement, giving it into her hand and sending her out of his house. When a man died, without issue, his brother had first claim upon the widow, and she could not marry another till the brother had formally rejected her. One peculiarity of the ancients was, that they assumed that the impending wedding of a couple had a very depressing effect, and it was consequently the custom for all friends and neighbors to take means to cheer up the doomed ones by all sorts of boisterous amusements. Married life was looked upon as a business, and perhaps a perilous one.
Cecrops seems to have been the first to introduce among the Athenians the formal marriage ceremony with all its solemn and binding obligations. The ancient Greeks early decided that marriage was a private as well as a public necessity, and the Spartans treated celibacy as a crime. Lycurgus made laws so that those who married too late, or unsuitably, or not at all, could be treated like ordinary criminals, and not only was it unrespectable to be a bachelor, but it was dangerous. Plato preached that a man should consider the welfare of his country rather than his own pleasure, and that if he did not marry before he was thirty-five he should be punished severely. The Spartans advocated marriage for the reason that they wanted more children born to the state, and when a married woman gave birth to no children she was made to cohabit with another man. The Spartan King, Archidamus, fell in love with and married a very little woman, which so incensed the people that they fined him: they did not believe in marriage for love, but in marriage for big, sturdy offspring. Often, fathers would choose brides for their sons, and husbands for their daughters, who had never seen each other, and compel them to marry. In Greece, until Aristotle put a stop to it, the custom of buying wives was common.
By the Romans, as well as by the Jews and Greeks, marriage was deemed an imperative duty; and parents were reprehended if they did not obtain husbands for their daughters by the time they were twenty-five. The Roman law recognized monogamy only, and polygamy was prohibited in the whole empire. Hence, the former became practically the rule in all Christiandom, and was introduced into the canon law of the Eastern and Western churches. During the time of Augustus, bachelorhood became fashionable, and to check the evil, as well as to lessen the alarming number of divorces, which were also getting fashionable, Augustus imposed a wife tax on all who persisted in the luxury of celibacy.
The superstition that some days and months are unlucky or lucky for weddings seems to have originated with the Romans, May and February being thought unpropitious, while June was particularly favorable to happy marriages. These beliefs were based on things which cannot possibly concern people of other climes and religions, and, like all superstitions, are unfounded and absurd.
We know very little of the marriage affairs of the ancient Egyptians, but we do know that they were not restricted to any number of wives. In modern Egypt, a woman can never be seen by her future husband till after she has been married, and she is always veiled. A similar custom prevailed in ancient Morocco, the bride being first painted and stained, and then carried to the house of her husband-to-be, where she was formally introduced to him. He was satisfied, however, that she would suit him, for he had previously sent some of his female relatives to inspect her at the bath. The Mahomedans of Barbary do not buy their wives, like the Turks, but have portions with them. They retain in their marriage rites many ceremonies in use by the ancient Goths and Vandals. The married women must not show their faces, even to their fathers. The Moors of West Barbary have practically the same customs as the Mahomedans and the Moroccoans the groom never seeing the bride till he is introduced to her in the bridal chamber. The modern Arabians, since they have conformed to the Koran, marry as many wives as they please, and buy them as they do slaves. Among the Bedouins, polygamy is allowed, but generally a Bedouin has only one wife, who is often taken for an agreed term, usually short,—which sounds something like the "trial marriage" plan recently suggested by a now-famous American lady. The wedding consists in the cutting of the throat of a young lamb, by the bridegroom, the ceremony being completed the moment the blood falls upon the ground. Among the Medes, reciprocal polygamy was in use, and a man was not respectable unless he had at least seven wives, nor a woman unless she had five husbands. In Persia, living people were sometimes married to the dead, and often to their nearest relations. In the seventeenth century, the nobility might have as many wives as they pleased, but the poor commonality were limited to seven: and they might part with them at discretion.
Trial marriages were also in vogue in Persia, and seldom was a marriage contract made for life. A new wife was a common luxury. Persian etiquette demands that before the master of the house no person must pronounce the name of the wife, but rather refer to her as "How is the daughter of (naming her mother or father)?"
The Chinese believe that marriages are decreed by heaven, and that those who have been connected in a previous existence become united in this. Men are allowed to keep several concubines, but they are entirely dependent on the legitimate wife, who is always reckoned the most honorable. The Chinese marry their children when they are very young, sometimes as soon as they are born.
In Japan, polygamy and fornication are allowed, and fathers sell or hire out their daughters with legal formalities for limited terms. In Finland it was the custom for a young woman to wear suspended at her girdle the sheath of a knife, as a sign that she was single and wanted a husband. Any young man who was enamored of her, obtained a knife in the shape of the sheath, and slyly slipped it in the latter, and if the maiden favored the proposal, she would keep the knife, otherwise she would return it.
In another part of Finland, a young couple were allowed to sleep together, partly, if not completely dressed, for two weeks, which custom, called bundling or tarrying, was common in Wales and the New England States, and is supposed not to have resulted in immoral consequences.
In Scotland, the custom has long prevailed of lifting the bride over the threshold of her new home, which custom is probably derived from the Romans. The threshold, in many countries, is thought to be a sacred limit or boundary, and is the subject of much superstition. In the Isle of Man, a superstition prevails that it is very lucky to carry salt in the pocket, and the natives always do so when they marry. They also have the international custom of throwing an old shoe after the bridegroom as he left his home, and also one or more after the bride as she left her home. In Wales the old-time weddings were characterized by several curious customs, such as Bundlings, Chainings, Sandings, Huntings and Tithings. In Britain, before Caesar's invasion, an indiscriminate (or but slightly restricted) intermixture of the sexes was the practice, and polygamy prevailed; and it was not uncommon for several brothers to have only one wife among them, paternity being determined by resemblance.
The foregoing facts and customs do not show the evolution of marriage, because in some countries the same forms and customs prevail to-day that prevailed six thousand years ago. As civilization advances, however, we find that the tendency is toward a more rigid enforcement of the marriage contract, and strictly against polygamy. The sanctity of the home and respect for marriage vows have not only passed into the statute law of civilized nations, but they have become proverbial with most all of the enlightened people. It must also be observed, however, that at the present time there seems to be a tendency in this country to make marriage more difficult and divorce more easy.