But, in 1890, it was impossible to draw a frontier in the United States, it was impossible to show any places where the spaces had not, at any rate, been sparsely filled, sparsely occupied by the populations that lived under the flag of the Union. It was about that time, by the way, or eight years later, that we were so eager for a frontier that we established a new frontier in the Philippines, in order, as Mr. Kipling would say, “to satisfy the feet of our young men.”
But the United States, ever since 1890, has been through with the business of beginning and now has the enormously more difficult task before it of finishing.
It is very easy, I am told, though I have never tried it, roughly to sketch in a picture, that all the students in art schools can make the rough sketch reasonably well, but they almost all, except those who have passed a certain point, spoil the picture in the finishing. All the difficulties, all the niceties of art, you have in the last touches, not in the first, and all the difficulties and niceties of civilization lie in the last touches, not in the first.
Anybody with courage and fortitude and resourcefulness can set up a frontier, but we have discovered, to our cost, that not many of us can set up a successful city government. (Applause.) Almost all the best governed cities in the world are on the other side of the water; almost all of the worst governed cities in the civilized world are in America. And the thing that is most taxing our political genius is making a decent finish, where we made such a distinguished beginning. We show it. You can feel it under you as you traverse a city; you can feel it in the pavements. They are provisional, most of them, or have not been laid at all and in jolting in the streets that are not the main thoroughfares of an American city, you feel the jolt of unfinished America. We have not had time, or we have let the contract to the wrong man. (Great applause.)
But, whatever be the cause, we have not completed the job in a way that ought to be satisfactory to our pride. You know that we are waiting for the development of an American literature, so I am told. Now, literature can not be done with the flat hand; you can not write an immortal sentence by taking a handful of words out of the dictionary and scattering them over the page. They have to be wrought together with the vital blood of the imagination, in order to speak to any other reader except those of the day itself. And, as in all forms of art, whether literary, or musical, or sculptural, there is this final test: can you finish what you begin? I believe, therefore, that the problem of this Congress is just this problem of putting the last touches on the human enterprise which we undertook in America.
We did not undertake anything new in America in respect of our industry. You will not find anything in the way of industry in America which can not be matched elsewhere in the world. If the happiness of our people and the welfare of our people does not exceed the happiness and welfare of other people, then, as Americans, we have failed; because we promised the world, not a new abundance of wealth, not an unprecedented scale of physical development, but a free and happy people. (Applause.)
That is the final pledge which we shall have to redeem, and if we do not redeem it, then we must admit an invalidity to the title deeds of America.
America was set up and opened her doors, in order that all mankind might come and find what it was to release their energies in a way that would bring them comfort and happiness and peace of mind. And we have to see to it that they get happiness and comfort and peace of mind; and we have to lend the effort, not only of great volunteer associations like this, but the efforts of our State governments and national government, to this highest of all enterprises, to see that the people are taken care of, not taken care of in the sense that those are taken care of who can not take care of themselves, because the best way to teach a boy to swim is to throw him into the water, and too much inflated apparatus around him will only prevent his learning to swim, because the great thing is not to go to the bottom and many of the devices by which we now learn to swim make it unnecessary to swim, because you can stay on top just the same, and I, for my part, do not believe that human vitality is assisted by making it unnecessary for it to assert itself. On the contrary, I believe that it is quickened only when it is put under such stimulation as to feel the whip, whether of interest or of necessity, to quicken it. But the last crux of the whole matter comes here: I am not interested in exerting myself unless the exertion, when it is over, brings me satisfaction.
If I have to work in such conditions that, every night, I fall into my bed absolutely exhausted, and with the lamp of hope almost at its last dying flicker, then I don’t care whether I get up in the morning or not; and when I get up in the morning, I do not go blithely to my work. I do not go to my work like a man who relishes the tasks of life. I go there because I must go, or starve, and there is always the goad at my stomach, the goad at my heart, because those dependent on me will suffer if I do not go to my work and the only way I can go to my work with satisfaction is to feel that, wherever I turn, I am dealing with my fellow-men, with fellow-human beings. So that we must take the heartlessness out of industry before we can put the heart into the men who are engaged in the industry. (Applause.)
The employer has got to feel that he is dealing with flesh and blood like his own and with his fellow-man, or else his employes will not be in sympathy with him and will not be in sympathy with the work, and a man who is not in sympathy with his work will not produce the things that are worth using.