And with a crash republics fall,
Down go liberty, combines and all.
This is the shady side of politics. But the burnished crest of the darkest cloud reflects in golden arcs the splendors of the sun, and the angels of hope hang a rainbow on its bosom. All power is inherent in the people, and there are patriotism and courage enough in their bosoms to weather the storms that rise dark o’er the way, if they do not get lost in the Adirondacks of Prosperity and drink from the jug of indifference and sleep too long on their rights.
Combined capital is digging its own grave when it becomes the Diana of modern machine politics. And combined Labor is driving the nails in its own coffin when the spirit of anarchy directs its blows for the redress of its grievances. Until recently the South has maintained its integrity and its immunity from the hoodoo art of machine politics; but the methods of destruction have found their way into Southern capitols, and, unless Samson wakes, he will soon find himself utterly powerless to use his favorite jaw-bone, or any other kind of a weapon, on the Philistine combines who are plotting against him in the temple.
God speed the day when Capital and Labor shall combine under the banner of arbitration and of peace, and when the battle cry of the Republic shall be, “Equal and exact justice to all, with special favors to one.”
A TALE OF A LECTURE TOUR.
I entered the car, threw my grip between two seats and sat down by a drummer. He looked at my valise and then at me and dryly asked, “Are you a traveling man?” “Yes,” was my reply. “What is your line?” asked he. “Sweetened wind,” quoth I. A smile lighted his face as he quickly asked, “Preacher or lecturer?” And then there was a laugh and a lull.
After an all day’s travel which wore me into a frazzle, I reached my destination at 8.30 p.m. It was a cold, drizzling evening. The skies were leaking spray, and in the language of Mrs. Partington, the street was a perfect “lullaby” of soft and sticky mud. The little freckle-faced dreamer who had bought me for a hundred and fifty caught me by the arm with one hand as I stepped off the cars and seized my grip with the other and literally pushed me head foremost into a Jim Crow hack drawn by one old spavined horse,
With one eye out and t’other blind,
He racked before and paced behind,