All cultured, kindly men; all gentlemen; all just men are
Jesus was an Anarchist.
A monarchist is one who believes a monarch should govern.
A Plutocrat believes in the rule of the rich. A Democrat
holds that the majority should dictate. An Aristocrat
thinks only the wise should decide; while an Anarchist does
not believe in government at all.
Richard Croker is a Monarchist; Mark Hanna a
Plutocrat; Cleveland a Democrat; Cabot Lodge an
Aristocrat; William Penn, Henry D. Thoreau, Bronson
Alcott and Walt Whitman were Anarchists.
An Anarchist is one who minds his own business. An
Anarchist does not believe in sending warships across wide
oceans to kill brown men, and lay waste rice fields, and
burn the homes of people fighting for liberty. An Anarchist
does not drive women with babes at their breasts and other
women with babes unborn, children and old men into the
jungle to be devoured by beasts or fever or fear, or die of
hunger, homeless, unhoused and undone.
Destruction, violence, ravages, murder, are
perpetuated by statute law. Without law there would
be no infernal machines, no war ships, no dynamite guns,
no flat-nosed bullets, no pointed cartridges, no bayonets,
no policeman's billies, no night sticks, no come-alongs,
no handcuffs, no strait-jackets, no dark cells, no gallows,
no prison walls to conceal the infamies therein inflicted. Without
law no little souls fresh from God would be branded
"illegitimate", indelibly, as soon as they reach Earth.
Without law there would be less liars, no lawyers,
fewer hypocrites, and no Devil's Island,
"The Cry of the Little Peoples goes up to God in vain,
For the world is given over to the cruel sons of Cain;
The hand that would bless us is weak,
and the hand that would break us is strong,
And the power of pity is nought but the power of a song.
The dreams that our fathers dreamed today are laughter and dust,
And nothing at all in the world is left for a man to trust.
Let us hope no more, nor dream, nor prophesy, nor pray,
For the iron world no less will crash on its iron way;
And nothing is left but to watch, with a helpless pitying eye,
The kind old aims for the world, and the kind old fashions die." *
I do not go quite so far as that ---- I'm a pessimistic-
optimist, dearie ---- I believe that brutality tends to defeat itself.
Prize fighters die young, gourmands get the gout, hate hurts
worse the man who nurses it, and all selfishness robs the mind of
its divine insight, and cheats the soul that would
know. Mind alone is eternal! He, watching over Israel,
slumbers not nor sleeps. My faith is great: out of the
transient darkness of the present the shadows will flee
away, and Day will yet dawn.
I am an Anarchist.
No man who believes in force and violence is an Anarchist.
The true Anarchist decries all influences save those of
love and reason. Ideas are his only arms.
Being an Anarchist I am also a Socialist. Socialism is
the antithesis of Anarchy. One is the North Pole of
Truth, the other the South. The Socialist believes in
working for the good of all, while Anarchy is pure
Individualism. I believe in every man working for the
good of self; and in working for the good of self, he works
for the good of all. To think, to see, to feel, to know;
to deal justly; to bear all patiently; to ad quietly; to
speak cheerfully; to moderate one's voice --- these things
will bring you the highest good. They will bring you
the love of the best, and the esteem of that Sacred Few,
whose good opinion alone is worth cultivating. And
further than this, it is the hest way you can serve Society ---
live your life. The wise way to benefit humanity is to
attend to your own affairs, and thus give other people an
opportunity to look after theirs.
If there is any better way to teach virtue than by practicing
it, I do not know it.
Would you make men better ---- set them an example.
The Millennium will never come until governments cease
from governing, and the meddler is at rest. Politicians are
men who volunteer the task of governing us, for a
consideration. The political boss is intent on living off
your labor. A man may seek an office in order to do
away with the rascal who now occupies it, but for the
most part office seekers are rank rogues. Shakespeare uses
the word politician five times, and each time it is synonymous
with knave. That is to say, a politician is one who
sacrifices truth and honor for policy. The highest motive
of his life is expediency --- policy. In King Lear it is
the "scurvy politician," who thru tattered clothes be-
holds small vices, while robes and furred gowns, for him,
Europe is divided up between eight great governments,
and in time of peace over three million men are taken from
the ranks of industry and are under arms, not to protect
the people, but to protect one government from another.
Mankind is governed by the worst --- the strongest example of
this is to be seen in American municipalities but it is true of
every government. We are governed by rogues who hold their
grip upon us by and thru statute law. Were it not for
law the people could protect themselves against
these thieves, but now we are powerless and are robbed
legally. One mild form of coercion these rogues resort
to is to call us unpatriotic when we speak the truth about
them. Not long ago they would have cut off our
heads. The world moves.
Government cannot be done away with instantaneously,
but progress will come, as it has in the past by
lessening the number of laws. We want less governing,
and the Ideal Government will arrive when there is no
government at all.
So long as governments set the example of killing their
enemies, private individuals will occasionally kill
theirs. So long as men are clubbed, robbed,
imprisoned, disgraced, hanged by the governing class, just
so long will the idea of violence and brutality be born in
the souls of men.
Governments imprison men, and then hound them when
they are released.
Hate springs eternal in the human breast.
And hate will never die so long as men are taken from useful
production on the specious plea of patriotism, and
bayonets gleam in God's pure sunshine.
And the worst part about making a soldier of a man is,
not that the soldier kills brown men or black men or
white men, but it is that the soldier loses his own soul.
I am an Anarchist.
I do not believe in bolts or bars or brutality. I make
my appeal to the Divinity in men, and they, in some
mysterious way, feeling this, do not fail me. I send
valuable books without question, on a postal card
request, to every part of the Earth where the mail can carry
them, and my confidence is never abused. The Roycroft
Shop is never locked, employees and visitors come and go at
pleasure, and nothing is molested. My library is for
anyone who cares to use it.
Out in the great world women occasionally walk off the dock in
the darkness, and then struggle for life in the deep waters.
Society jigs and ambles by, with a coil of rope, but
before throwing it demands of the drowning one a
certificate of character from her Pastor, or a letter of
recommendation from her Sunday School
Superintendent, or a testimonial from a School
Principal. Not being able to produce the document the
struggler is left to go down to her death in the darkness.
A so-called "bad woman" is usually one whose soul is
being rent in an awful travail of prayer to God that she may
get back upon solid footing and lead an honest life. Believing
this, the Roycroft principle is to never ask for such a
preposterous thing as a letter of recommendation from
anyone. We have a hundred helpers, and while it must
not be imagined by any means that we operate a
reform school or a charitable institution, I wish to say that I
distinctly and positively refuse to discriminate between "good"
and "bad" people. I will not condemn, nor for an
instant imagine that it is my duty to resolve myself into a
section of the Day of Judgement.
I fix my thought on the good that is in every soul and
make my appeal to that. And the plan is a wise one,
judged by results. It secures you loyal helpers, worthy
friends, gets the work done, aids digestion and tends to
sleep o'nights. And I say to you, that if you have never
known the love, loyalty and integrity of a proscribed
person, you have never known what love, loyalty and
I do not believe in governing by force, or threat, or any
other form of coercion. I would not arouse in the heart of
any of God's creatures a thought of fear, or discord, or
hate or revenge. I will influence men, if I can, but it shall
be only by aiding them to think for themselves; and so
mayhap, they, of their own accord choose the better
part -- the ways that lead to life and light.
* these lines are from the poem "the cry of the little peoples" by richard le gallienne
In all this Cuban business there is one man stands out on the horizon of my memory like Mars at perihelion. When war broke out between Spain & the United States, it was very necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia was somewhere in the mountain vastness of Cuba- no one knew where. No mail nor telegraph message could reach him. The President must secure his cooperation, and quickly.
What to do!
Some one said to the President, “There’s a fellow by the name of Rowan will find Garcia for you, if anybody can.”
Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How “the fellow by the name of Rowan” took the letter, sealed it up in an oil-skin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, & in three weeks came out on the other side of the Island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and delivered his letter to Garcia, are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail.
The point I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask, “Where is he at?” By the Eternal! there is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land. It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this and that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies: do the thing- “Carry a message to Garcia!”
General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias.
No man, who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed, but has been well nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man- the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it. Slip-shod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, & half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook or crook, or threat, he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or mayhap, God in His goodness performs a miracle, & sends him an Angel of Light for an assistant. You, reader, put this matter to a test: You are sitting now in your office- six clerks are within call.
Summon any one and make this request: “Please look in the encyclopedia and make a brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Correggio”.
Will the clerk quietly say, “Yes, sir,” and go do the task?
On your life, he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye and ask one or more of the following questions:
Who was he?
Where is the encyclopedia?
Was I hired for that?
Don’t you mean Bismarck?
What’s the matter with Charlie doing it?
Is he dead?
Is there any hurry?
Shan’t I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself?
What do you want to know for?
And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the questions, and explained how to find the information, and why you want it, the clerk will go off and get one of the other clerks to help him try to find Garcia- and then come back and tell you there is no such man. Of course I may lose my bet, but according to the Law of Average, I will not.
Now if you are wise you will not bother to explain to your “assistant” that Correggio is indexed under the C’s, not in the K’s, but you will smile sweetly and say, “Never mind,” and go look it up yourself.
And this incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift, are the things that put pure Socialism so far into the future. If men will not act for themselves, what will they do when the benefit of their effort is for all? A first-mate with knotted club seems necessary; and the dread of getting “the bounce” Saturday night, holds many a worker to his place.
Advertise for a stenographer, and nine out of ten who apply, can neither spell nor punctuate- and do not think it necessary to.
Can such a one write a letter to Garcia?
“You see that bookkeeper,” said the foreman to me in a large factory.
“Yes, what about him?”
“Well he’s a fine accountant, but if I’d send him up town on an errand, he might accomplish the errand all right, and on the other hand, might stop at four saloons on the way, and when he got to Main Street, would forget what he had been sent for.”
Can such a man be entrusted to carry a message to Garcia?
We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the “downtrodden denizen of the sweat-shop” and the “homeless wanderer searching for honest employment,” & with it all often go many hard words for the men in power.
Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain attempt to get frowsy ne’er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and his long patient striving with “help” that does nothing but loaf when his back is turned. In every store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on. The employer is constantly sending away “help” that have shown their incapacity to further the interests of the business, and others are being taken on. No matter how good times are, this sorting continues, only if times are hard and work is scarce, the sorting is done finer- but out and forever out, the incompetent and unworthy go.
It is the survival of the fittest. Self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best- those who can carry a message to Garcia.
I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to manage a business of his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to any one else, because he carries with him constantly the insane suspicion that his employer is oppressing, or intending to oppress him. He cannot give orders; and he will not receive them. Should a message be given him to take to Garcia, his answer would probably be, “Take it yourself.”
Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind whistling through his threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare employ him, for he is a regular fire-brand of discontent. He is impervious to reason, and the only thing that can impress him is the toe of a thick-soled No. 9 boot.
Of course I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied than a physical cripple; but in our pitying, let us drop a tear, too, for the men who are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whose working hours are not limited by the whistle, and whose hair is fast turning white through the struggle to hold in line dowdy indifference, slip-shod imbecility, and the heartless ingratitude, which, but for their enterprise, would be both hungry & homeless.
Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I have; but when all the world has gone a-slumming I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who succeeds- the man who, against great odds has directed the efforts of others, and having succeeded, finds there’s nothing in it: nothing but bare board and clothes.
I have carried a dinner pail & worked for day’s wages, and I have also been an employer of labor, and I know there is something to be said on both sides. There is no excellence, per se, in poverty; rags are no recommendation; & all employers are not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all poor men are virtuous.
My heart goes out to the man who does his work when the “boss” is away, as well as when he is at home. And the man who, when given a letter for Garcia, quietly take the missive, without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets “laid off,” nor has to go on a strike for higher wages. Civilization is one long anxious search for just such individuals. Anything such a man asks shall be granted; his kind is so rare that no employer can afford to let him go. He is wanted in every city, town and village- in every office, shop, store and factory. The world cries out for such: he is needed, & needed badly- the man who can carry a message to Garcia.
Edited by Dan Leo, LL.D., Associate Professor of Chthonian Studies; Assistant Checkers Coach, Olney Community College; author of Bozzie and Dr. Sam: The Case of the Boring Bedlamite, the Olney Community College Press.
Illustrated by rhoda penmarq for “penmarq intergalactic productions™.
His defence of tea against Mr. Jonas Hartway's violent attack upon that elegant and popular beverage, shews how very well a man of genius can write upon the slightest subject, when he writes, as the Italians say, con amore: I suppose no person ever enjoyed with more relish the infusion of that fragrant leaf than Johnson. The quantities which he drank of it at all hours were so great, that his nerves must have been uncommonly strong, not to have been extremely relaxed by such an intemperate use of it. He assured me, that he never felt the least inconvenience from it; which is a proof that the fault of his constitution was rather a too great tension of fibres, than the contrary.
This year Mr. William Payne, brother of the respectable Bookseller of that name, published An Introduction to the Game of Draughts, to which Johnson contributed a Dedication to the Earl of Rochford, and a Preface, both of which are admirably adapted to the treatise to which they are prefixed. Johnson, I believe, did not play at draughts after leaving College, by which he suffered; for it would have afforded him an innocent soothing relief from the melancholy which distressed him so often.
I have heard him regret that he had not learnt to play at cards; and the game of draughts we know is peculiarly calculated to fix the attention without straining it. There is a composure and gravity in draughts which insensibly tranquillises the mind; and, accordingly, the Dutch are fond of it, as they are of smoaking,
of the sedative influence of which, though he himself never smoaked, he had a high opinion. Besides, there is in draughts some exercise of the faculties; and, accordingly, Johnson wishing to dignify the subject in his Dedication with what is most estimable in it, observes,
'Triflers may find or make any thing a trifle; but since it is the great characteristick of a wise man to see events in their courses, to obviate consequences, and ascertain contingencies, your Lordship will think nothing a trifle by which the mind is inured to caution, foresight, and circumspection.'
As one of the little occasional advantages which he did not disdain to take by his pen, as a man whose profession was literature, he this year accepted of a guinea from Mr. Robert Dodsley, for writing the introduction to The London Chronicle, an evening news-paper; and even in so slight a performance exhibited peculiar talents. This Chronicle still subsists, and from what I observed, when I was abroad, has a more extensive circulation upon the Continent than any of the English newspapers. It was constantly read by Johnson himself; and it is but just to observe, that it has all along been distinguished for good sense, accuracy, moderation, and delicacy.
Another instance of the same nature has been communicated to me by the Reverend Dr. Thomas Campbell, who has done himself considerable credit by his own writings.
'Sitting with Dr. Johnson one morning alone, he asked me if I had known Dr. Madden, who was authour of the premium-scheme in Ireland. On my answering in the affirmative, and also that I had for some years lived in his neighbourhood, &c., he begged of me that when I returned to Ireland, I would endeavour to procure for him a poem of Dr. Madden's called Boulter's Monument.
The reason (said he) why I wish for it, is this: when Dr. Madden came to London, he submitted that work to my castigation; and I remember I blotted a great many lines, and might have blotted many more, without making the poem worse. However, the Doctor was very thankful, and very generous, for he gave me ten guineas, which was to me at that time a great sum.'
He this year resumed his scheme of giving an edition of Shakspeare with notes.
He issued Proposals of considerable length, in which he shewed that he perfectly well knew what a variety of research such an undertaking required; but his indolence prevented him from pursuing it with that diligence which alone can collect those scattered facts that genius, however acute, penetrating, and luminous, cannot discover by its own force.
It is remarkable, that at this time his fancied activity was for the moment so vigorous, that he promised his work should be published before Christmas, 1757.
Yet nine years elapsed before it saw the light.
His throes in bringing it forth had been severe and remittent; and at last we may almost conclude that the Caesarian operation was performed by the knife of Churchill, whose upbraiding satire, I dare say, made Johnson's friends urge him to dispatch,
'He for subscribers bates his hook,
And takes your cash; but where's the book?
No matter where; wise fear, you know,
Forbids the robbing of a foe;
But what, to serve our private ends,
Forbids the cheating of our friends?'
About this period he was offered a living of considerable value in Lincolnshire, if he were inclined to enter into holy orders. It was a rectory in the gift of Mr. Langton, the father of his much valued friend.
But he did not accept of it; partly I believe from a conscientious motive, being persuaded that his temper and habits rendered him unfit for that assiduous and familiar instruction of the vulgar and ignorant which he held to be an essential duty in a clergyman; and partly because his love of a London life was so strong, that he would have thought himself an exile in any other place, particularly if residing in the country.
(To be continued. This week’s episode made possible in part by a generous grant from Bob’s Bowery Bar at the corner of Bleecker and the Bowery: “Try our house-pickled pig’s feet while you’re getting pickled!”)
Edited by Dan Leo, LL.D., Associate Professor of Epistemological Studies; Assistant Fencing Team Coach, Olney Community College; author of Bozzie and Dr. Sam: The Case of the Impertinent Poetaster, the Olney Community College Press.
Illustrated by rhoda penmarq for “the penmarq™ ateliers" (lettering begun by roy dismas, completed by eddie el greco).
Johnson this year gave at once a proof of his benevolence, quickness of apprehension, and admirable art of composition, in the assistance which he gave to Mr. Zachariah Williams, father of the blind lady whom he had humanely received under his roof.
Mr. Williams had followed the profession of physick in Wales; but having a very strong propensity to the study of natural philosophy, had made many ingenious advances towards a discovery of the longitude, and repaired to London in hopes of obtaining the great parliamentary reward. He failed of success; but Johnson having made himself master of his principles and experiments, wrote for him a pamphlet, published in quarto, with the following title:
An Account of an Attempt to ascertain the Longitude at Sea, by an exact Theory of the Variation of the Magnetical Needle; with a Table of the Variations at the most remarkable Cities in Europe, from the year 1660 to 1680.
This pamphlet Johnson presented to the Bodleian Library. On a blank leaf of it is pasted a paragraph cut out of a news-paper, containing an account of the death and character of Williams, plainly written by Johnson.
In July this year he had formed some scheme of mental improvement, the particular purpose of which does not appear. But we find in his Prayers and Meditations, p. 25, a prayer entitled 'On the Study of Philosophy, as an Instrument of living;' and after it follows a note, 'This study was not pursued.'
On the 13th of the same month he wrote in his Journal the following scheme of life, for Sunday:
'Having lived' (as he with tenderness of conscience expresses himself) 'not without an habitual reverence for the Sabbath, yet without that attention to its religious duties which Christianity requires;
'1. To rise early, and in order to it, to go to sleep early on Saturday.
'2. To use some extraordinary devotion in the morning.
'3. To examine the tenour of my life, and particularly the last week; and to mark my advances in religion, or recession from it.
'4. To read the Scripture methodically with such helps as are at hand.
'5. To go to church twice.
'6. To read books of Divinity, either speculative or practical.
'7. To instruct my family.
'8. To wear off by meditation any worldly soil contracted in the week.'
In 1756 Johnson found that the great fame of his Dictionary had not set him above the necessity of 'making provision for the day that was passing over him.'
No royal or noble patron extended a munificent hand to give independence to the man who had conferred stability on the language of his country.
We may feel indignant that there should have been such unworthy neglect;
but we must, at the same time, congratulate ourselves, when we consider, that to this very neglect, operating to rouse the natural indolence of his constitution, we owe many valuable productions, which otherwise, perhaps, might never have appeared.
He had spent, during the progress of the work, the money for which he had contracted to write his Dictionary. We have seen that the reward of his labour was only fifteen hundred and seventy-five pounds; and when the expence of amanuenses and paper, and other articles are deducted, his clear profit was very inconsiderable.
I once said to him, 'I am sorry, Sir, you did not get more for your Dictionary'.
His answer was, 'I am sorry, too. But it was very well. The booksellers are generous, liberal-minded men.'
He, upon all occasions, did ample justice to their character in this respect. He considered them as the patrons of literature; and, indeed, although they have eventually been considerable gainers by his Dictionary, it is to them that we owe its having been undertaken and carried through at the risk of great expence, for they were not absolutely sure of being indemnified.
On the first day of this year we find from his private devotions, that he had then recovered from sickness; and in February that his eye was restored to its use.
The pious gratitude with which he acknowledges mercies upon every occasion is very edifying; as is the humble submission which he breathes, when it is the will of his heavenly Father to try him with afflictions. As such dispositions become the state of man here, and are the true effects of religious discipline, we cannot but venerate in Johnson one of the most exercised minds that our holy religion hath ever formed. If there be any thoughtless enough to suppose such exercise the weakness of a great understanding, let them look up to Johnson and be convinced that what he so earnestly practised must have a rational foundation.
He engaged also to superintend and contribute largely to another monthly publication, entitled The Literary Magazine, or Universal Review; the first number of which came out in May this year. What were his emoluments from this undertaking, and what other writers were employed in it, I have not discovered.
Some of his reviews in this Magazine are very short accounts of the pieces noticed, but many of them are examples of elaborate criticism, in the most masterly style. In his review of the 'Memoirs of the Court of Augustus,' he has the resolution to think and speak from his own mind, regardless of the cant transmitted from age to age, in praise of the ancient Romans. Thus,
'I know not why any one but a school-boy in his declamation should whine over the Common-wealth of Rome, which grew great only by the misery of the rest of mankind. The Romans, like others, as soon as they grew rich, grew corrupt; and in their corruption sold the lives and freedoms of themselves, and of one another.'
'A people, who, while they were poor, robbed mankind; and as soon as they became rich, robbed one another.'
(To be continued. This week’s episode brought to you by Bob’s Bowery Bar: “Where a man can sit quietly drinking by himself and not be bothered.”)