💾 Archived View for library.inu.red › file › emma-goldman-on-the-road.gmi captured on 2023-01-29 at 09:33:47. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Title: On the Road
Author: Emma Goldman
Date: 1907
Language: en
Topics: US, travel, Libertarian Labyrinth, Mother Earth
Source: Retrieved on 25th April 2021 from http://wiki.libertarian-labyrinth.org/index.php?title=On_the_Road
Notes: Published in Mother Earth 2 no. 2 (April 1907): 65; no. 3 (May 1907): 128; no. 5 (July 1907): 215.

Emma Goldman

On the Road

[part 1]

THE road, the open road! What grand inspiration it gave the “gray poet,”

what wonderful vistas it disclosed to him, of space, color, beauty,

opportunity, wisdom. “The secret of the making of the best person, the

room for a great personal deed, the test of wisdom, the strength that

will overwhelm all law and mock all authority.” All that, and more, the

open road meant to the great American poet, and to all those who, like

Whitman, could walk along the open road, stronglimbed, careless,

child-like, full of the joy of life, carrying the message of liberty,

the gladness of human comradeship.

But what of society’s outcasts, the tramps, the homeless, shelterless,

worn and weary? Does the road mean to them what it meant to the great

Walt? Does it not rather mean to them a desert, cold, dreary, aimless?

Hated and feared; everywhere hounded; hungry, wretched, with bleeding

feet; walking, walking, walking—can the road inspire them to great deeds

and liberating thoughts?!

And the workingman, tramping from town to town in search of a master,

can he rejoice in the beauties of the open road? The cries of his

starving little ones make him deaf to the music of the birds and the

sweet symphony of rustling leaves; not for him the enchanting beauty of

a spring day’s birth, nor the color symphony of the setting sun. For

him, relief is but within the gloomy walls of factory or mill, and the

sweetest music in the whirring wheels.

Or to the immigrant, forced to leave his native soil, the cradle of his

youthful dreams, plans and aspirations; in a strange land, dragged along

with wife and child— what does the open road mean to him but fear and

dread and anxiety.

The English tourist, tall, lean and arrogant; the German with his

typical green clothes and cap, and his Gretchen, fat, heavy and dull,

the very embodiment of the monarchical three K’s—Kirche, Kaiser,

Kinder—what do they see in the road? Herded in an excursion party,

intent upon the guide who, trumpet and watch in hand, shouts the names

of historical places and events—ah, one has but to see them along the

country roads, or in New York, Paris and London—worn, dusty, perspiring

—the very incarnation of stupidity and boredom. What means the road to

them?

And the carrier of a new message, the pioneer of the new thought, the

singer of liberty, what does the road mean to him or her? Contumely,

slander, hatred, lack of understanding, disappointments, persecution,

imprisonment.

These and other thoughts filled my mind as the train rushed along in the

darkness of the night.

Cleveland. The same dark, gloomy, filthy Union Depot, the same terrible

contrast between the rich and the poor, as in the days prior to the

Single-Tax Mayor’s regime. Euclid Avenue with its magnificent mansions

and spacious lawns, and the squalid dens where the poor are herded—all

just as before.

Our Cleveland groups of young boys have done their utmost within the

last few years to spread the ideas of Anarchism. Now they have built up

a nice little library of Russian, German, Jewish and English literature.

The bright, inviting spot serves as the headquarters for the thinking,

groping working people of the neighborhood.

The boys spared no efforts to make the meetings successful ; as a result

I had large, appreciative audiences.

The most pleasant and interesting surprise in Cleveland proved my host

and hostess, a young couple recently transplanted from the revolutionary

soil of Russia to a miserable, squalid American cottage. Both fanatical

opponents of Anarchism; yet generous, attentive and hospitable to an

Anarchist. It is well for humanity that the mainsprings of life are not

called into play by mere theories; else my hosts would have erected for

me a social-democratic scaffold, as they seriously admitted would be the

case when Socialism becomes triumphant: “Anarchistic disturbers of

public welfare will have to be strung up.”

Columbus. The capital of Ohio, the seat of the law’s lawlessness. The

State House, where the straitjackets for human thought and activity are

forged, is indeed an imposing structure. Some day, after it has been

cleared of the last vestige of stupidity and crime, the Capitol will

serve as a music and lecture hall. At present it harbors too many public

thieves to be of any use.

The Johnstown flood or the San Francisco disaster could not have caused

greater consternation among the official pillars of society than my

arrival here. Orders were issued to every hallkeeper to keep out “the

evil spirit.” The police and saloon keepers are very closely related;

orders were obeyed and the doors closed to us. Having accepted our

rent-deposit, the hallkeepers were legally bound to permit the use of

their halls; contracts and good faith, however, are of little

consequence to “the law-abiding” when free speech is to be strangled.

It is quite astonishing to see intelligent people still cling to the

myth of the existence of free speech; experience should have taught them

ere this that we have just as much freedom as the club of the average

policeman and our own great respect for the latter’s authority will

permit. Some well-meaning citizens of Columbus called on the Mayor and

Chief of Police, naively demanding redress. Alas! These worthies did not

even possess the courage of the ordinary thief or burglar. Both assured

the citizens that they had nothing whatever to do with stopping my

meetings, while their subordinates went about spreading terror among the

hallkeepers.

Police, laws and lawmakers are very costly articles; no wonder that the

working people of Columbus have such a starved appearance. I have met

men here who work for 5—6 dollars per week—about as much as the Chief

spends for his cigars. They are suposed to “live,” and support their

families on six dollars a week. Yet cleanliness is rather expensive, you

know. Where is one to get the means, or even the ambition, to keep clean

on six dollars a week?

Rare plants sometimes grow in the poorest soil. Dr. C. S. Carr, of

Columbus, is certainly such a plant. He is a spiritualist, I am told.

But whether spirits exist or not, the doctor seemed to me a spirit from

another world when he called to invite me to his home. Though worn out

by persistent reporters and other callers, I could not resist the

temptation of that sweet personality, that rose cheeked youth with the

snowy white hair. Sitting in his large, beautiful study, I could readily

understand Dr. Carr’s philosophy of simplicity.

“Why should people not try to beautify even the least they have? Why

should they want that which they do not have?”

“Why not, dear Doctor?! Why should man not aspire to greater heights

than those in which unjust and cruel institutions have placed him? The

theory of contentment, of a simple life of beauty may be all right for

those who have comfort, beauty and sunshine. But how about the people

doomed to live on five dollars a week? Cleanliness and beauty are too

costly for them. The parks, the libraries ? Ah, my dear Doctor, the

ragpickers of Columbus find no time to breathe the fresh air in the

parks, nor to read books in the libraries. And if they really could

enjoy the parks and libraries, could they return contentedly to their

squalid, miserable hovels?”

I was glad to be the Doctor’s guest; it gave me an opportunity to set

the ladies of the house right on “that man Gorki,” who, as the outraged

mock modesty of the .Puritans would have it, forsook his wife and is now

living with a Russian Evelyn Nesbit. Such was the opinion of the ladies

about that pure, noble woman, Mme. Andreieva. If such views are

entertained in a liberal home about the most beautiful and sacred

relation —made sacred by the power of love and not by the ridiculous

mumbling of a priest—what can we expect from the average, unthinking

person?

I assured the ladies that there can be no comparison between Mme.

Andreieva and Evelyn Nesbit Thaw. Not that I condemn the latter: she is

the product of a perverted system of morality; the victim of a stupid

institution, called education; the dupe of a vicious thing, called

religion; the two having degraded woman to a sex commodity. Mme.

Andreieva, however, is of a different type. I do not know her

personally; but I know that she is one of that great host of Russia’s

daughters who have freed themselves from the fetters of conventionality

and have declared their right to choose the man they love in perfect

freedom; to be his companion, his comrade, at home as on the barricades.

Would, to goodness, that America’s daughters should follow the example

of their Russian sisters! Then, and not till then, will Columbia stand

erect and the voice of Liberty be heard even in Columbus, Ohio.

Toldeo. Happy Golden Rule Jones! It is well that you cannot know that

your successor is a gentleman who claims to be a Tolstoyan, a

philosophic Anarchist, a friend of Labor—everything, except a lover of

free speech.

About to negotiate the strike of the automobile workers of Toledo, this

good man was easily frightened by the newspapers: he could not afford to

have the terrible doctrine of Communist Anarchism interfere with his

negotiations. Poor, poor Labor! I fear me much it has become weak-kneed

and bloodless from the sentimental love of its “friends.” ‘Tis time

you’d send those pseudo-friends about their business; walk out in the

open, out of the political traps, out of the mayors’ offices, out of the

halls of legislatures and Congress! Out into the daylight, into the

broad, open road of an independent, strong economic self-reliance!

Thanks to the efforts of a few truly big spirits, a meeting was held in

Toledo Tuesday, March I2th; the local press conveniently ignored the

matter, while the suppression of the meeting on the preceding day was

heralded all over the country.

It was an unusually interesting gathering, that at Zenoba Hall.

Workingmen, doctors, lawyers; earnest men and women in all walks of life

came to the lecture and I was glad of the opportunity to explain to them

the true meaning and object of Anarchism.

The most interesting feature of my Toledo visit, however, was the

gathering of a few truly free spirits, exceptionally bright and noble

souls, with the fire of their revolutionary forbears still buoyantly

coursing in their veins. It was my good fortune to meet Mrs. Kate B.

Sherwood, one of America’s grandest mothers; a mother not merely because

of some physiological process, but rather in that wider sense of broad

understanding, of comradeship, of oneness with all that which strives

for recognition. And Mrs. Pyle, the daughter of Mrs. Sherwood, and Dr.

John Pyle, with their enlightened, broad sense of human fellowship, made

my hours passed in that true home of liberty an evergreen memory. Dr. J.

Pyle, I understand, was once the Socialistic candidate for Congress. He

failed to get elected. Fortunate man! He, man of simplicity and

affection, with his large vision of human liberty, would have soon

withered in the poisonous atmosphere of politics. And Mrs. Laurie Pyle,

my sweet hostess, the true comrade and companion, the Anarchist of the

soul, that sheds so much love and beauty over that wonderful home on

Ashland Avenue.

The road of the pioneer is sown with misunderstanding, obloquy and

hatred, yet so long as there are such homes, so long as such spirits

live and work—and no doubt there are others, if one were but fortunate

enough to find them—there is satisfaction and joy in the labor of

Liberty and Love. “Allons! After the great companions, and to belong to

them! They, too, are on the road—they are the swift and majestic

men—they are the greatest women!”

Toronto. Queen Victoria stores and Prince of Wales saloons

notwithstanding, Toronto could teach our “Republic” salutary lessons in

freedom. I addressed here three meetings, and not a policeman in sight!

In Toronto they seem to employ the police at dangerous street crossings,

for the protection of children and cripples, while our “finest” are

protecting the gambling resorts in Wall Street and suppressing free

speech. I suggest that we raise a fund to send our free democratic

police to school in Toronto.

Detroit, you have proven a traitor to the memory of that sweetest lark

of liberty — Robert Reitzel — whose influence permeated the entire life

of the city. Meetings stopped by the brutal arm of the law.

Where are ye, men and women, that have once worshiped at the shrine of

“Der Arme Teufel”? Ye, that have celebrated feasts of song, flowers and

wine in the sanctum of the great, inimitable Reitzel? All ye who were

lifted out of the mire of money-making and have wandered under the palms

with that arch-rebel against all sham, law and hypocrisy; where are ye?

The spirit of Reitzel is gone; else Detroit would never submit to the

brutal rule of Captain Baker.

Robert Reitzel, arise and sweep the city with your cleansing storms ;

let us hear again the reverberating thunder of your voice, your protests

and your condemnation of all cowardice and slavery.

(To be continued.)

[part 2]

CHICAGO. City of the greatest American crime! City of that black Friday

when four brave sons of the people were strangled to death — Parsons,

Spies, Engel and Fischer, and you young giant who preferred to take your

own life rather than allow the hangman to desecrate you with his filthy

touch. You noble free spirits who walked along the open road, believing

its call to be “the call of battle, of rebellion.” ‘Tis therefore you

went “with angry enemies, with desertion.”

O for the indifference, the inertia of those whose cowardice permitted

you to die, to be strangled — the very people for whom you had given

your life’s blood.

O city of shame and disgrace ! City of gloom and smoke, filth and

stench. You are rotten with stockyards and slums, poverty and crime.

What will become of you on the day of reckoning, when your children will

awaken to consciousness? Will their battle for liberty and human dignity

cleanse your past? Or will they demolish you with their wrath, their

hatred, their revenge for all you have made them endure?

As my train neared this hole, bellowing suffocating smoke and dust,

covering the sky with a dark, gloomy cloth, on the morning of the

eighteenth of March, I thought of you, Paris. Great, glorious Paris!

Cradle of rebellion, mother of that glad, joyous day, thirty-six years

ago, when your flying colors proclaimed brotherhood and peace in the

grand spirit of the Commune. What a contrast between you and Chicago!

The one inspiring, urging on to rebellion and liberty; the other making

her children mercenary and indifferent, clumsily self-satisfied. What a

contrast! What an awful contrast !

I arrived at Chicago at the high tide of politics, the various parties

wrangling, huckstering and wrestling for political supremacy, each

claiming to stand for a principle : the greatest good of the people.

What Bernard Shaw says of the English in “The Man of Destiny” holds

equally good with us in this country: “When the Englishman wants a

thing, he never tells himself that he wants it. He waits patiently till

there comes into his mind, no one knows how, a burning conviction that

it is his moral and religious duty to conquer those who have got the

thing he wants. He is never at a loss for an effective moral attitude.

As the great cham- ; pion of freedom and national independence, he

conquers and annexes half the world and calls it colonization. When he

wants a market for his adulterated Manchester goods, he sends a

missionary to teach the natives the gospel of peace. The natives kill

the missionary, he flies to arms in defence of Christianity, fights for

it, conquers for it, and takes the market as a reward from heaven.In

defence of his island shores he puts a chaplain on. board his ship,

nails a flag with a cross onto his top gallant mast and sails to the

ends of the earth, sinking, burning and destroying all who dispute the

empire of ‘ the seas with him. You will never find an Englishman in the

wrong. He does everything on principle. He fights you on patriotic

principles, he robs you on business principles, he enslaves you on

imperial principles, he ,’ bullies you on manly principles.”

No better picture could be drawn of our own good people, especially our

politicians. Of course they do not want the job of mayor, governor or

president; of course they do not want to get fat as the proverbial seven

cows; it is only for a principle that they enter politics, for the dear

people’s sake, for municipal ownership’s sake, for the sake of purifying

our bad morals, for good government, for child labor laws, factory

improvement, for anything and everything, only not for their own sake.

‘Tis for the sake of principle our politicians fight, lie and abuse one

another; for the sake of principle they invest their money in land

robbery, in cotton mills where the children of the dear majority are

forced to work under the industrial lash, or in stockyards and packing

houses where human beings are made to rot in filth.

For the sake of principle liberals, the Single Taxers, have made a

compact with the Democratic Party, hailing Dunne, Hearst and others of

their caliber as the Messiahs of the people, and indulging in the same

cheap methods of abuse and attack. One of our Single Tax brothers was

elated over the discovery that his opponent lived with a “nigger.”

“We’ll use it against him. It is sure to kill his chances,” said our

“liberal” friend, and no doubt it is. Just think, advanced people prying

into the private life of a man and publicly dissecting it for the sake

of a political job,—I beg your pardon, for the sake of principle. How

coarse, how vulgar “principle” has made man.

And our Socialistic friend, is he not ready to string up i anyone who

disputes “economic determinism” and “the materialistic conception of

history”? For the sake of his principle he will kick anyone out of the

party who dares doubt the infallibility of political action; he will

denounce us as dynamiters, when we venture to suggest some other method.

For the sake of principle the Socialistic paper of Chicago devotes its

front page to the discussion of “gowns for the ladies,” and a

Socialistic candidate appeals for votes on the ground that he has a good

law practice and an income of a hundred thousand dollars. And the

majority goes into the trap and allows itself to be humbugged—for the

sake of a principle.

While in Chicago I delivered nine lectures before various

nationalities—Jewish, Bohemians, Danish, not to forget of course the

dear, fortunate natives who make the Social Science League their

headquarters. Whether it was due to the subject, “The Revolutionary

Spirit of the Modern Drama,” or to the innate curiosity of the

Americans, I do not know; at any rate the meeting at the Masonic Temple

was the largest and the most interesting. Two real live professors from

the Chicago University, quite a host of students from the same

institution, as well as lawyers, politicians and workingmen packed the

hall. Great strides must have been made in the last few years to bring

out instructors and students from the Rockefeller College. It is not so

very long ago that Tolstoi’s picture was turned face to the wall because

he dared criticise the endower of that hall of learning.

Some naive people were so enthusiastic over my lecture that they

suggested to one of the professors that he invite me to the University

to repeat my lecture. Alas, they forgot the “principle” for the sake of

which the good professor could not invite the Anarchist, Emma Goldman,

to the College. Probably he thought that at the sound of Anarchism the

University buildings would crumble to pieces, as the walls of Jericho

did at the sound of the Jewish trumpet. No one can blame the professor

—“principle” before freedom of knowledge.

Life in Chicago has always been hateful and trying to me, but the great

kindness at the home of my dear comrades, Annie and Jack Livshis, and

especially the untiring goodness and the fine tact and discretion of the

Anarchistic Mother, Annie, helped to overcome my aversion to the jungle

city.

Cincinnati. The old sensational speculations as to whether I will or

will not be allowed to speak in that city greeted me in the newspapers

when I arrived. Madam Alice R. Longworth living on Walnut Hill, it was

quite reckless of the city fathers to alow dangerous utterances at

Cincinnati. However, Anarchism has been heard at three large meetings,

and Walnut Hill is still intact. America is full of parasites—Anarchism

has greater things to do than to bother about some particular member. It

has to build character, to develop individuality, to clear the human

mind of spooks and shadows. It has to call men and women “out from the

dark refinement, out from behind the screen, out from traditions and

prejudices—into the open road.”

St. Louis. Some people seem to be incapable of learning that Anarchism

and dirty halls in squalid sections of the city are not synonymous.

True, Anarchism does not exclude the poor, the dirty or the tramp any

more than the sun excludes them, but it does not make a virtue of filth.

It seems to me that so long as people remain satisfied with their

present conditions, absolutely indifferent to cleanliness, air and

beauty, they cannot possibly feel the burning shame of their lives, nor

will they strive for anything that might lift them out of the ugliness

of their existence. I do not censor anyone, for I am convinced that the

boys of St. Louis tried their best; yet I am grieved that they should be

satisfied with so little. True, the halls were cheap, but though the

future of Mother Earth depends upon the success of this tour, I cannot

even for her sake speak in dingy little halls, dark and gloomy, with the

dust and smoke making it impossible to breathe.

Minneapolis. Those who believe that only organizations or groups can

accomplish things should profit by the example of Minneapolis, where two

energetic workers did wonders.

The population of this city is composed of shopkeepers, bankers, doctors

and lawyers—not the element that is usually interested in radical ideas.

Nor were such ideas ever put before them. Anarchism was a spook, an evil

spirit in that town, but daring is the only way to success. The

audiences that thronged the halls for three successive evenings far

surpassed in number and intelligence the most optimistic expectations.

When I looked into the earnest faces, I felt that here were people who

did not come to see but to hear, to be enlightened and to learn, and I

was grateful to my good star, or rather to the energy and perseverance

of the two comrades who made such meetings possible.

The world is full of freaks—the Minneapolis Spook Qub can certainly

boast of a large following. This organization is composed of

professional men only, and as they are known for their purity and

morality, they never . suffered the evil spirit of woman to invade their

sanctum before. But thanks to the generosity of a friend, the rigid

rules of the Spook Club were temporarily set aside. Possibly the members

thought that one could not be a woman and an Anarchist at the same time.

The angelic chastity of the Spookers would have been quite discomforting

to me, were it not for the presence of a few daughters of that arch

seducer Eve, who helped to bring some wit and humor into the dead

atmosphere of statute and dissecting room wisdom. Specialists were there

a-plenty, doctors enough to create any amount of disease, lawyers and a

real live judge to induce one to commit crime, bump interpreters and

bump producers, and so forth; all important and awe inspiring gentlemen,

but as innocent of the great questions of the day as new born bobes,

their heads full of spooks and fears of all that their lack of wisdom

could not grasp.

Winnipeg. The dirty crows—as a certain French ar-1 tist named the

priests—who infest the streets and cars j of Montreal are not as

numerous in Winnipeg, but the1 horrors of their creed are as dominant

here as there—the creed that has for centuries gone about killing,

burning and torturing is still holding the Canadian people in power,

befogging their minds as in ages past.

The city was white on my arrival; everything in the tight clutches of

grim winter; apparently not a sign of life or warmth. But the greetings

of my comrades and the enthusiasm of the audiences soon convinced me

that all was not cold or dead. Spring, the great awakener of life and

growth, was stirring in the hearts of those who had come to hear me.

Men and women from every nook in the world gather at Winnipeg, the land

of promise. They are soon made to realize, however, that the causes

which drove them from their native snores—oppression, greed and robbery

—are quite at home in this new, white land. The true great promise lies

in all these nations coming together, to look one another in the face,

to learn for the first time the real force that makes for wealth. Men

and women knowing one another and clasping hands for one common purpose,

human brotherhood and solidarity. Yes, Winipeg is the place of promise.

It is the fertile soil of growth, life and ideas.

The Radical Club, but two years old, has become a tremendous factor in

creating interest in new thought. My six days’ visit seemed a dream.

Large, eager audiences every evening and twice on Sunday, a beautiful

social gathering that united two hundred men, women and children in one

family of comrades, and people constantly coming and going during the

day, all anxious to learn, made the time pass like a flash. When I stood

on the platform of the train bidding a last farewell to a large group of

friends, I keenly felt the pains of parting; but this, too, I felt:

I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, alone with my impressions of

those who had passed before me in long processions during my stay in

Winnipeg. However, the official zeal of the Immigration Inspectors

willed it differently. With the usual impudence that goes with authority

I was subjected to the “third degree”: my name, occupation, whether

American citizen, how long in America, and whether I had been out of the

States before. Evidently the uniformed gentlemen had studied that

infamous anti-Anarchist Immigration Law that will not admit

“disbelievers in organized government.” I assured my anxious protector

that he would have to let me return, since I had been in America

eighteen years before that stupid law was passed. Though myself a

citizen of the world, my father happened to be privileged enough to

become a citizen of this free country. After a long conversation with

some others of his ilk, my good friend decided to let me go on. I know

from experience that our law makers can do anything they please; still,

I am optimistic enough to believe that they would not venture to keep me

out of this “sweet land of liberty.” Besides, what are laws for if not

to be evaded? No wonder so many “disbelievers in organized government”

have flocked to America since the law against them became operative.

Poor, stupid Immigration Inspector! If you could have foreseen the

result of your zeal, you might not have made it so public that the

dangerous Emma Goldman was on the train. You got my fellow passengers

intensely interested, with the result that I added a seventh meeting to

those held at Winnipeg and disposed of a large number of magazines and

pamphlets—not in the hall, but in the Pullman sleeper. When will our

fool governors learn that the best government is the one that governs

least or not at all ? Never before have I felt as convinced of this

truth as on this tour. The rigid laws against Anarchists, passed within

the past four or five years, the shameful misrepresentation of

Anarchism, and the persecution of its adherents have awakened the most

intense interest in our ideas in this country. Still more striking is

the tremendous change in the attitude of the press. The papers in

Toledo, Toronto, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Minneapolis and Winnipeg,

especially those of the last two cities, have been remarkable for their

fairness and decency in reporting my meetings. Probably they have

learned that yellow journal methods, sensational, vulgar, untruthful

reports are no longer believed by the thinking readers of newspapers. I

wish our Eastern journalists would learn the same lesson and follow the

example of one of their colleagues, the editor of the Winnipeg Tribune,

who has this to say:

“Emma Goldman has been accused of abusing freedom of speech in Winnipeg,

and Anarchism has been denounced as a system that advocates murder. As a

matter of fact, Emma Goldman indulged, while in Winnipeg, in no

dangerous rant and made no statement that deserved more than moderate

criticism of its wisdom or logic. Also, as a matter of fact, the man who

claims that Anarchism teaches bomb-throwing and violence doesn’t know

what he is talking about. Anarchism is an ideal doctrine ; that is now,

and always will be, utterly impracticable. Some of the gentlest and most

gifted men of the world believe in it. The fact alone that Tolstoi is an

Anarchist is conclusive proof that it teaches no violence.

“We all have a right to laugh at Anarchy as a wild dream. We all have a

right to agree or disagree with the teachings of Emma Goldman. But we

should not make ourselves ridiculous by criticising a lecturer for the

things that she did not say, nor by denouncing as violent and bloody a

doctrine that preaches the opposite of violence.”

(To be continued.)

[part 3]

Denver. Those who fly high on the wings of imagination must expect to

suffer an occasional fall.

The stirring history of Colorado’s labor struggles quickened my blood

with the thought of the revolutionary attitude of the workers since

1903. I was full of expectation. Had not the mine owners with the aid of

their hirelings—the government—waged relentless war against organized

labor? Had they not robbed and oppressed in the most merciless manner?

Had they not employed the most dastardly means against the three friends

of labor whom they could neither corrupt nor conquer? Surely the

plutocracy of Colorado had committed enough crimes to cause a national

revolution.

My imagination pictured united labor striving in solidaric unity in that

great cause, their emancipation from the twin monsters of capitalism and

authority.

It was a painful awakening! Whatever the feeling of the workers of

Colorado may be at this critical moment, Denver has too much of the

hospital atmosphere to permit of a healthy revolutionary spirit.

Essentially a health resort, its patients are too much occupied with

themselves to bother about the outrage now being enacted at Boise. Of

course, there are the intellectuals, or the High Brows as they are

playfully called: writers, editors and other professional men; but one

would look in vain for revolutionary backbone among them. They hug their

comforts and love material and social success too well to follow the

example of their brothers in Russia who, at the risk of their own lives,

carry the beacon of human emancipation into factory and field. No doubt

the American intellectuals are also interested in the pressing questions

of the day, but it is the parlor interest of men decked out in evening

dress, sipping tea from dainty China cups. Fortunately, the world is

full of exceptions. It gave me great joy to find two such in Henry and

Lillian Thayer—true Americans in the best sense, in whom the

revolutionary spirit of their forefathers has triumphed over the

influence of a conservative New England rearing.

The meetings arranged by a solitary enthusiastic comrade proved quite

successful, but as I said before, they bore a convalescent appearance.

Our social, however, more than realized my highest expectations. In

spite of the stormy night we had a most successful gathering of

representatives of various schools of thought, united by a genuine

feeling of brotherhood and common interest. The purely human side is

always at its best at informal affairs.

Our comrades at large will be glad to learn that our old staunch friends

William and Lizzie Holmes have awakened to a new interest and have

joined the literary staff of Mother Earth.

San Francisco. The city I once called the American Paris looked like a

graveyard upon my arrival. Not a fashionable cemetery with imposing

tombstones, but like a gigantic refuse pile in which sticks and stones

mark the last resting place of the social outcasts. But, then, an

uninterrupted trip of sixty hours under capitalistic management that

landed me in San Francisco eight hours too late for the first of May

meeting, is not calculated to make one see things in roseate colors.

Three weeks’ stay in the city has, however, not worn off my first

impression. The earthquake—or the fire, as the natives prefer to

believe—has left its lasting mark. Of course, capitalistic greed is

striving to rebuild the city, but the new homes and structures being put

up are making the Gate City even more hideous than the ruins still

scattered about. No less hideous are the disclosures of the depravity of

the local authorities, represented by Mayor Schmitz & Co. The good

citizen is eternally drilled in the necessity and usefulness of laws and

government, while his rulers are growing fat on the Mrs. Warrens,

without even running the financial risks of Sir John Crofts or the

Bishop of Canterbury. When one considers how few of our official rogues

are ever exposed, one shudders at the demoralization of our public life.

The conditions during my stay in San Francisco almost seemed to bear out

the charges of the yellow press against me. As if it were not sufficient

for one woman to be responsible for the deaths of all crowned heads and

most great strikes, I have now discovered that I am credited by science

with having enriched surgery by a most interesting case—the result of

the Czolgosz shot.

Two strikes really broke out after I set foot on the shaky soil,—shaky

not because of the quake, but on account of the numerous quacks of the

California labor movement, who are feeding the workers on patent

medicine and pills. Nothing but quack treatment can bring about such

results as the strike of the telephone operators and car men. The former

have but recently awakened to the necessity of organization, which

probably means to most of them more ribbons and ice cream; but the car

men, familiar with the true purposes of trade unionism, should have long

since realized that they are waging a life-and-death struggle. The

attitude of the unions was simply ridiculous. They gave the company all

opportunity to prepare for the strike and then looked on in passive

resistance while their doom was being sealed. Nay, more, Cornelius,

President of the car employees, offered his services to the Mayor to

preserve order, which under the circumstances meant the protection of

the company in its successful strike-breaking.

The only satisfactory feature of the strike was the attitude of the

public. The people refused to ride on the cars and walked singly and en

masse to and from work; their sympathies were entirey with the strikers

and the latter would have gained a splendid victory had they been

blessed with sufficient sense to know how to handle the situation.

The general condition of the city made the preparations for my meetings

very difficult, the more so as most of our local comrades live very far

apart and were worn out by their daily long tramps. The work of

arrangement therefore fell upon the shoulders of a few men. A number of

splendidly attended meetings took place, and a large amount of

literature sold.

Our farewell social brought the radical elements closer together and,

though twelve different nationalities were represented, including our

ardent Japanese comrades, all hearts beat in unison for one great,

common cause.

Climate is known to have great influence upon human development; it is

probably due to this that the Socialists of the coast are less dogmatic

and authoritarian than their Eastern brothers. At any rate, I was

invited to lecture before the San Francisco local and was treated in the

most cordial manner.

Los Angeles.—Four weeks’ continuous correspondence finally resulted in

five meetings being arranged in the Sunny City. It was hard ploughing,

but the harvest repaid the effort. As the readers will find a more

detailed report from Los Angeles, I shall merely remark here that if I

have accomplished nothing more than to rekindle the enthusiasm of our

long-lost brother, W. C. Owen, my work at Los Angeles has been amply

rewarded.

Few of our young readers and comrades are familiar with that name, but

those of us who remember such intellectual towers as Dyer D. Lum and

John Edelman will recollect W. C. Owen as one of the ablest and ardent

workers in the movement at that period.

For reasons of his own, Comrade Owen has kept in the background. When my

coming to Los Angeles was suggested, he was too skeptical of success to

take an active interest. I was therefore very glad to see him at every

meeting and happy to learn that he became sufficiently interested in my

work to continue it upon my departure.

I am also glad to state that C. B. C r, well known to our New York

comrades, has recovered his former intellectual breadth and is now

actively participating in the work of the Social Science Club.

Altogether, my visit to Los Angeles proved a rare treat. My host and

hostess, the breeze of the Tyrolian mountains in their natures; my

meeting an old comrade who, in spite of his Socialistic opportunism, is

really bigger than his work; and many other persons and incidents

combined to make my visit interesting and pleasant.

Portland.—Philistine ascendancy seems to have ridden the local

Anarchists of their Anarchism. Most of them have grown prosperous and do

not want their neighbors to remember their “youthful follies.” Others

are busy saving the country from race suicide. Those who have some

Anarchism left were willing enough to work, but lacked the experience.

Still, three meetings have been held at Portland, and it is to be hoped

that the ice crust covering the native heart and mind has been somewhat

reduced in size. The Oregonian, a daily publication, aided my work by

printing almost stenographic reports of my lectures.

Tacoma.—Nature has not been as generous to Tacoma as to Portland; it

lacks the latter’s brilliance and beauty. The city seems to be stagnant;

it has not grown during the last eight years.—My first meeting was

largely attended and very satisfactory. By request I remained for

another lecture which, however, was not as successful as the first,

owing to a large fire which broke out in the neighborhood at the opening

of the meeting.

Home Colony.—It was my intention to spend a few days at Home Colony,

better known in Tacoma as the home of “cranks” and “free-lovers.” But

fate willed it otherwise. I arrived at 8 P. M., and left the next

morning, as time was pressing. I therefore do not know whether the

colonists are either cranky or free; but this I do know, that they have

accomplished wonders. Within eight years they have converted a

wilderness into a beautiful garden, and though numerous nationalities

are represented at the Colony, they have successfully demonstrated that

neither law nor government is necessary for their well-being. No doubt

there is occasional friction and misunderstanding; but the colonists

have conclusively proven that neither police nor jails are necessary in

a rational social organization. As they gradually learn that true

Anarchism means non-interference, friction will be minimized.

Seattle.—All is well that ends well.—The authorities and hall keepers

became panic-stricken when my coming was announced. It was with great

difficulty that we procured a hall.

I refer my readers to the more detailed report by A. H. I wish to state,

however, that I regret very much that the proposed debate could not take

place. It would have been almost too easy a victory to meet a man who

shows his colors like Mr. Mills. The latter claims that Socialism

“proclaims its obedience to the law and its desire to act always under

and in accordance with legal forms.” If that be so, I fail to see the

difference between Socialism and any other governmental theory. Or Mr.

Mills misrepresents Socialism, and in that case he is but a typical

politician.

Calgery.—“We are the people; the grandest people. We possess the

greatest wonders of the world,”—such is the notion of a real,

“desirable” American citizen.

After enjoying the perfume of New York’s greatest ornament—the famous

East Side—for eight years, I made my first trip through the West in

1897. When I beheld the majestic beauty of the Rockies and the

California mountains, I too felt that nature was incapable of anything

grander. But my journey from Seattle to Calgery, through British

Columbia, the dreamland of Selkirks and the Glaziers has completely

cured me of national arrogance. Never before had I seen such glory, such

wealth of color and form, and never has man with all his boasted

achievements seemed so puny, so insignificant as at the sight of those

giants with the shimmer of gold reflected upon their snowy caps,

immovable, inexorable and eternal as the firmament.

From these heights I fell into the mud of Calgery,— a town as gloomy as

the priest’s cassock. The great mass, however, that thronged the hall

Sunday, June the sixteenth, was as surprising as it was unexpected.

Indeed ideas are like lightning: they travel with the same rapidity and

strike hard when they come in contact with the human mind. They have

reached even far-away, deserted Calgery. Unfortunately, I did not have a

single brochure or Mother Earth with me. The Canadian Postal service

seems to serve everybody but the people. Literature sent from New York

on the sixth of the month did not reach Calgery till after the

sixteenth. My trunk, containing books and pamphlets, having been

negligently allowed to remain at Seattle, I could leave nothing behind

me but an impression. However, the ice has been broken, and if the work

is continued, good fruition will result.

Nobody should be expected to lecture or to attend a meeting during the

hot Summer days. Winnipeg and Chicago have convinced me of this on my

return trip. It was altogether too hot to remain indoors. Besides, the

human mind refuses to be overtaxed. I was too fatigued and worn out to

take much interest in the meetings in the above-mentioned cities. Still,

I was glad to meet again our active boys of Winnipeg and the good

comrades of Chicago.

When I left New York, March third, I believed that I could return by the

first of May. I found, however, such a tremendous interest in Anarchism

all through the country, that even four months’ touring barely covered

the ground.

Our grand old man, Peter Kropotkin, recently wrote to me, inquiring

whether I could recommend some young American comrades for work abroad.

I replied, in effect, that if we had such gems, we could set them here.

Now that my tour is ended, I am convinced more firmly than ever that the

soil is ripe and the seed good. What we need is sowers. I have met many

genuine, clear-headed and sincere American Anarchists, willing and ready

to help our work, once it is properly started. What they lack is

initiative. Some day that, too, may be called forth when the call of the

battle will ring loud enough in their ears. Then they, too, will realize

the beauty of the open road and joyfully follow its beckoning.

“Listen! I will be honest with you, I do not offer the old smooth

prizes, but offer rough new prizes, These are the days that must happen

to you: You shall not heap up what is call’d riches, You shall scatter

with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, You shall be treated to

the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you, What

beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate

kisses of parting, You shall not allow the hold of those who spread

their reach’d hands toward you.”