By Robert Hunter
By Robert Hunter
By Robert Hunter
I remember as a little lad of eight or nine years, walking with my father in one of the streets of Terre Haute. A tall, slender, handsome young man stopped to talk with my father. At first I was fascinated by the way they grasped hands and looked into each other’s eyes. I was then impressed by their animated conversation. But they talked on and on until it seemed to me hours in length; and finally I began to tug at my father’s coat-tails, urging him to come on. After a while they parted, and my father said to me very seriously, “You should not interrupt me, Robert, when I am talking. That young man is one of the greatest souls of this earth, and you should have listened to what he said.”
From time to time afterwards I heard of ’Gene, and many were the stories told of him. Everyone spoke of his friendship for the poor. He could never keep money in his pocket. His wife says he always gives away his clothes to those who come to his door; and he gives his best suits, never his old ones.
Once I was told he had a gold watch of considerable value which had been given to him, and a fireman who had been outof work for some time stopped him to say that he had a job offered on the railroad, but he would have to have a watch before he could go to work. Immediately ’Gene took out his gold watch and give it to the man, telling him to return it when he was able to buy one for himself.
These and countless other stories are told by his fellow-citizens. Many of them do not understand ’Gene. His views and his work they cannot comprehend, but every man, woman and child in that town loves him with a devotion quite extraordinary.
They say that a prophet is without honor in his own country, but in Terre Haute you will find that however much they misunderstand the work that ’Gene is doing there is not one who does not honor and love him.
Ask anyone. Go to the poor, the vagrant, the hobo. Go to the churches, to the rich, to the banker, to the traction magnate. You will find that every single one will say that ’Gene has something which other men do not possess. Some will say he is rash, unwise, and too radical. Others will say that he is too good for this world, and that his visions and dreams are the fanciful outpourings of a generous but impractical soul. But ask them about his character, his honesty, his sincerity, and unconsciously many of them will remove their hats.
Some of these statements will seem an exaggeration. But one cannot avoid that in speaking of ’Gene. When one who knows him makes any statement, no matter how moderate, it will seem to others who do not know him an exaggeration.
’Gene has followed Truth wherever she has led. He does not ask what is politic, what is wise, what is expedient; he only asks what is truth. He loves Truth beyond all things. She is his absolute mistress, and he has gone with her from riches to poverty, from popularity to unpopularity. He has gone with her out of great positions into small positions. He has stood up for her against all men. For her he has seemed at times to sacrifice all earthly gain, and to accept without one pang of regret misunderstanding, misrepresentation, and almost universal condemnation. For her he has been momentarily one of the most popular men in the country, and for her he has been momentarily one of the most unpopular menin the country. He has been her companion when everyone believed in her, and he has been her companion when to believe in her meant to go into prison stripes, behind iron bars.
Sometimes I have differed with ’Gene. I have said to him that what he was doing was unwise, impolitic, dangerous. At such times, under such criticism, he is always kindly but undeterred; and it is his conscience that answers you back and asks, “But is it right? Is it true?”
Shortly after I left college I went to live in one of the most poverty-stricken districts of Chicago. One Sunday it was announced that Eugene would come there to speak. Thousands came to hear him, and overflowing the hall a multitude waited outside to hear him speak from a truck. After waiting for two hours perhaps, ’Gene came out and began to speak. Most of the audience were foreigners who could hardly understand a word of English, and as I heard his beautiful words and saw their wistful, earnest faces I felt that something more powerful, penetrating and articulate than mere words was passing between the audience and the speaker. For a moment it seemed to me that a soul was speaking from the eyes and frame of ’Gene, and that, regardless of differences of language and all the traditional barriers that separated him from the multitude about him, they understood and believed all he said. I remember how my heart beat, and how tears began to flow from my boyish eyes. I was ashamed for fear someone would see me. And it was not because of anything that ’Gene was saying. It was solely because of something back of the man, something greater than the man, something bigger, more powerful, and more moving than any words or expression. And after the thing was over I went to him, helped him on with his coat, and fondled him as I would my own father or brother. And as we went away together there kept coming into my heart the words of Ruth:
“Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee. For whither thou goest I will go, and whither thou lodgest I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”
Greater Love Hath No Man
To me the name of Eugene V. Debs means this—loyalty absolute, unswerving, incorruptible to the Cause of Labor, the Cause of Humanity itself. Where that Cause is at stake, Debs sinks his personality with utter self-abnegation; he fears nothing, he dares all in defense of that splendid ideal. No threat deters him; nor is there gold enough in all the swollen purses of Plutocracy to turn this man one hair’s-breadth aside from his fidelity to Labor. Greater love than his hath no man. All honor to ’Gene Debs, say I.—George Allan England, Bryant’s Pond, Maine.