Chapter 8

“Years and sin and folly flee,And leave me at my mother’s knee.”

“Years and sin and folly flee,

And leave me at my mother’s knee.”

In this mood I write with the hope that the celebration at Terre Haute will inspire renewed devotion to the interests of labor, and with a heart full of good wishes, I subscribe myself,

Yours fraternally,E. V. Debs.

Yours fraternally,

E. V. Debs.

Dict. E.V.D.

TELEGRAM.

Indianapolis, Ind., July 18, 1894.

To Hon. Eugene V. Debs,Cook County Jail.

To Hon. Eugene V. Debs,

Cook County Jail.

My wife, my boys and myself give you our greatest love. The helpless world now acknowledges you, the whole world will crown you.

Devotedly,Franklin W. Hays.

Devotedly,

Franklin W. Hays.

Received at Chicago.

Dated Terre Haute, Ind., July 18, 1894.

To Eugene V. Debs.

Stand by your principles, regardless of consequences.

Your Father and Mother.

We, the undersigned, inmates of Woodstock Jail, desire to convey to you our heartfelt thanks and gratitude for the many acts of kindness and sympathy shown us by you during your incarceration in this institution.

We selfishly regret your departure from here into the outer world and scenes of labor. Your presence here has been to us what an oasis in a desert is to the tired and weary traveler, or a ray of sunshine showing thro’ a rift in the clouds.

With thousands of others we rejoice and extend to you our most earnest congratulations upon your restoration to liberty.

Hoping you may have a long, prosperous and happy life, success in all of your undertakings, especially “The American Railway Union,” we all join in wishing you Godspeed and beg to subscribe ourselves,

Your friends,Charles E. Anderson,Edward Madden,Paul Wambach,W. E. Horton.

Your friends,

Charles E. Anderson,

Edward Madden,

Paul Wambach,

W. E. Horton.

To Eugene V. Debs, Esq.,Woodstock, Ill., Nov. 22, 1895.

To Eugene V. Debs, Esq.,

Woodstock, Ill., Nov. 22, 1895.

DEBS AND THE POETS.

(Clipping from New York Socialist, June 20, 1908.)

An infallible instinct for heart-analysis appears to be an attribute of the poets. For the most part they possess an unfailing judgment of character-worth, and whomsoever they know well and call good is apt to be a pretty safe pilgrim to tie to. President Roosevelt, of vituperative vocabulary, may loudly denounce him as an “undesirable citizen,” but when the poets with deeper discernment and prophetic vision pronounce him a “desirable citizen” they voice the sure verdict of the justifying years.

To Eugene V. Debs have the poets been especially kind, for in him have they recognized a kindred spirit. In him they have detected the true impulse of the brotherhood, concerning which no poet can well be deceived. They have found that his mind is a garden in bloom, and that his soul is filled with fragrance. So right blithely have they sung him of their best, and many of Fame’s favorites have been proud to call him friend—they who “sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the gods of the elder days.”

It was James Whitcomb Riley who thus characteristically expressed himself concerning this beloved Apostle of Advancement:

“God was feeling mighty good when he created ’Gene Debs, and He didn’t have anything else to do all day.”

Another poet of world-wide fame—Eugene Field—who was extremely discriminating in his friendships and exceedingly sparing of compliment, said: “’Gene Debs is the most lovable man I ever knew. Debs is sincere. His heart is as gentle as a woman’s and as fresh as a mountain brook. If Debs were a priest the world would listen to his eloquence, and that gentle, musical voice and sad, sweet smile of his would soften the hardest heart.”

There have been paid to Debs enough tender tributes in verse to fill a large volume. At one time when Riley was confined to his room by illness, Debs sent him a bouquet of the poet’s favorite flowers, which called forth the following appreciation:

THEM FLOWERS.(To My Good Friend, Eugene V. Debs.)Take a feller ’ats sick, and laid up on the shelf,All shaky, and ga’nted and pore,And all so knocked out he can’t handle hisselfWith a stiff upper lip any more;Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a roomAs dark as a tomb, and as grim,And then take and send him some roses in bloom,And you kin have fun out o’ him!You’ve seed him, ’fore now, when his liver was sound,And his appetite notched like a saw,A chaffin’ you, mebby, for romancin’ roundWith a big posey bunch in yer paw.But you ketch him, say, when his health is awayAnd he’s flat on his back, in distress,And then you can trot out your little bokayAnd not be insulted, I guess!You see, it’s like this, what his weaknesses is,Them flowers makes him think of the daysOf his innocent youth, and that mother o’ his,And the roses she used to raise;So here all alone with the roses you send,Bein’ sick and all trimbly and faint,My eyes is—my eyes is—my eyes is—old friend,Is a-leakin’—I’m blamed ef they ain’t!

THEM FLOWERS.

(To My Good Friend, Eugene V. Debs.)

Take a feller ’ats sick, and laid up on the shelf,All shaky, and ga’nted and pore,And all so knocked out he can’t handle hisselfWith a stiff upper lip any more;Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a roomAs dark as a tomb, and as grim,And then take and send him some roses in bloom,And you kin have fun out o’ him!

Take a feller ’ats sick, and laid up on the shelf,

All shaky, and ga’nted and pore,

And all so knocked out he can’t handle hisself

With a stiff upper lip any more;

Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room

As dark as a tomb, and as grim,

And then take and send him some roses in bloom,

And you kin have fun out o’ him!

You’ve seed him, ’fore now, when his liver was sound,And his appetite notched like a saw,A chaffin’ you, mebby, for romancin’ roundWith a big posey bunch in yer paw.But you ketch him, say, when his health is awayAnd he’s flat on his back, in distress,And then you can trot out your little bokayAnd not be insulted, I guess!

You’ve seed him, ’fore now, when his liver was sound,

And his appetite notched like a saw,

A chaffin’ you, mebby, for romancin’ round

With a big posey bunch in yer paw.

But you ketch him, say, when his health is away

And he’s flat on his back, in distress,

And then you can trot out your little bokay

And not be insulted, I guess!

You see, it’s like this, what his weaknesses is,Them flowers makes him think of the daysOf his innocent youth, and that mother o’ his,And the roses she used to raise;So here all alone with the roses you send,Bein’ sick and all trimbly and faint,My eyes is—my eyes is—my eyes is—old friend,Is a-leakin’—I’m blamed ef they ain’t!

You see, it’s like this, what his weaknesses is,

Them flowers makes him think of the days

Of his innocent youth, and that mother o’ his,

And the roses she used to raise;

So here all alone with the roses you send,

Bein’ sick and all trimbly and faint,

My eyes is—my eyes is—my eyes is—old friend,

Is a-leakin’—I’m blamed ef they ain’t!

And in the “Hoosier Bard’s” poem “Regardin’ Terry Hut,” appears these lines:

And there’s ’Gene Debs—a man ’at standsAnd jest holds out in his two handsAs warm a heart as ever beatBetwixt here and the Jedgment Seat.

And there’s ’Gene Debs—a man ’at stands

And jest holds out in his two hands

As warm a heart as ever beat

Betwixt here and the Jedgment Seat.

The picturesque genius, Capt. Jack Crawford, renowned as “The Poet-Scout,” wrote of Debs:

The same old pard of long ago,The whole-souled ’Gene I used to know,With the love of Truth writ on Justice’s scroll,With a woman’s heart and a warrior’s soul.

The same old pard of long ago,

The whole-souled ’Gene I used to know,

With the love of Truth writ on Justice’s scroll,

With a woman’s heart and a warrior’s soul.

At a reception given to Debs by the Denver Press Club Walter Juan Davis recited these lines, written for the occasion:

DEBS.It is not his craft or creed,It is not the winged wordThat springs from his soul to his lips, at need,And, flying, is felt and heard;But something down in us allThat makes us respect the manWho says unto great and small:“You’ve a right to do what you can;You’ve a right to preserve and keepSuch things as the gods gave you;You’ve a right to your hours of sleepAnd the worth of the things you do;You’ve a right to the million or dimeThat your brain or your brawn has won;But not in the length of time;In the light of the moon or sun,Have you a right to a thingThat you steal or wringFrom me or from any one.”

DEBS.

It is not his craft or creed,It is not the winged wordThat springs from his soul to his lips, at need,And, flying, is felt and heard;But something down in us allThat makes us respect the manWho says unto great and small:“You’ve a right to do what you can;You’ve a right to preserve and keepSuch things as the gods gave you;You’ve a right to your hours of sleepAnd the worth of the things you do;You’ve a right to the million or dimeThat your brain or your brawn has won;But not in the length of time;In the light of the moon or sun,Have you a right to a thingThat you steal or wringFrom me or from any one.”

It is not his craft or creed,

It is not the winged word

That springs from his soul to his lips, at need,

And, flying, is felt and heard;

But something down in us all

That makes us respect the man

Who says unto great and small:

“You’ve a right to do what you can;

You’ve a right to preserve and keep

Such things as the gods gave you;

You’ve a right to your hours of sleep

And the worth of the things you do;

You’ve a right to the million or dime

That your brain or your brawn has won;

But not in the length of time;

In the light of the moon or sun,

Have you a right to a thing

That you steal or wring

From me or from any one.”

In 1904 he made such a campaign as no other man ever endured. He began at Indianapolis September 1, and from that date traveled to New York, and thence to California, thence to Portland, Maine, thence to his home, Terre Haute, closing his campaign in his home city before an audience of several thousands, and at least 2,000 could not gain entrance. During this time he did not miss an appointment by even one minute. He spoke every day and some days two, three and even four times. The crowds were so great in the large cities it seemed impossible for him to enter or go from the building at the close of the meetings. On several occasions it became necessary to stop and speak a few minutes to the waiting thousands on the streets. He had gone alone during all this time except from October 17 to November 8, when from Chicago to Portland and thence to Terre Haute, Comrade Reynolds, of Terre Haute, was with him, assisting in all possible ways to lighten the heavy work.

Owing to the lack of funds of the working class party Mr. Debs had been attending to baggage, hotels, time tables, and the vast correspondence necessarily following him. The old parties had the noise, brass bands, Pullman trains, luxuries of every sort, torch-lights and plenty of money. The Debs meetings were held in the largest obtainable audience rooms in the larger cities and were paid for by tickets of admission, and these meetings in every case netted to the campaign fund of the Socialist party considerable sums of money, from which Mr. Debs received only the expenses of travel, which were not very heavy.

In spite of the facts stated, most of the great capitalist papers either ignored these meetings or belittled them, or flatly misrepresented them, but the people are quick nowadays to get the truth about these things and there will be more wonderful meetings in the campaign of 1908 than ever before known by a rising militant minor political party. Those who heard him, heard the polished American orator; those who agreed with him were strengthened and confirmed in their beliefs; those who came seeking Truth were moved by his oratory and convinced by his array of facts and unerring logic, in making conclusions from them, while those who disagreed were disarmed of prejudice and commended him as a sincere, earnest man.

In 1880 he persuaded Susan B. Anthony to speak in Terre Haute in a series of meetings advocating Woman’s Suffrage, and with her he walked and stood the odium that ignorance and prejudice poured out upon that great human question, at that time not so popular as it now is, when 100,000 women may surround the Parliament of England and demand that the voices of women be counted in the rules of life that concern them and their children as it does men and their children.

Mr. Debs has always stood for equality of rights, equality of opportunity for men and women everywhere without distinction of race, religion, color, or sex, and no Socialist platform fails to clearly state its attitude upon these great vital questions. Search the old party platforms and you may find terms of evasion but not of real affirmation of these fundamental demands.

Mr. Debs was nominated by the Socialist party for President in 1900, receiving 97,000 votes; again in 1904, receiving 409,000 votes; again in 1908.

Debs has said these immortal words to the working people:

“I am not a Labor Leader; I do not want you to follow me or anyone else; if you are looking for a Moses to lead you out of this capitalist wilderness, you will stay right where you are. I would not lead you into this promised land if I could, because if I could lead you in, someone else would lead you out. YOU MUST use your heads as well as your hands, and get yourselves out of your present condition; as it is now the capitalists use your heads and your hands.”

To teach, to serve is his mental and moral mission. He seeks no place of power or profit,—did not want to be nominated either time for the presidency, but when the rank and file lead and order, he has never hesitated to obey, and he believes, with unquestioning faith and love for the people, that when they are educated and understand, they will peacefully and intelligently set government about its proper business,—the government of the forces of production and the same arrangements of distributing the things the people need, and must have, if they are ever to rise to complete physical, mental and spiritual freedom.

In closing this necessarily brief and meager biographical sketch of this true, living, loving and lovable man, true neighbor, really “desirable citizen,” and unimpeached and unimpeachable representative and servant of the working class, I cannot tell in any better way of “Debs at Home” than in the little pamphlet I wrote in 1904. It needs no change. He has only grown every day in intellectual and spiritual stature, more wise, more patient, more uncompromising and unconquerably aggressive and more loving and lovable and, therefore, able more safely to teach the workers and more to be feared by the exponents of the rapidly-dying system of capitalism tottering to its inevitable grave, dying because it has served its period of usefulness, because it now hurts, degrades and humiliates all of the human family.

Here, in Terre Haute, where “Gene” Debs lives, everybodyadmires him. All who know him personally love him. He has no personal enemies; he has enemies, but they do not know him. He has none in Terre Haute. Many here would like to hang his ideas, but the man, the strong personality, the gentleness and cordiality of his greeting when he meets his neighbors and fellow-citizens, disarm all prejudice. Politicians here, as elsewhere, fear him, for they know that his intrepid soul knows and permits no intellectual fears, stoops to no intellectual prostitution. He is as open and fearless when called upon for an opinion upon any matters of local interest as he is when he assails the capitalist system.

I remember first seeing him in the editorial office of the Locomotive Firemen’s Magazine. I was struck by his alertness and the unhesitating speed of his work, whether engaged in writing or arranging the details of printing, mailing or distributing the great magazine among the thousands of workers who read and had profitable enjoyment from its pages. I next remember his home-coming after the A. R. U. had won the Great Northern strike. An immense throng met him at the depot with the Ringgold Band, drum corps and torchlights. They had a carriage for him, but he protested and took his place in the ranks with the men,—only a look of joy shone on his face, nothing of exultation; he was as unconscious of himself then as he seems ever to be and is. The shouts of “Welcome Home” seemed only to elate and inspire his soul to do more for the cause of labor. Then I remember (I was a Republican at the time) reading of the awful strike begun in Chicago in 1894. I shared with others in my ignorance in condemnation of the things reported from Chicago. I commiserated his confinement in jail at Woodstock but believed, as millions equally as ignorant as I was then believed, that the laws had been upheld. I know now the details of the wrongs that in the name of Law and Order were heaped upon the cause of labor then and understand the superb courage and patience of labor’s greatest and most far-seeing leader,—Debs.

When he came from Woodstock Jail to Terre Haute it had been raining all day. Mr. Debs’ train arrived at 7:00 o’clock. There were several hundred people at the depot, among them200 miners with the Coal Bluff Band. Escorted by the band he walked to his home, a few squares from the depot. There he found his aged father and mother, and they clung to him, kissing him again and again. After he had had his supper he was escorted to the Armory through the rain, along the route blazing with Roman candles. After the enthusiastic cheering and greeting had subsided, Mr. Debs made a short speech to the audience and afterwards he was kept busy shaking hands with his friends.

I do not know much of those long, fallow years when he went deep into the movement of things. I became a Socialist in 1899, entirely uninfluenced and alone. I emerged and found myself and a new life, a new outlook, and stand now serenely, knowing that the end of capitalism is in sight and the day of better things is certain.

I feel yet the throb of his heart in his great, strong hand when I told him I had taken my place on the side of the Barricades, where the cause of labor must soon entrench itself. From that time I have seen him intimately at all hours of the day, under all circumstances, and found him always sure in knowledge of the future, with unlimited faith in humanity and never once faltering. I know unnumbered things he has done for the “A. R. U. Boys,”—know he has gone to their personal assistance, not only with inspiring sympathy but with substantial help. His mail often brings him words of courage and good cheer from those who have come into the light with him, and these are the things that go deepest to his heart. He keenly suffers with the workers in all their industrial battles, but sees now only the greater lesson to them he himself learned in the A. R. U. strike. In that strike he learned that labor was powerless with the courts, the laws, police, the military and every power of government in the hands of capital, and always ready to weaken, if not destroy, unions, unionism and union leaders. He often speaks of Woodstock jail as the greatest school where he learned to study and understand the value of the only weapon by which labor can ever come to its own,—“The Ballot.”

He loves to tell the stories of his childhood experiences and the experiences of his early manhood as Town Clerk and asa member of the Indiana Legislature one term, his five years’ experience in Hulman’s Wholesale Grocery House, of his joy in firing a locomotive on the Vandalia Railroad, and of his grief because his aged mother could not sleep when he started out with the engine, fearing something might befall him, and how, to make her happy, he quit the job.

I find him very often, even in these days of pressing work, reading all alone to his old father, who is eighty-three years of age and almost blind. It is good to see this man, who is known in more countries and to more human beings than any other living man, surrendering himself completely to his friends when they call upon him. Three weeks ago he and his comrade wife, Katherine Debs (he calls her “Kate”), came to spend the evening with my family. We had many neighbors with us and the precise hour agreed upon “Gene” came down the street on his bicycle and went to the kitchen and without assistance prepared the supper. You, comrades, who have seen this man of heart and soul poised like a panther when he steps upon the platform and hurls the words that scorch and flash like fire, should have seen the gleam of domestic pleasure and joyous comradeship when he stood in the long apron and enthusiastically cooked a good supper in the kitchen of the “Old Red House” on Sixth Street, where so many “Soapbox Travelers and Apostles of Truth” have found shelter and food and repaired their raiment. And then after supper, until after midnight, we saw his soul aflame upon his face as he recited the wrongs of labor in Colorado and told of the heroism of the outraged comrades and workers in accursed Telluride.

Again, he loves best, I am sure, to go out into the country. We often go together. The last time we drove ten miles under the trees along the Wabash and when his quick eye saw a Kentucky cardinal in the woods, he stopped the horse and sat listening to the clear falling notes of this sweet whistler, and when we heard a mocking bird, like a child, he clasped his hands together and was lost as long as the song lasted in worshipful adoration of the wondrous music that stirred the still atmosphere into responsive vibration. After our dinner at a farmhouse we sat on a fallen “naked sycamore”on the “Banks of the Wabash,” and there I saw deeper into the soul of this great comrade and brother. The universality of his vision was revealed and he poured forth, as though inspired, an analysis of world conditions, a forecast of things certain to occur, that made almost the waters in the river stop, listen and applaud. He described with great particularity the Chicago Republican convention (it was before it occurred, sometime in early May), its certainty to be a dull, apathetic, heartless proceeding, and the St. Louis convention marking the disintegration of a great political party,—Bryan’s dying struggle to save the Democracy and the utter impossibility of preventing the coming together of capitalists, powers and influences, the effect upon the minds of the workers, the revelation of the true position of Capital vs. Labor and the tremendous and resistless growth of the Socialist movement. If he had had ten thousand workers before him, he could not have uttered more polished sentences, more words of deep significance, more prophetic epigrams than I heard alone, sitting on the fallen sycamore. But such things are not lost; he has uttered as great things to men who seemed as trees, but some day these same men will move as though a tornadic wind was upon them and then they will remember when and where they heard the first great words that inspired them.

It was near six o’clock when we came home and the toil-stained workers were going in all directions to their cottages, huts, hovels, boat-houses and tents. I shall never forget the look of compassionate understanding that came into his face as he reiterated some of the things he had so eloquently uttered in their behalf to the Wabash sycamore that afternoon, but now his words find open ears and go clear and welcome to hungry hearts. The words of this great comrade are finding lodgment and bearing fruitage, and the time of emancipation is not far off.

You comrades do not mistake the significance of events.

I know a million men and women are alive in America today, and millions more will soon be ready to help create the Co-operative Commonwealth, where men and women, great in soul and mind and strong in bodies and sure in life,shall be industrially free and realize the beneficence and uplifting power of Industrial Democracy. In that day we can know more of and better understand “Debs at Home,” for now he is tireless and literally a wandering agitator, an apostle of truth, an awakener of the dead in spirit.

What would humanity be without such men, produced from their longings and aspirations? When you see him, give him the best love of your heart; inspire and encourage him for yet better efforts in your behalf. His life is of yours, ye toilers; his heart, his brain, his body, his soul are aflame with truth in your cause. Go the journey with him for your own sake. He is bone and marrow, flesh and blood of and for you. You will not soon see his like again. There are everywhere now, in all countries of the world, other great comrades, but nature will not soon conspire again to produce another Debs.

Stephen Marion Reynolds.

Terre Haute, Indiana, July 28, 1908.

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