The Shadow on the Dial, and Other Essays is a collection of essays by Ambrose Bierce, edited by S. O. Howes, published in San Francisco by A. M. Robertson, with a copyright date of 1909. The volume was printed and bound by The Hicks-Judd Company of San Francisco. The book gathers essays that Bierce wrote for various Californian journals and periodicals over a period spanning more than a quarter of a century, bringing together pieces that had previously lain fallow in the pages of newspapers and magazines.
“For Mr. Bierce, as did Flaubert, holds that the right word is necessary for the conveyance of the right thought and his sense of word values rarely betrays him into error.”
The collection includes nineteen essays on a wide range of subjects: The Shadow on the Dial, Civilization, The Game of Politics, Some Features of the Law, Arbitration, Industrial Discontent, Crime and its Correctives, The Death Penalty, Religion, Immortality, Opportunity, Charity, Emancipated Woman, The Opposing Sex, The American Sycophant, A Dissertation on Dogs, The Ancestral Bond, The Right to Work, and The Right to Take Oneself Off. The essays are primarily works of social and political criticism, reflecting Bierce’s characteristically caustic and contrarian perspective on American life, government, law, and culture in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
In a note by the author, Bierce explains that the book was expected to be included in his Collected Works, then in course of publication, but unforeseen delay in publication made this impossible. He notes that the selection of contents was not made by him, but that the choice has his approval and the publication his authority. The note is dated Washington, D. C., March 14, 1909.
The editor’s preface, written by S. O. Howes, provides context for the essays’ origins and defends Bierce’s priority in advancing certain ideas that had since been claimed by others. Howes notes Bierce’s “perverse indifference to his own reputation” in allowing his writings to lie fallow while others later “tilled the soil with some degree of success.” The preface gives three instances of priority claims: President Hadley of Yale University advanced ostracism as punishment for social highwaymen in 1900, while Bierce had written in The Examiner in January 1895 about the “predatory rich” and how notorious rascality should entail social outlawry; Edwin Markham advocated the Golden Rule in temporal affairs for industrial discontent, while Bierce had written in The Examiner in March 1894 that the commandment “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them” offers the only means for safety and relief; and Rev. Charles M. Sheldon conducted a newspaper for a week as he conceived Christ would have done, while Bierce had written in June 1896 that his “ultimate and determining test of right” is “What, under the circumstances, would Christ have done?”—the Christ of the New Testament, not of commentators, theologians, priests, and parsons. Howes says he mentions these instances to forestall other claims to priority, and that Bierce does not begrudge these gentlemen their acclaim.
Context
The essays in this collection were written over a period of more than twenty-five years for various Californian journals and periodicals, placing their composition roughly in the last quarter of the nineteenth century and the first years of the twentieth. This was a period of significant social and political upheaval in the United States: rapid industrialization, the rise of large corporations and trusts, labor unrest culminating in events such as the Homestead strike and the Coeur d’Alene disturbances, waves of immigration from Europe, and intense partisan political conflict over issues such as tariffs, currency, and railroad regulation.
Bierce’s essays engage directly with these contemporary developments. He references specific events and figures of his time: the Homestead and Wardner labor conflicts, the assassination of President McKinley (implied in his discussion of anarchism), the French political crisis surrounding the resignation of President Casimir-Perier, the rise of William Jennings Bryan to the Democratic presidential nomination in 1896, the activities of labor leaders such as Eugene Debs and Samuel Gompers, and the growing prominence of industrialists such as John D. Rockefeller and J. P. Morgan. He also engages with intellectual currents of the era, including the germ theory of disease associated with Koch and Pasteur, the rise of hypnotism as a subject of scientific inquiry, and theosophy.
The essays reflect a period of American history when the nation was struggling to define the proper scope of government, the rights of labor and capital, the meaning of justice, and the viability of republican institutions. Bierce’s perspective is that of a journalist and social critic writing from California, observing the national scene with a distinctly pessimistic and satirical eye. His editor, S. O. Howes, claims that Bierce has seen “the portentous effigy that we are making of the Liberty our fathers created,” suggesting that the essays collectively constitute a warning about the decline of American democratic ideals.
The collection also reflects Bierce’s literary sensibility, which Howes compares to Flaubert in holding that the right word is necessary for conveying the right thought. This attention to precise language and his willingness to challenge conventional wisdom made Bierce a distinctive voice in American letters, though his “perverse indifference to his own reputation” meant that much of his work remained uncollected until this volume appeared.
Structure of the Book
The book is organized as a collection of nineteen essays, each treating a distinct subject, though they share common themes and concerns that give the volume a coherent intellectual arc. The essays are presented in a sequence that moves from broad reflections on civilization and politics to more specific examinations of law, labor, crime, and ultimately to questions of religion, ethics, and human relationships.
The opening essay, “The Shadow on the Dial,” establishes the book’s central metaphor and its pessimistic diagnosis of modern civilization. Bierce examines the confusion surrounding the terms “Socialist,” “Anarchist,” and “Nihilist,” and argues that political dissent finds expression in only two ways: Socialism or Anarchism. He contends that everything foretells the doom of authority and that the shadow on the dial of civilization is going backward. This essay sets the tone for the collection, introducing Bierce’s view that American society is in decline and that its republican institutions are failing.
The second essay, “Civilization,” asks whether civilization actually civilizes, arguing that it does not make the race better, only more knowledgeable. Bierce examines survivals of savagery in civilized life, the role of heredity and breeding in human character, the tyranny of public opinion, and the fate of civilizations, concluding that ours is a “Jonah’s gourd civilization” destined for oblivion.
“The Game of Politics” follows, offering a satirical examination of American political parties, oratory, voting machines, and public opinion. Bierce argues that party labels have lost their meaning, that eloquence is a form of animal magnetism, and that public opinion is the voice of mediocrity. He also criticizes the custom of eulogizing dead members of Congress.
“Some Features of the Law” is a lengthy examination of the American legal system, covering the distinction between laws and “the law” as created by lawyers, the system of appeals and punishment, judicial discretion, preliminary examinations, the right against self-incrimination, the lawyer’s duty in criminal defense, contempt of court, divorce law, and sex differences in punishment.
“Arbitration” addresses both international and industrial arbitration, arguing that the universal cry for arbitration is “either dishonest or unwise” and that arbitration is a quack remedy for the irremediable evil of inadequate wages for manual labor.
“Industrial Discontent” examines the conflict between capital and labor, which Bierce characterizes as a war between “those who do muscular labor and those who do not.” He imagines confessions from both a labor leader and a capitalist, arguing that the relations between the two classes are about to undergo profound alteration.
“Crime and its Correctives” discusses theories of criminal impulse as disease, the advocacy of painless removal of incurable criminals, and the social tolerance of rogues.
“The Death Penalty” defends capital punishment as a measure of self-defense, arguing that the horrible prevalence of murder in America is due to not executing our laws.
The remaining essays—”Religion,” “Immortality,” “Opportunity,” “Charity,” “Emancipated Woman,” “The Opposing Sex,” “The American Sycophant,” “A Dissertation on Dogs,” “The Ancestral Bond,” “The Right to Work,” and “The Right to Take Oneself Off”—continue Bierce’s examination of American society, culture, and human nature, addressing topics ranging from religious belief and the afterlife to gender relations, social snobbery, and the rights of workers and individuals.
Main Arguments
The central argument of the collection is that American civilization is in decline and that its institutions are failing to fulfill their purposes. Bierce argues that the shadow on the dial of civilization is going backward, and he forecasts the eventual end of republican government through a sequence of rioting, disaffection of troops, subversion of the government, a policy of decapitation, the upthrust of the Anarchist, his effacement by the Socialist, free minting of money, divided counsels, Pandemonium, the man on horseback, and gusts of grape. He does not expect to be heeded, comparing himself to Cassandra.
Bierce argues that government is inherently flawed because those who govern share the same intellectual limitations and character defects as all humanity. God has not provided a special kind of man to enforce laws, so this work, like all human work, is badly done. The best that can be hoped for is a fairly good general result that lets people walk abroad unafraid. The Anarchist would deprive us of this small security, and therefore we should deprive ourselves of the Anarchist.
On the question of Socialism, Bierce argues that the Socialist, when not pooling issues with the Anarchist, has something worth hearing; his mission is amendment, and he has the right to walk in peaceful paths. Public ownership of anything is a step toward Socialism, and the principle of public ownership is already accepted and established—the Postal Department is one of a thousand instances of pure Socialism. The only question is how far extension of Socialism is expedient. Antagonists of Socialism lost when the first human government held dedicatory exercises of a Cave of Legislation.
Bierce argues against people of “principle,” calling them a dangerous class who hamper us in every war and prevent concentration of unabolishable evils. What is right is merely what, in the long run, is expedient. Principle is not always an infallible guide—it is not always expedient to tell the truth, be entirely just or merciful, or pay a debt.
On the question of whether civilization civilizes, Bierce argues that it does not make the race better, only more knowledgeable. Every savage custom has its mate in civilized countries. Civilization is built upon the bones and blood of the people. The South Sea Islander is better off than the workingman.
Bierce argues that heredity and breeding determine human character and ability, just as in race horses and bird dogs. He does not claim aristocracy of leisure is the best system, but he does not consider faulty a system where all important public trusts are held by educated men of trained faculties and disciplined judgment.
On patriotism, Bierce argues it is “one of the most abominable vices affecting the human understanding.” Every patriot believes his country best; they cannot all be right. Patriotism subordinates the whole’s interests to a part’s, determined by accident of birth.
On the labor problem, Bierce offers no solution but points to the Golden Rule: “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.” He warns that if the rich, the lazy workmen, the anarchists, the politicians, and the writers do not follow this command, they shall be “drowned in your own blood and your pickpocket civilization quenched as a star that falls into the sea.”
On the law, Bierce argues that lawyers have created an immense body of “superingenious writings” that governs persons and property, can set aside any statute, and supports every fallacy and monstrous deduction. All court methods and traditions exist to enable lawyers to extract maximum money from mankind. He proposes no remedy; “the lawyers have ‘got us’ and they mean to keep us.”
On arbitration, Bierce argues it is a quack remedy for the irremediable evil of inadequate wages for manual labor. Success of arbitration is “demonstrably impossible” because most work is hard, disagreeable, requiring little intelligence, and most people are unintelligent and unfit for other work. The individual laborer’s hope lies in fitting himself for cerebral labor.
On crime, Bierce argues that the criminal impulse is not a disease, dismissing the germ theory of crime. He argues that crime maintains “steady and unbroken monotony” and that talk of “waves” of crime is nonsense. He advocates the “painless removal” of incurable idiots, lunatics, incorrigible criminals, and irreclaimable drunkards, arguing that mental and moral diseases are increasing proportionately to population.
On the death penalty, Bierce defends it as a measure of self-defense. The horrible prevalence of murder in America is due to not executing our laws—the death penalty is threatened but not inflicted; the pistol is not loaded. Every hanging proves the death penalty is somewhat deterrent—it deters the person hanged.
Key Concepts
The Shadow on the Dial: The book’s central metaphor, drawn from the title essay, refers to the backward movement of civilization. Bierce writes that he has looked at the dial of civilization and the shadow is going back. This image of time and decline recurs throughout the collection, suggesting that progress is an illusion and that American society is retrogressing rather than advancing.
Socialism, Anarchism, and Nihilism: Bierce offers precise definitions of these three terms, which he says are commonly confused. The Socialist believes most human affairs should be regulated by the State. The Anarchist is “the kind of lunatic who believes that all crime is the effect of laws forbidding it.” The Nihilist is essentially destructionary, “unweeding the soil” without thought to what he will grow there. Bierce argues that Socialism and Anarchism are the two extremes of political thought, “parts of the same thing, in the sense that the terminal points of a road are parts of the same road.” Cooperation is Socialism; competition is Anarchism.
The Golden Rule: Bierce repeatedly invokes the commandment “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them” as the only means for safety and relief from industrial discontent. He addresses the rich, the lazy workmen, the anarchists, the politicians, and the writers, asking if they think themselves wiser than Jesus, and warns that if they do not follow the Golden Rule, they shall be destroyed.
The Predatory Rich: Bierce writes about the “predatory rich” (quoting Mr. Stead’s term) and how notorious rascality should entail social outlawry. He argues that if social recognition were denied to rogues, there would be fewer of them, and states that he would refuse to shake hands with John D. Rockefeller.
Animal Magnetism: Bierce argues that personal persuasion is a matter of “animal magnetism,” now called hypnotism. This secret power captivates and enslaves the will; spoken words merely supply “a pretext for surrender.” He predicts parliamentary debate of the future will be conducted in silence, with only “passes” as gestures.
The Average Man: Bierce quotes Buckle: “Public opinion, being the voice of the average man, is the voice of mediocrity.” The average man is “very much a fool, and something of a rogue as well,” with only a smattering of education, no knowledge of history, incapable of logical thinking, subject to “base and silly prejudices,” and selfish. Wisdom cannot be got “by combining many ignorances.”
Nature’s Method of Criminal Procedure: Bierce contrasts the American legal system’s protection of accused persons with what he calls “Nature’s method”—sharp examination and trapping liars. In private life, refusal to testify is rightly held confession of guilt. Any pressure short of physical torture is just and expedient.
The Palace of Truth: Bierce imagines a labor leader in the Palace of Truth confessing his ultimate purposes: abolition of the distinction between employer and employee, overthrow of the system where head-work pays more than hand-work, and the use of any means judged solely by efficacy, including punishing the innocent, destroying property and life, and using falsehood, treachery, arson, and assassination.
The Bacillus of Crime: Bierce satirically proposes discovering “the bacillus of crime” by examining hanged assassins and prisoners, wondering whether one “grand” bacillus produces all crime or many specific bacilli incite particular crimes. He finds in the “unity of crime” evidence of human brotherhood.
The Unloaded Pistol: Bierce’s metaphor for the American death penalty: society threatens execution but does not inflict it, so the warning is an idle threat. The horrible prevalence of murder in America is due to the pistol not being loaded.
The Jonah’s Gourd Civilization: Bierce’s characterization of American civilization as having “hardly the rudiments of true civilization.” Our vaunted elixir vitae is printing with movable types, useless when posterity ceases to read. Our libraries will become stables, our books fuel.
The Man on Horseback: Part of Bierce’s forecast of the end of republican government, referring to the military dictator who will arise from the chaos of social breakdown.
Themes
The Decline of Civilization: The overarching theme of the collection is that civilization, particularly American civilization, is in decline. Bierce argues that the shadow on the dial is going backward, that America is a “Jonah’s gourd civilization,” and that our nation, laws, and history shall go to oblivion with the others, but we travel there “with needless haste.” This pessimism pervades every essay, from the opening meditation on the doom of authority to the closing reflections on the right to take oneself off.
The Failure of Republican Institutions: Bierce repeatedly argues that republican government is failing. The capital defect of republican government is its inability to repress internal forces of disintegration. A “self-governed” people learns that an agreement enforcible by nobody is not binding. The sovereign power is a mob, which, if large enough, may destroy property and life, inflict torments, and assassinate prisoners. Incessant changes in government personnel prevent fixed principles and standards. There is no science of politics because no one makes politics a life study.
The Tyranny of Public Opinion: Bierce argues that majorities rule not because right but because able. Majorities, embracing the most ignorant, seldom think rightly; public opinion, being mediocrity’s opinion, is commonly a mistake and mischief. Our social system forbids uttering wholesome but unpalatable truth. Public writers and speakers confirm “the plain people” in brainless errors and brutish prejudices.
The Conflict Between Capital and Labor: Bierce characterizes the relationship between employers and employees as a war between “those who do muscular labor and those who do not.” He argues that manual labor has no dignity or beauty; it is a “hard, imperious and dispiriting necessity” that brands the laborer with intellectual inferiority. The two irreconcilable elements are about to fight, with “industrial discontent” having attained the magnitude of war.
The Corruption of the Legal System: Bierce argues that the law is made, interpreted, and enforced by lawyers for their profit. The machinery of precedent, rulings, decisions, objections, writs of error, motions, appeals, reversals—all are “a transparent and iniquitous system of ‘cinching.'” The system is so complicated that judges do as they please.
The Hypocrisy of Morality: Bierce attacks people of “principle,” arguing that what is right is merely what, in the long run, is expedient. He argues that one cannot hate sin or love virtue because abstractions have no existence. What matters is conduct, not principles. “Principles, not men” is a rogue’s cry.
The Dignity of Labor as a Fiction: Bierce mocks the prating about the dignity of labor, saying we think we mean it. Manual labor is universally considered the most insufferable pursuit. If labor is so good, all can have it; the eight-hour law is not mandatory.
The Immigrant as a Degenerative Force: Bierce argues that immigration of “the oppressed of all nations” has made America “one of the worst on the face of the earth.” The oppressed are unworthy of asylum, avenging upon their hosts the wrongs they fled. A European immigrant “commonly is not” a good man, being in nine cases out of ten “a brute whom it would be God’s mercy to drown on his arrival.”
The Illusion of Progress: Bierce argues that each generation believes itself wiser than predecessors, but we know no more than the ancients, only other things. Vestiges of obliterated civilizations cover the earth. The Tennysonian faith that “Freedom broadens slowly down / From precedent to precedent” is rejected.
The Necessity of Force: Bierce repeatedly argues that force is necessary to maintain order. Shooting a rioter or lyncher is “a high kind of mercy.” A rioter shot in time saves nine. The death penalty is a measure of self-defense. The vast armaments of the Great Powers are purely constabular, phenomena of decivilization.
The Critique of Sentimentality: Bierce attacks sentimental approaches to social problems, whether in the form of Christian charity toward criminals, theosophical objections to the death penalty, or reformist faith in voting machines and new laws. He argues that reform requires genuine contrition, not “crocodile deliverances,” and that personal character must be amended before laws can be amended in vain.
The Author’s Conclusions
Bierce concludes that American civilization is in terminal decline and that the shadow on the dial is going backward. He forecasts the end of republican government through a sequence of social breakdown: rioting, disaffection of troops, subversion of the government, a policy of decapitation, upthrust of the Anarchist, his effacement by the Socialist, free minting of money, divided counsels, Pandemonium, the man on horseback, and gusts of grape. He does not expect to be heeded, comparing himself to Cassandra.
On the question of government, Bierce concludes that the kind of government we have is one of the worst kinds extant. A government that does not protect life is worthless. The best that can be hoped for, despite failures, injustice, and damage to individual rights, is a fairly good general result that lets people walk abroad unafraid.
On the labor problem, Bierce concludes that the only remedy is the Golden Rule. He addresses the rich coining workers’ sweat into drachmas, lazy workmen railing at capitalists, foul anarchists applauding bombs amongst women and children, imbecile politicians with remedial legislation, and writers with many “solutions,” asking if they think themselves wiser than Jesus. If they do not follow the Golden Rule, they shall be “drowned in your own blood and your pickpocket civilization quenched as a star that falls into the sea.”
On the law, Bierce concludes that the lawyers have “got us” and they mean to keep us. He proposes no remedy, but hopes God’s grace attends those who tar and feather lawyers, noting tar and hen’s-down can make lawyers resemble angels.
On arbitration, Bierce concludes that it is a quack remedy for the irremediable evil of inadequate wages for manual labor. The individual laborer’s hope lies in fitting himself for cerebral labor. Since selfishness remains the main ingredient of human nature, cerebral workers, being wiser and no better, will take greater profit, though they extend a sincere invitation to their ranks through education.
On crime, Bierce concludes that mental and moral diseases are increasing proportionately to population, eventually making it impossible for the healthy to care for the afflicted. When costs become unbearable, sentiment will yield to reason, and society will adopt the “painless removal” of incurable idiots, lunatics, incorrigible criminals, and irreclaimable drunkards.
On the death penalty, Bierce concludes that it is a necessary measure of self-defense. The horrible prevalence of murder in America is due to not executing our laws. Against one guiltless person’s life, ten thousand murderers’ lives count for nothing; their hanging is a public good.
On the question of whether civilization civilizes, Bierce concludes that it does not make the race better, only more knowledgeable. The one purpose of every sane human being is to be happy; there is no such thing as unselfishness. Civilization is built upon the bones and blood of the people.
On patriotism, Bierce concludes it is “one of the most abominable vices affecting the human understanding,” fierce as a fever, pitiless as the grave, blind as a stone and irrational as a headless hen.
On the ultimate fate of civilization, Bierce concludes that our nation, laws, and history shall go to oblivion with the others, but we travel there “with needless haste.” Ours is a “Jonah’s gourd civilization”—hardly the rudiments of true civilization. Our libraries will become stables, our books fuel. Ours is a civilization heard from afar as “a scolding and a riot,” showing a “reasonless and rascally feud between rich and poor,” offering choice between “American plutocracy and European militocracy.”
Significance
The significance of The Shadow on the Dial, and Other Essays lies in its uncompromising critique of American society at the turn of the twentieth century, delivered by one of the most distinctive and caustic voices in American letters. Bierce’s essays anticipate many of the concerns that would dominate American social and political thought in the decades following their publication: the concentration of wealth and the rise of the plutocracy, the
Detailed Section-by-Section Summary
The Shadow on the Dial
The volume opens with a title page and bibliographic details, establishing the book as a collection of essays by Ambrose Bierce, edited by S. O. Howes, and published in San Francisco in 1909. A brief note from the author explains that this book was intended to be part of his “Collected Works,” but a delay in that publication made this separate edition necessary. Bierce clarifies that while he did not select the contents, he approves of the choice and authorizes the publication, dating the note from Washington, D. C., in March 1909. The table of contents lists the essays that follow, covering topics from civilization and politics to law, religion, and social customs.
The Editor’s Preface
S. O. Howes introduces the collection by noting that these essays were written for various Californian journals over more than a quarter of a century. He observes that Bierce has seen “the portentous effigy that we are making of the Liberty our fathers created,” and compares Bierce to Flaubert in his insistence that the right word is necessary for conveying the right thought. Howes highlights Bierce’s “perverse indifference to his own reputation,” noting that he allowed his writings to lie fallow while others later “tilled the soil with some degree of success.” To forestall claims of priority, Howes gives three instances where Bierce’s ideas predated those of others: President Hadley of Yale, who in 1900 advocated ostracism for social highwaymen, while Bierce had written in 1895 about the “predatory rich” and social outlawry; Edwin Markham, who advocated the Golden Rule for industrial discontent, while Bierce had written in 1894 that this commandment offers the only means for safety and relief; and Rev. Charles M. Sheldon, who conducted a newspaper as he conceived Christ would have done, while Bierce had written in 1896 that his “ultimate and determining test of right” is “What, under the circumstances, would Christ have done?” Howes states that Bierce does not begrudge these gentlemen their acclaim.
The Shadow on the Dial, Section I
Bierce begins by addressing the confusion surrounding the terms “Socialist,” “Anarchist,” and “Nihilist.” The Socialist believes most human affairs should be regulated by the State, and the American system already has many Socialistic features, as republican government trends that way. The Anarchist, he defines with characteristic wit, is “the kind of lunatic who believes that all crime is the effect of laws forbidding it,” comparing such a person to a pig that breaks into a kitchen garden being created by the dog that chews its ear. The Anarchist favors the abolition of all law, often belonging to organizations that secure allegiance through oaths and penalties. “Nihilism,” a name given by Turgenieff to Russian discontent, is essentially destructionary, “unweeding the soil” without thought to what will grow there, and is “a policy of assassination tempered by reflections upon Siberia.” American sympathy with it, Bierce declares, is “the offspring of an unholy union between the tongue of a liar and the ear of a dupe.”
Political dissent, he argues, finds expression in only two ways: Socialism or Anarchism, yet the same man often advocates both in one breath, not knowing they are incompatible. With Anarchy triumphant, the Socialist would be a thousand years further from realization, and if Socialism were set up on Monday, by Tuesday the country would hunt down Anarchists. These two are the extremes of political thought, “parts of the same thing, in the sense that the terminal points of a road are parts of the same road.” Between them lies the current system, a “blend” of about equal parts. Everything serving the common interest is socialistic; whatever advances individual or class interest at public expense is anarchistic. Cooperation is Socialism; competition is Anarchism, and competition carried to its logical conclusion would leave no law, no property, no life secure. Anarchism is socialistic only in its means, for it “combines to kill combination.”
The Shadow on the Dial, Section II
Bierce asserts that everything foretells the doom of authority, noting that the killing of kings is ancient. He observes that those who govern share the same intellectual limitations and character defects as all humanity; wise governors, just judges, honest sheriffs, and patient constables are as rare as faultless fathers. God has not provided a special kind of man to enforce laws, so this work, like all human work, is badly done. The best that can be hoped for, despite failures and injustice, is a fairly good general result that lets people walk abroad unafraid. The Anarchist would deprive us of this small security, and without it nothing is of value; therefore, we should deprive ourselves of the Anarchist.
Civilization, he continues, is a natural outgrowth of our wretched moral and intellectual natures and is open to criticism and revision. Dissent and proposals for better systems are permissible and welcome. The Socialist, when not pooling issues with the Anarchist, has something worth hearing, for his mission is amendment. But the Anarchist aims not at amendment but destruction, not welfare but mischief, not future happiness but revenge. Society has not the right to grant life to one who denies the right to live. Of the bomb-thrower, it is difficult to say whether he is greater as scoundrel or fool, for each exploit only tightens “the reins of power,” making the mildest governments more despotic through guarding against him.
On Principle and Public Ownership
Bierce turns to the “wildest wild ass” who opposes “public ownership of public utilities” on grounds of “principle.” Honest opposition on grounds of expediency exists, but the man who howls “Socialism!” in derision is not a respectable opponent. Public ownership of anything is a step toward Socialism, but “principle” has nothing to do with it, as the principle is already accepted and established. The only question is how far extension of Socialism is expedient, and the Postal Department is one of a thousand instances of pure Socialism. Men and women of “principle,” he warns, are a dangerous class, hampering us in every war and preventing the concentration of unabolishable evils. Moral principles are good for the young, but “spirits of a purer fire” decide each question on its merits. What is right is merely what, in the long run, is expedient, and principle is not always an infallible guide—it is not always expedient to tell the truth, be entirely just or merciful, or pay a debt. One could conceive a case where it would be right to assassinate a neighbor, such as a scoundrel chemist who devised a means of setting the atmosphere afire.
Casimir-Perier’s Resignation
When M. Casimir-Perier resigned the French Presidency, some regarded it as weak and cowardly, but Bierce sees it as an act of a strong man and a gentleman—a dignified notification that serving one’s country does not relinquish the right to decent treatment. Casimir-Perier did not seek the Presidency; it was thrust upon him. In his resignation letter, he spoke of a campaign of slander and insult against the army, magistrates, Parliament, and the hierarchical Chief of State, and refused to acknowledge that the servants of the country may be insulted every day. Bierce notes that the right of the State to demand life is old, but the right to require a man to forego his good name is new—from the dunghill of modern democracy. Good men will not “go into politics” because of slander and vilification, and abstention by men of brains leaves government to the incapable and vicious. His advice to slandered officials is “Resign.” Our best men have been driven out of public life, and unless attracted by salary, why should a gentleman aspire to the Presidency, where at the finish the utmost he can expect is that not much more than half his countrymen will believe him a scoundrel?
The Defect of Republican Government
Bierce describes the early American republican spirit, which actively hated kings, nobles, and aristocracies, holding that a nobleman could not breathe in America. He asks if this is still true, observing that upon the landing of a foreign noble, Americans execute sycophantic genuflexions, newspapers are full of flamboyant adulation, and American women are crazy to mate with titled males. This represents a retrogression, a backward movement of the shadow on the dial. The capital defect of republican government is its inability to repress internal forces of disintegration. A “self-governed” people learns that an agreement enforcible by nobody is not binding. The sovereign power is a mob, which, if large enough, may destroy property and life, inflict torments, and assassinate prisoners.
Political Oratory and Its Translation
The author opens with a satirical rendering of Republican campaign rhetoric, quoting a speaker who addresses his audience as loyal members of “the Republican of the Republican banner county,” sweeping geographically from “snowy Shasta” to “sunny Diego.” The speaker employs military metaphors, claiming loyalty has been “tested on many fields of battle”—which the author parenthetically clarifies means elections—and that wherever “the fate of battle was trembling in the balance,” Alameda County stepped in to rescue the party. The author then offers a plain translation: “I live in Alameda county, where the Republicans have uniformly outvoted the Democrats.” He observes that Democratic convention orators a week earlier were no better, relying on the same “shop-worn figures of speech” that predecessors have used for ages and successors will continue using until the end of that imitative quality distinguishing humans from apes.
Voting Machines, Laws, and Moral Reform
A “well-meaning reformer” is quoted as saying that the Clifford or Myers voting machine is what is needed for honest elections. The author mocks this faith that “men can be made honest by machinery” and that “human character is a matter of gearing, ratchets and dials.” Such a mind, he says, is as happy as “a hen incubating a nestful of porcelain door-knobs,” living in a world where morality is purchasable at the machine-shop and the “mechanical engineer” is the high priest. He concedes voting machines save labor and let politicians know results sooner, but asserts: “a voting-machine that human ingenuity can not pervert, human ingenuity can not invent.”
The same applies to laws. The “machine-person” puts faith in statutes that supposedly repeal “all the laws of nature.” The author writes of “Mr. Legion” who turns “from law to law” without recognizing that his condition stems from “his rascally refusal to obey the Golden Rule.” The Australian ballot law was clamored for as making “a new Heaven and a new earth,” yet we have the law and “the same old earth smelling to the same old Heaven.” Reform requires genuine contrition, not “crocodile deliverances.” We must stop chasing dollars, lying, cheating, ignoring art and literature, shaking hands with “prosperous rascals,” and fawning upon the merely rich. Employers cannot justify low wages by supply and demand while enjoying high profits; employees cannot break the bones of contented workers. Public office should not be sought with “lust of possession.” Until personal characters are amended, laws will be amended in vain. The State is “an aggregation of individuals”; its public character expresses their personal ones. God made Heaven and earth from nothing, but “out of nothing God never did and man never can, make a public sense of honor and a public conscience.” Miracles occur only on February 29th of leap years.
Bryan and the Power of Eloquence
The author addresses those who think eloquence is obsolete, pointing to “the ascension of Bryan.” A week before the 1896 convention, William J. Bryan “had never heard of himself”; his Congressional service had effaced him from memory. He was hoisted to his candidacy “by his own tongue, the longest and liveliest in Christendom.” His creation was “the unstudied act of his own larynx”: “Let there be Bryan, and there was Bryan.”
The author confesses he does not entirely believe Bryan’s tongue did it, being convinced that “personal persuasion is a matter of animal magnetism”—now called hypnotism. This secret power captivates and enslaves the will; spoken words merely supply “a pretext for surrender,” letting us yield without loss of self-esteem, “in the delusion that we are conceding to reason what is really extorted by charm.” The author predicts parliamentary debate of the future will be conducted in silence, with only “passes” as gestures. A member will rise, train his eyes on opponents, execute passes, and exhaust his time looking at them. The “preponderance in magnetic power” will show in voting. This would end “rousing speeches,” prevent members from hurling “allegations and cuspidors,” and cause “the honorable member from Hades” to retire from legislation.
Public Opinion and the Average Man
The author quotes Buckle: “Public opinion, being the voice of the average man, is the voice of mediocrity.” He questions whether such opinion deserves acceptance. The average man, he says, is “very much a fool, and something of a rogue as well,” with only a smattering of education, no knowledge of history, incapable of logical thinking, subject to “base and silly prejudices,” and selfish. The author may “bow to the will of the people” as a defeated candidate does—because he cannot help himself—but will not admit he was wrong. In matters of imperfect knowledge, public opinion is as likely erroneous as an individual’s. Wisdom cannot be got “by combining many ignorances.” Ten million ignorant men cannot solve an algebraic problem against a competent mathematician. Those enamored of public opinion should want school textbooks created by mass meeting.
Congressional Eulogies
The author argues that the custom of “eulogizing” dead members of Congress serves no apparent purpose except to “add a terror to death,” making honorable members prefer living hardships over dying and facing eulogies. A deceased member, if consulted, would say he was sorry to be dead—an unnatural state for one exempt from delivering eulogies himself. The eulogy may express what the eulogist wishes said about himself when he dies. The author calls it a “patriotic duty” to prevent such indulgence at public expense. Few men in Congress could speak truthfully and eloquently of departed members; Senator Vest is cited as one such exception. Of many others, the author would rather hear a eulogy by them than on them.
Congressional eulogists all become “poets” when eulogizing, illustrating Pascal’s saying that “poetry is a particular sadness.” They are either sad themselves or cause sadness in others. The eulogist takes to verse “as naturally as a moth to a candle,” with similar damage to his reputation for sense. Nine times in ten, the poetry is borrowed—”dog’s-eared, shop-worn quotation” from standard poets, usually Shakespeare. Certain Shakespearean passages have acquired “infamy” from overuse in legislative halls; Shakespeare himself in Elysium omits these when reading his works to Kit Marlowe and Ben Jonson. The author declares the whole business should be “cut out”—it wastes time, tries the country’s patience, and is “absolutely immoral.” A mediocre member does not become a hero or saint by death. Nobody believes these eulogies; nobody should be permitted to utter them. A simple resolution of regret and respect would suffice. Bereaved gentlemen wishing to express emotion should “hire a hall” rather than make the Capitol a “Place of Wailing” and the Congressional Record “a book of bathos.”
The Law Versus Laws
The author distinguishes between religion and theology, and similarly between laws and “the law”—the “naked statutes” versus “incomparable additions” made by lawyers. This immense body of “superingenious writings” governs persons and property, can set aside any statute, and supports every fallacy and monstrous deduction. Lawyers create this “mass of disastrous rubbish” and thrust it down our throats; we are guilty of “contributory negligence in not biting the spoon.” While appeal rights exist, acquittal remains possible, so guilt is not established until final judgment. Yet men are sentenced and punished before being proved guilty. The author’s answer: “we are a barbarous race, submitting to laws made by lawyers for lawyers.” A lawyer’s profession is to circumvent the law, mislead the court, live by “division of the spoils of crime.” The utmost atonement for acquitting the guilty is convicting the innocent.
All court methods and traditions exist to enable lawyers to extract maximum money from mankind. Laws are made, interpreted, and enforced by lawyers for their profit. The machinery of precedent, rulings, decisions, objections, writs of error, motions, appeals, reversals—all are “a transparent and iniquitous system of ‘cinching.'” The author proposes no remedy; “the lawyers have ‘got us’ and they mean to keep us.” He hopes God’s grace attends those who tar and feather lawyers, noting tar and hen’s-down can make lawyers resemble angels. The system is so complicated that judges do as they please, offering reasons optionally derived from statute. A judge may claim to interpret law as found, or declare the Legislature never intended wrong, or choose between inconsistent precedents, or disregard statute and precedent entirely. The author has observed judges do all these things in one term; one did all in a single decision. All these methods are lawful—made so by judges, not legislation.
The Two Antagonistic Elements
The essay opens by declaring that the time has come for the two antagonistic elements of American society to discard their disguises and declare their true principles. These elements, the author clarifies, are not the law-abiding versus the criminal class, but what modern economics calls “Capital” and “Labor.” A more accurate classification, he argues, is between “those who do muscular labor and those who do not.” The rich/poor distinction fails because laborers do not object to rich men who work with their hands, but do object to poor men who do not. The author claims manual labor is universally considered the most insufferable pursuit, a “pill” that no philosopher, community, or labor organization can sugarcoat. He mocks the prating about the dignity of labor, noting that we only think we mean it. If labor is so good, all can have it; the eight-hour law is not mandatory, and clerks and shopmen could abandon their callings for shovels and axes. Manual labor, he states, has no dignity or beauty; it is a “hard, imperious and dispiriting necessity” that brands the laborer with intellectual inferiority. The laborer has never had kindly feelings for the rest, hearing contempt in patronizing platitudes. Government’s main usefulness is found in repressing the laborer and denying him vengeance. He calls Jefferson’s dictum about “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” luminous nonsense. Governments are not instituted but grow, evolved out of the necessity of protecting the brain worker and idler from the hand-worker, who is the most dangerous because most numerous and least content.
The author claims to believe himself devoid of preferences, thinking all forms of government bad in different degrees. Asked about the results of our own, he points to Homestead, Wardner, Buffalo, Coal Creek, unpunished murders, corrupt legislatures, criminal cowardice of executives, plundering trusts, and the multiplication of millionaires. He mentions the pension roll and extravagance of both political Houses, the protective tariff for one party, and free coinage of silver for the other. He cites lying secret societies with pageantry and titles. He declares our government has broken down, and the two irreconcilable elements are about to fight, with “industrial discontent” having attained the magnitude of war.
Confessions in the Palace of Truth
The author imagines a labor leader in the Palace of Truth confessing his ultimate purpose: the abolition of the distinction between employer and employee; the laborer shall be chief owner of property and profits with controlling voice; the overthrow of the system where head-work pays more than hand-work; any means judged solely by efficacy, including punishing the innocent, destroying property and life, and using falsehood, treachery, arson, and assassination; they will not observe civilized warfare, putting prisoners to death; they do not recognize a non-union man’s right to labor or live. The author insists this is not exaggeration, citing the great strikes of the last twenty-five years. The war is practically a “servile insurrection.” He then imagines the capitalist, “General Hardhead,” confessing: he claims the right to own and enclose the earth’s surface; to induce workers to colonize about factories then arbitrarily withdraw employment; to make workers’ necessities a factor in wages, making misfortunes cumulative; to ignore peace officers and maintain a private army; to create artificial scarcity; to employ government powers for private welfare; he recoils from arson and assassination, noting workers have little to burn and are not half alive.
Principles Versus Interests
In section II, the author mocks champions of law and order prating of “principles” violated at Homestead and Coeur d’Alene. He says human contests are struggles of interests, not principles. At Homestead and Wardner, laborers committed robbery, pillage, and murder. Capitalists do not do these things because their interest lies in the supremacy of the law. He dismisses union claims about Pinkerton men attacking workers, noting at Homestead the workmen were intrenched on premises belonging to the other side. He says revolutions are not made with rosewater. The relation of employer and employee is breaking down, giving little better satisfaction than master and slave. Labor unions and strikes were common in ancient Rome and Egypt; he recounts a revolt of workmen in the Theban necropolis in the twenty-ninth year of Rameses III, who complained of famine and got one day’s rations of corn, then broke out in open revolt. He concludes the relations between those who can live without physical toil and those who cannot are about to undergo profound alteration, likely with bloody noses and cracked crowns, and hopes moralizers prating of principles may have damnation dealt out to them.
The Immigrant and the Mob
The passage opens with the claim that immigration of “the oppressed of all nations” has made America “one of the worst on the face of the earth.” The author asserts this decline occurred within a generation, too quickly for most to comprehend. Americans continue celebrating their nation as “an asylum for the oppressed,” but the author argues the oppressed are unworthy of asylum, avenging upon their hosts the wrongs they fled. Oppression, he contends, makes victims unfit for anything but continued oppression, and they become “dangerous alike to their tyrants, their saviors and themselves,” eventually becoming energetic oppressors themselves. The author states all languages are spoken in Hell, chiefly those of Southeastern Europe. He allows that a European immigrant “may” be a good man but claims “commonly he is not,” calling him in nine cases out of ten “a brute whom it would be God’s mercy to drown on his arrival, for he is constitutionally unhappy.”
The author acknowledges the immigrant’s grievances: working for men no better than himself, receiving part of pay in “truck” at inflated prices, and inadequate wages—though he notes these are “hardly more than double what he could get in his own country.” While the howl against these conditions is justified, he says rioting and assassination are not. He argues shooting rioters is “conspicuous and imperative” when they deny other laborers the right to work for whom they please or deny organized society’s right to exist. He claims such criminals are usually forgiven, constituting an indictment against “the feeble form of government.” The author calls the “citizen soldiery” a “ghastly failure,” saying the National Guard is “not worth the price of its uniforms.” Nine times in ten, he claims, it fraternizes with or is cowed by mobs. He asserts rioting in a Republic has no excuse; people have the government and conditions they deserve. He quotes poetry about a freeman’s will executing “as lightning does the will of God.” He addresses “Messieurs the Masses,” telling them to put wise and good men into power; if they cannot or will not, they “deserve to be oppressed when you submit and shot when you rise.” Shooting a rioter or lyncher, he says, is “a high kind of mercy.” He hypothesizes that if criminal mobs had been exterminated twenty-five years earlier, many lives would have been saved. He insists “a rioter shot in time saves nine.” He tells the People they know all this is true—that lawlessness cures no evils, that the “money power” exists only through their dishonesty and cowardice, that bosses and machines cannot control them unless they allow it. Yet no man has courage to say this to their faces. He claims from experience that the masses rather like having their sins confessed, and secretly despise flatterers.
The Bacillus of Crime
The author discusses the theory that criminal impulse is a disease, noting “the ayes appear to have it.” He satirically references the germ theory, mentioning Drs. Koch and Pasteur, and proposes discovering “the bacillus of crime” by examining hanged assassins and prisoners. He wonders whether one “grand” bacillus produces all crime or many specific bacilli incite particular crimes. He hopes all crimes are essentially one, with a single microbe awaiting discovery, and finds in the “unity of crime” evidence of human brotherhood. He dismisses talk of “waves” of crime as nonsense, explaining that notable crimes attract attention, newspapers emphasize similar offenses, and then falsely report an epidemic. Crime, he insists, maintains “steady and unbroken monotony.” He illustrates with a London garroting case during the “silly season” that led to a “flogging act,” though statistics showed no actual increase in garroting.
Painless Removal and Social Rogues
The author discusses Dr. W. Duncan McKim’s advocacy of “painless removal” of incurable idiots, lunatics, incorrigible criminals, and irreclaimable drunkards. He argues mental and moral diseases are increasing proportionately to population, eventually making it impossible for the healthy to care for the afflicted. When costs become unbearable, sentiment will yield to reason.
The Missionary as a Menace to Peace
The author presses his argument against the missionary enterprise, framing it not as a benign spiritual endeavor but as a perpetual threat to international harmony. He contends that while most missionaries are conscientious, they operate under the conviction that uninvited interference in the spiritual lives of others is pleasing to God. The author sees no moral distinction between this meddling and an impertinent approach to a man’s linen or his wife’s character, observing that those who volunteer concern for his soul are the same who show impudent concern for his temporal affairs. He describes the missionary as one who “throws open the shutters of other men’s bosoms” to project a shadow of himself. He further argues that no sensible ruler would willingly permit foreigners to undermine the national religion, and that wise government governs through the people’s faith. He notes that even in America, the official ignoring of Christianity is a transparent pretense, as the many jealous sects would each make it a theocracy if possible. He contrasts this with other faiths, which have “the sloth and timidity of error,” citing Jews who discourage converts and Moslems who cut off the head holding error—a practice he finds not right but at least practical and comprehensible. The Chinese antipathy to Caucasians, he argues, is an instinctive dislike of those who will not mind their own business, citing the historical example of Justinian’s monks who went to China to preach but also to steal the secret of silk-making.
The Alienation of the Clergy
The author turns to the question of church attendance, dissecting a minister’s paper that blamed the masses’ absence on a lack of Sunday laws and the allure of saloons. He calls it frank of the clergy to admit they lack the brains to make their services more attractive than dice games, asserting that the masses stay away because the minister “talks nonsense of the most fatiguing kind.” He compares parsons to a scolding wife whose husband avoids her, and suggests they might study the methods of Satan, who is a good entertainer. Using a physician analogy, he argues that if a doctor’s medicine were refused, he should offer something less disagreeable or leave the patient alone, not ask the civil authority to hold their noses. The masses have not asked for churches, and the clergy, unable to persuade, should conclude they are misfitted to their vocation. The ministers and their small contingent, he writes, do not perceive how alien they are to the majority, their voices coming “as from beyond a great gulf—mere ghosts of sound,” telling of unthinkable things in an intelligible tongue. The homily, he laments, lacks its natural accompaniment of “shawm and sackbut and the wind-swept harp in the willows by the waters of Babylon”—a mere survival, the memory of a dream.
The Futility of Prayer
The author rejects the claim that “gracious answers” to prayer come in proportion to earnestness and unanimity, arguing that God does not count noses. Having made a world of knaves and dunces, the more they ask, the stronger the presumption they ought not to have it. He cites historical errors in answered prayer: a Bishop at Auvergne who prayed for an eclipse that astronomers had foretold, and a monk of Treves who prayed for an enemy’s head to fall, only for it to fall as the man was already under sentence of decapitation. He also mentions a minister who prayed for rain that came, though the weather bureau had predicted a fair day. He asks why President McKinley died despite public prayer for his recovery, why Congress remains wicked despite daily chaplains’ prayers, and why good government remains a dream. Every resultless petition, he concludes, proves the minister to be either “the celebrant of a hollow, meaningless rite, or the dupe of a false promise.”
The Fabric of Ecclesiasticism
The author contrasts Christ’s simple teachings with the elaborate structure of modern Christianity. Christ said to sell all thou hast and give to the poor, and the poor were His peculiar care. He knew nothing of foreign missions, mission schools, church buildings, or delegates to councils—these were inventions of others, the entire “florid and flamboyant fabric of ecclesiasticism” reared upon His simple life. Christ “founded nothing, instituted nothing; Paul did all that.” He admonished the rich as criminals, comforted the luckless, and uttered wisdom with Oriental indirection.
The Question of Immortality
The author questions the universality of the desire for life everlasting, noting that the devout Buddhist’s hope is not what we would call life, and that most persons go to sleep gladly, sleep being virtual annihilation. Some minds logically think of annihilation as not disagreeable. Beliefs follow wishes: those content with annihilation think they’ll get it, while those wanting immortality believe they are immortal. He declares human immortality the most momentous question conceivable, for if the dead live, all other facts are trivial. He argues that pre-existence is a dream with no basis in anything knowable. While some claim testimony about after-existence, no one has ever professed to receive communication from anyone in the “fore-life.” The Land beyond the Grave has been charted, but the “Fatherland” before the cradle has no account, no testimony. Having no recollection of a former life is conclusive, for an unrecollected life is impossible—there would be no thread of continuity, and the later birth would be another person entirely. He warns against false analogy: a blow to the head may cause loss of memory, yet one remains the same person because the body provides continuity. But in death, memory is the only conceivable nexus. “Re-existence without recollection is absurd; there is nothing to re-exist.”
The Opportunity of the Self-Made Man
The author asserts that while this is not a country of equal fortunes, it is nearly a country of equal opportunities for those beginning with nothing. In nine instances out of ten, successful Americans started with nothing but “the skin they stood in,” and beginning with nothing is almost a main condition of success. Wealth is a hopeless impediment to a young man; the “golden spoon” fellow typically does nothing but suck that spoon. The real “curled darling of opportunity” has nothing in his mouth but teeth and appetite. If he has brains, he will get on, for the penalty of indiligence is famine. If he lacks brains, he ends in failure, “with possibly Socialism, that last resort of conscious incompetence.” Talk of narrowing opportunities is fatiguing and contains not enough truth “to float a religion.” Men of brains never had a better chance; men without brains are “nature’s failures, God’s botchwork.” He asks rhetorically what prevents him from composing a great opera or rising from sweeping a lawyer’s office to Supreme Court Justice, concluding that the number of sources of profit is infinite, and no trust could condemn to permanent failure one man with talent and will.
The Delusion of Organized Charity
The author criticizes organized charity as a “sapid and savorless thing,” its place among moral agencies no higher than that of root beer. While undirected relief blesses both receiver and giver, the mere distributor is “imperfectly sacred,” without scriptural authority. Christ did not say “Sell whatsoever thou hast and give to the church to give to the poor,” nor did He mention the Associated Charities or Dorcas societies. Organized charity is “a delusion and a snare,” enabling a man to think himself good for paying dues, but on the Last Great Day it will not help him to say he gave money to B for A’s need. The author would willingly forego the poor, but poverty is invincible and eternal. Since we must have it, let us thank God for it and use its advantages to mind and character.
The Emancipated Woman and the Tyrant Man
The author questions how “the enlargement of woman’s sphere” benefits the sex, arguing that women’s employment has been got by displacing men who would otherwise support them. This sudden addition to the labor supply should be considered a cause of augmented poverty and industrial discontent. He observes that contemporary men are “imperfectly polite” to women, offering deference instead of reverence, and that our “giddy grandfather” treated women more civilly because he loved them better, never having seen them on the rostrum or felt their competition. The emancipation of woman is not of American invention, and the author denies claims that the English married woman is “virtually a bondwoman,” arguing that her subjection is social, not legal. In England, it is “Tyrant Man himself” who chafes in his chain, liable for his wife’s wrongs he cannot restrain. The strongest objection to woman suffrage, he argues, is not its effect on government but its effect on the character of woman, for more than good government we need good women. He who does not see something incalculably more precious in the goodness and charm of good women than political purity “has the distinction to be a pig.” He asks whether gallant gentlemen have observed something “
The American Sycophant (Continued)
The aftermath of the President’s “tour” revealed a squalid spectacle. Each abaser, having groveled, would gladly have washed his hands in his neighbor’s basin, a phenomenon of Nature comparable to squabbling among the low after satiety and shame. The people could not deny their sycophancy, though they might rename it, but they could medicine their damaged self-esteem by condemning one another. The blush of shame turned to the glow of indignation; hot hatreds were kindled at the flame of self-contempt. Persons conscious of dishonoring themselves are doubly sensitive to indignities from others. Vices and follies of human nature are interdependent.
The author judged the entire “tour” incident infinitely discreditable to President and people. He did not question the President’s motive but found the manner an outrage upon republican principles. In all but name it was a “royal progress”—costly ostentation, civic and military pomp, solemn adulation, abasement of the Many before the One. Republican tradition affirms ten thousand times a year that the One is inferior to the Many. The officeholder is the people’s servant and creature; what they grovel to they themselves have made, as the heathen made his wooden god. This superiority of people to servants constitutes the essential difference between monarchy and democracy. The author lamented how little the fathers guessed the length and strength of roots left in the soil of centuries.
He held no belief in any form of government yet devised. He held that all men are created equal as a living faith. An officeholder is a servant; the author is his political superior. He will not give his hand, bend his neck, or uncover his head to any man in homage to office. These tricks of servility are vestiges of involuntary allegiance to extraneous power—obedience and propitiation in primitive forms. The man calling them respect for “the President’s great office” is “either a rogue, a dupe or a journalist.” They come from a terrible past as survivals of servitude, speaking the language of oppression and man-worship, carrying forward traditions of sceptre and lash. Through plaudits may be heard the cry of the beaten slave.
Respect the good, the wise, the dead. The President’s “gorgeous state and barbaric splendor” as guest of “a thieving corporation” at public expense—”shining and dining and swining”—with “pickled platitudes calculated for the meridian of Coon Hollow, Indiana”—does not prove his worth. He addressed “poor misguided fellow citizens” who permit taskmasters to forge leg-chains of their follies. These shows are absurd imitations of royalty to hold them silly while plundered. The people feel secure because “power is of the People,” and they can change robbers every four years—”to pull off the glutted leech and attach the lean one.” They cannot even choose among lean leeches but accept those designated by programmers. They are not “subjects” but “citizens”; their tyrant is a “President,” not a “King”; he occupies a “chair,” not a “throne”; he is “pitchforked into it by the boss.” They are better off than the Russian mujik who has never shaken hands with the Czar.
Kings and noblemen cannot breathe in America; their titles fall away on American soil. The author will meet no man on this soil expecting greater deference than he would accord the President. His allegiance to republican institutions is slack, but he will call no man “Your Majesty” or “Your Lordship.” Meeting a king would require negotiation like an interview between “the Mufti of Moosh and the Ahkoond of Swat.” His patriotic friends’ concessions fill him with admiration; he commends their posture to youth, inviting attention to the “grand, bold curves of character shown in the outlines of the Human Ham.”
A Dissertation on Dogs
The love of the dog is the most reasonless of anachronisms. Thousands of years ago, when humans wore other skins and gnawed raw bones, the dog ministered to savage needs. Now his only function is to lie on a door mat. One dog in a thousand earns his bread; the other nine hundred and ninety-nine are maintained by cheating the poor. The modern dog is the same old dog—not an inch advanced in evolution. He has abated nothing of his objectionableness since the morning stars sang. He may be improved “otherwise than by effacement,” but is still in an early stage of reform “not incompatible with a mouthful of reformer.”
The dog is “a detestable quadruped,” knowing more ways to be unmentionable than can be suppressed in seven languages. “Dog” is a term of contempt worldwide. No one eulogizes the species; no man loves the Dog, only his own dog—partly because the creature tickles his vanity by fawning, partly because the beast insults everybody else. The dog is “an encampment of fleas, and a reservoir of sinful smells.” He has no discrimination; his loyalty goes to whoever feeds him. He fights without regard to justice—”no better than a patriot or a paid soldier.” Women are “cynolaters,” adoring not only dogs but Dog. Women will love anything; they love men who love dogs. The female heart with a dog in it is without other lodgers. Dogs submit to being kissed by base women but have “a secret, coarse revenge”—the dog is a joker with as much humor as is consistent with biting. Miss Louise Imogen Guiney has replied to Mrs. Meynell’s defense of the creature.
The Belgian Report and the Dog’s Future
While serving as United States Consul at Liege, Mr. Nicholas Smith wrote or caused to be written an official report described as “wickedly, willfully and maliciously designed” to harm the domestic dog’s privileges, increase its ills, and impair its honorable status. Smith shows his bias early by calling the domestic dog an “hereditary loafer” and proclaims “the dawn of a [Belgian] new era” in which the pampered menial will no longer loaf. The report envisions an end to sun-soaking on south-facing door mats, usurpation of the warmest spot in the family circle, and soliciting food at the family table. The dog’s social place would be determined by “cold commercial calculation” and “industrial expediency” rather than sentiment.
In Belgium, dogs already serve as beasts of burden and draught animals. The author suggests the transition from the dog’s “immemorial social elevation” to this humble condition will be slow and marked by “bitter factional strife,” especially in America, which, though open to profitable new ideas, will resist this “subversion of a social superstructure” that rests on the domestic dog as “a basic verity.” The author declares dogs are humanity’s only true “leisure class”—even tramps sometimes work in county jail industries. Dogs “toil not, neither spin,” yet Solomon in all his glory was not a dog. Rather than making dogs “hewers of wood and drawers of water,” the author suggests it would be more fitting, given the Anglomaniacal Old World spirit dominant in national councils, to make them “hereditary legislators.” He adds that history records an instance of even a horse making a fairly good Consul.
Smith claims with “impudent satisfaction” that twice as many draught dogs as horses appear on Liege’s streets pulling vehicles. Smith regards a “gaily painted cart” drawn by a “well fed dog” driven by a well-fed (and gaily painted) woman as a “pleasing vision.” The author disagrees, preferring to see the dog receiving steaks and chops while the lady improves the universe and writes untrue poetry and stories. A more pleasing vision is stranger and dog hunting together—stranger slightly ahead—while the woman worries lest the gentleman’s trousers don’t match Fido’s mustache. The author finds it impossible to approve the “degradation to commercial utility” of two noble animals: Dog and Woman. If Man joined them with driving-reins, he hopes God would put them asunder, even if Dog held the reins. There might be artistic fitness in yoking the strong-minded female to an apple-cart or fish-wagon, but that is “another story.”
The Dog’s Energy and Boredom
Smith’s estimate of 7,000,000 dogs in this country is called “conservative,” hardly based on moonlight observations in a suburban village. His estimate of average dog strength at 500 pounds is probably right, as any boy detained by orchard-guarding “Cerberi” would attest. Using his figures, Smith calculates 3,500,000,000 pounds of “idle dog power.” The author calls this “more ingenious than ingenuous”—it implies only idle dogs exist, whereas the domestic dog is easily stirred to action. Dogs expend prodigious energy chasing fleas and their own tails.
