No, there is naught in the old creed for us; Love and peace are to those who win; To them the delight of the golden chorus, To us the hunger and shame and sin.
Why then live on since our lives are fruitless, Since peace is certain and death is rest; Since our masters tell us the strife is bootless, And Nature scorns her unwelcome guest?
You who have climbed on our aching bodies, You who have thought because we have toiled, Priests of the creed of a newer goddess, Searchers in depths where the Past was foiled.
Speak in the name of the faith that you cherish! Give us the truth! We have bought it with woe! Must we forever thus worthlessly perish, Burned in the desert and lost in the snow?
Trampled, forsaken, foredoomed, and forgotten,-- Helplessly tossed like the leaf in the storm? Bred for the shambles, with curses begotten, Useless to all save the rotting grave-worm?
Give us some anchor to stay our mad drifting! Give, for your own sakes! for lo, where our blood, A red tide to drown you, is steadily lifting! Help! or you die in the terrible flood!
IN MEMORIAM To Gen. M. M. Trumbull.
(No man better than Gen. Trumbull defended my martyred comrades in Chicago.)
Back to thy breast, O Mother, turns thy child, He whom thou garmentedst in steel of truth, And sent forth, strong in the glad heart of youth, To sing the wakening song in ears beguiled By tyrants' promises and flatterers' smiles; These searched his eyes, and knew nor threats nor wiles Might shake the steady stars within their blue, Nor win one truckling word from off those lips,-- No--not for gold nor praise, nor aught men do To dash the Sun of Honor with eclipse, O Mother Liberty, those eyes are dark, And the brave lips are white and cold and dumb; But fair in other souls, through time to come, Fanned by thy breath glows the Immortal Spark.
THE WANDERING JEW (The above poem was suggested by the reading of an article describing an interview with the "wandering Jew," in which he was represented as an incorrigible grumbler. The Jew has been, and will continue to be, the grumbler of earth,--until the prophetic ideal of justice shall be realized: "BLESSED BE HE.")
_"Go on."--"THOU shalt go on till I come."_ Pale, ghostly Vision from the coffined years, Planting the cross with thy world-wandering feet, Stern Watcher through the centuries' storm and beat, In those sad eyes, between those grooves of tears,-- Those eyes like caves where sunlight never dwells And stars but dimly shine--stand sentinels That watch with patient hope, through weary days, That somewhere, sometime, He indeed may "come," And thou at last find thee a resting place, Blast-driven leaf of Man, within the tomb.
Aye, they have cursed thee with the bitter curse, And driven thee with scourges o'er the world; Tyrants have crushed thee, Ignorance has hurled Its black anathema;--but Death's pale hearse, That bore them graveward, passed them silently; And vainly didst thou stretch thy hands and cry, "Take me instead";--not yet for thee the time, Not yet--not yet: thy bruised and mangled limbs Must still drag on, still feed the Vulture, Crime, With bleeding flesh, till rust its steel beak dims.
Aye, "till He come,"--=He,--freedom, justice, peace=-- Till then shalt thou cry warning through the earth, Unheeding pain, untouched by death and birth, Proclaiming "Woe, woe, woe," till men shall cease To seek for Christ within the senseless skies, And, joyous, find him in each other's eyes. Then shall be builded such a tomb for thee Shall beggar kings' as diamonds outshine dew! The Universal Heart of Man shall be The sacred urn of "the accursed Jew."
THE FEAST OF VULTURES (As the three Anarchists, Vaillant, Henry and Caserio, were led to their several executions, a voice from the prison cried loudly, "Vive l'anarchie!" Through watch and ward the cry escaped, and no man owned the voice; but the cry is still resounding through the world.)
A moan in the gloam in the air-peaks heard-- The Bird of Omen--the wild, fierce Bird, Aflight In the night, Like a whizz of light, Arrowy winging before the storm, Far away flinging, The whistling, singing, White-curdled drops, wind-blown and warm, From its beating, flapping, Thunderous wings; Crashing and clapping The split night swings, And rocks and totters, Bled of its levin, And reels and mutters A curse to Heaven! Reels and mutters and rolls and dies, With a wild light streaking its black, blind eyes.
Far, far, far, Through the red, mad morn, Like a hurtling star, Through the air upborne, The Herald-Singer, The Terror-Bringer, Speeds--and behind, through the cloud-rags torn, Gather and wheel a million wings, Clanging as iron where the hammer rings; The whipped sky shivers, The White Gate shakes, The ripped throne quivers, The dumb God wakes, And feels in his heart the talon-stings-- The dead bodies hurled from beaks for slings. "Ruin! Ruin!" the Whirlwind cries, And it leaps at his throat and tears his eyes; "Death for death, as ye long have dealt; The heads of your victims your heads shall pelt; The blood ye wrung to get drunk upon, Drink, and be poisoned! On, Herald, on!"
Behold, behold, How a moan is grown! A cry hurled high 'gainst a scaffold's joist! The Voice of Defiance--the loud, wild Voice! Whirled Through the world, A smoke-wreath curled (Breath 'round hot kisses) around a fire! See! the ground hisses With curses, and glisses With red-streaming blood-clots of long-frozen ire, Waked by the flying Wild voice as it passes; Groaning and crying, The surge of the masses Rolls and flashes With thunderous roar-- Seams and lashes The livid shore-- Seams and lashes and crunches and beats, And drags a ragged wall to its howling retreats!
Swift, swift, swift, 'Thwart the blood-rain's fall, Through the fire-shot rift Of the broken wall, The prophet-crying The storm-strong sighing, Flies--and from under Night's lifted pall, Swarming, menace ten million darts, Uplifting fragments of human shards!
Ah, white teeth chatter, And dumb jaws fall, While winged fires scatter Till gloom gulfs all Save the boom of the cannon that storm the forts That the people bombard with their comrades' hearts; "Vengeance! Vengeance!" the voices scream, And the vulture pinions whirl and stream! "Knife for knife, as ye long have dealt; The edge ye whetted for us be felt, Ye chopper of necks, on your own, your own! Bare it, Coward! On, Prophet, on!"
Behold how high Rolls a prison cry!
THE SUICIDE'S DEFENSE (Of all the stupidities wherewith the law-making power has signaled its own incapacity for dealing with the disorders of society, none appears so utterly stupid as the law which punishes an attempted suicide. To the question "What have you to say in your defense?" I conceive the poor wretch might reply as follows:) To say in my defense? Defense of what? Defense to whom? And why defense at all? Have I wronged any? Let that one accuse! Some priest there mutters I "have outraged God"! Let God then try me, and let none dare judge Himself as fit to put Heaven's ermine on! Again I say, let the wronged one accuse. Aye, silence! There is none to answer me. And whom could I, a homeless, friendless tramp, To whom all doors are shut, all hearts are locked, All hands withheld--whom could I wrong, indeed By taking that which benefited none And menaced all? Aye, since ye will it so, Know then your risk. But mark, 'tis not defense, 'Tis accusation that I hurl at you. See to't that ye prepare your own defense. My life, I say, is an eternal threat To you and yours; and therefore it were well To have foreborne your unasked services. And why? Because I hate you! Every drop Of blood that circles in your plethoric veins Was wrung from out the gaunt and sapless trunks Of men like me, who in your cursed mills Were crushed like grapes within the wine-press ground. To us ye leave the empty skin of life; The heart of it, the sweet of it, ye pour To fete your dogs and mistresses withal! Your mistresses! Our daughters! Bought, for bread, To grace the flesh that once was father's arms!
Yes, I accuse you that ye murdered me! Ye killed the Man--and this that speaks to you Is but the beast that ye have made of me! What! Is it life to creep and crawl and beg, And slink for shelter where rats congregate? And for one's ideal dream of a fat meal? Is it, then, life, to group like pigs in sties, And bury decency in common filth, Because, forsooth, your income must be made, Though human flesh rot in your plague-rid dens? Is it, then, life, to wait another's nod, For leave to turn yourself to gold for him? Would it be life to you? And was I less Than you? Was I not born with hopes and dreams And pains and passions even as were you?
But these ye have denied. Ye seized the earth, Though it was none of yours, and said: "Hereon Shall none rest, walk or work, till first to me Ye render tribute!" Every art of man, Born to make light of the burdens of the world, Ye also seized, and made a tenfold curse To crush the man beneath the thing he made. Houses, machines, and lands--all, all are yours; And us you do not need. When we ask work Ye shake your heads. Homes?--Ye evict us. Bread?-- "Here, officer, this fellow's begging. Jail's The place for him!" After the stripes, what next?-- Poison!--I took it!--Now you say 'twas sin To take this life which troubled you so much. Sin to escape insult, starvation, brands Of felony, inflicted for the crime Of asking food! Ye hypocrites! Within Your secret hearts the sin is that I _failed_! Because I failed ye judge me to the stripes, And the hard toil denied when I was free. So be it. But beware!--A prison cell's An evil bed to grow morality! Black swamps breed black miasms; sickly soils Yield poison fruit; snakes warmed to life will sting. This time I was content to go alone; Perchance the next I shall not be so kind.
A NOVEL OF COLOR (The following is a true and particular account of what happened on the night of December 11, 1895; but it is likely to be unintelligible to all save the Chipmunks and the Elephant, who, however, will no doubt recognize themselves.)
Chapter I.
Chipmunks three sat on a tree, And they were as green as green could be; They cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late, And chirruped and chirruped, and ate and ate; "'Tis a pity of chipmunks without nuts, And a gnawing hunger in their guts; But they should be wise like you and me, And color themselves to suit the tree. Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee! Gay chaps are we, we chipmunks three!"
An elephant white in sorry plight, Hungry and dirty and sad bedight, Straggled one day on the nutting ground; "Lo," chattered the chipmunks, "our chance is found! Behold the beast's color; were he as we, Green and sleek and nut-full were he! But the beast is big, and the beast is white, And his skin full of emptiness serves him right! Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee! Let us 'sit on him, sit on him,' chipmunks three."
Chapter II.
Chapter II.
Three chipmunks green right gay were seen To leap on the beast his brows between; They munched at his ears and chiffered his chin, And sat and sat and sat on him! Not a single available spot of hide Where a well-sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride, But was chipped and chipped and chip-chip-munked, Till aught but an elephant must have flunked. "Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee! What a ride we're having, we chipmunks three!"
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
"What was it blew? Ah whew, ah whew!" Three green chipmunks have all turned blue! The elephant smiles a peaceful smile, And lifts off a tree-trunk sans haste or guile. "Seize him, seize him! He's stealing our tree! We're undone, undone," shriek the chipmunks three. The elephant calmly upraised his trunk, And said, "Did I hear a green chipmunk?"
* * * * * "Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah choo!" "Chippy, you're blue!" "So're you!" "So're you!"
GERMINAL (The last word of Angiolillo.)
Germinal!--The Field of Mars is plowing, And hard the steel that cuts, and hot the breath Of the great Oxen, straining flanks and bowing Beneath his goad, who guides the share of Death.
Germinal!--The Dragon's teeth are sowing, And stern and white the sower flings the seed He shall not gather, though full swift the growing; Straight down Death's furrow treads, and does not heed.
Germinal!--The Helmet Heads are springing Far up the Field of Mars in gleaming files; With wild war notes the bursting earth is ringing.
* * * * * Within his grave the sower sleeps, and smiles.
"LIGHT UPON WALDHEIM" (The figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago martyrs in Waldheim Cemetery is a warrior woman, dropping with her left hand a crown upon the forehead of a fallen man just past his agony, and with her right drawing a dagger from her bosom.)
Light upon Waldheim! And the earth is gray; A bitter wind is driving from the north; The stone is cold, and strange cold whispers say: "What do ye here with Death? Go forth! Go forth!"
Is this thy word, O Mother, with stern eyes, Crowning thy dead with stone-caressing touch? May we not weep o'er him that martyred lies, Slain in our name, for that he loved us much?
May we not linger till the day is broad? Nay, none are stirring in this stinging dawn-- None but poor wretches that make no moan to God: What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn?
"Go forth, go forth! Stand not to weep for these, Till, weakened with your weeping, like the snow Ye melt, dissolving in a coward peace!" Light upon Waldheim! Brother, let us go!
LOVE'S COMPENSATION I went before God, and he said, "What fruit of the life I gave?" "Father," I said, "It is dead, And nothing grows on the grave."
Wroth was the Lord and stern: "Hadst thou not to answer me? Shall the fruitless root not burn, And be wasted utterly?"
"Father," I said, "forgive! For thou knowest what I have done; That another's life might live Mine turned to a barren stone."
But the Father of Life sent fire And burned the root in the grave; And the pain in my heart is dire For the thing that I could not save.
For the thing it was laid on me By the Lord of Life to bring; Fruit of the ungrown tree That died for no watering.
Another has gone to God, And his fruit has pleased Him well; For he sitteth high, while I--plod The dry ways down towards hell.
Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord, Whose tears made that fruit's root wet; Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword, And thy Guards by the Gate are set.
Thou wilt give me up to the fire, And none shall deliver me; For I followed my heart's desire, And I labored not for thee: I labored for him thou hast set On thy right hand, high and fair; Thou lovest him, Lord; and yet 'Twas my love won Him there.
But this is the thing that hath been, Hath been since the world began,-- That love against self must sin, And a woman die for a man.
And this is the thing that shall be, Shall be till the whole world die, _Kismet_:--My doom is on me! Why murmur since I am I?
THE ROAD BUILDERS ("Who built the beautiful roads?" queried a friend of the present order, as we walked one day along the macadamised driveway of Fairmount Park.)
I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, Their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone, Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, The helpless hand still clutching at the spade, The slack mouth full of earth.
And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face, until The fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, Wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone; But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead: Driven to death beneath the burning sun, Driven to death upon the road he built.
He was no "hero," he; a poor, black man, Taking "the will of God" and asking naught; Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet Strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road; Think that for this, this common thing, The Road, A human creature died; 'tis a blood gift, To an o'erreaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean and soulless was he? Well,-- Still human; and you drive upon his corpse.
ANGIOLILLO We are the souls that crept and cried in the days when they tortured men; His was the spirit that walked erect, and met the beast in its den.
Ours are the eyes that were dim with tears for the thing they shrunk to see; His was the glance that was crystal keen with the light that makes men free.
Ours are the hands that were wrung in pain, in helpless pain and shame; His was the resolute hand that struck, steady and keen to its aim.
Ours are the lips that quivered with rage, that cursed and prayed in a breath: His was the mouth that opened but once to speak from the throat of Death.
"Assassin, Assassin!" the World cries out, with a shake of its dotard head; "Germinal!" rings back the grave where lies the Dead that is not dead.
"Germinal, Germinal," sings the Wind that is driving before the Storm; "Few are the drops that have fallen yet,--scattered, but red and warm."
"Germinal, Germinal," sing the Fields, where furrows of men are plowed; "Ye shall gather a harvest over-rich, when the ear at the full is bowed."
Springing, springing, at every breath, the Word of invincible strife, The word of the Dead, that is calling loud down the battle ranks of Life!
For these are the Dead that live, though the earth upon them lie: But the doers of deeds of the Night of the Dead, they are the Live that die.
AVE ET VALE Comrades, what matter the watch-night tells That a New Year comes or goes? What to us are the crashing bells That clang out the Century's close?
What to us is the gala dress? The whirl of the dancing feet? The glitter and blare in the laughing press, And din of the merry street?
Do we not know that our brothers die In the cold and the dark to-night? Shelterless faces turned toward the sky Will not see the New Year's light!
Wandering children, lonely, lost, Drift away on the human sea, While the price of their lives in a glass is tossed And drunk in a revelry!
Ah, know we not in their feasting halls Where the loud laugh echoes again, That brick and stone in the mortared walls Are the bones of murdered men?
Slowly murdered! By day and day, The beauty and strength are reft, Till the Man is sapped and sucked away, And a Human Rind is left!
A Human Rind, with old, thin hair, And old, thin voice to pray For alms in the bitter winter air,-- A knife at his heart alway.
And the pure in heart are impure in flesh For the cost of a little food: Lo, when the Gleaner of Time shall thresh, Let these be accounted good.
For these are they who in bitter blame Eat the bread whose salt is sin; Whose bosoms are burned with the scarlet shame, Till their hearts are seared within.
The cowardly jests of a hundred years Will be thrown where they pass to-night, Too callous for hate, and too dry for tears, The saddest of human blight.
Do we forget them, these broken ones, That our watch to-night is set? Nay, we smile in the face of the year that comes _Because we do not forget._ We do not forget the tramp on the track, Thrust out in the wind-swept waste, The curses of Man upon his back, And the curse of God in his face.
The stare in the eyes of the buried man Face down in the fallen mine; The despair of the child whose bare feet ran To tread out the rich man's wine; The solemn light in the dying gaze Of the babe at the empty breast, The wax accusation, the sombre glaze Of its frozen and rigid rest; They are all in the smile that we turn to the east To welcome the Century's dawn; They are all in our greeting to Night's high priest, As we bid the Old Year begone.
Begone and have done, and go down and be dead Deep drowned in your sea of tears! We smile as you die, for we wait the red Morn-gleam of a hundred-years That shall see the end of the age-old wrong,-- The reapers that have not sown,-- The reapers of men with their sickles strong Who gather, but have not strown.
For the earth shall be his and the fruits thereof And to him the corn and wine, Who labors the hills with an even love And knows not "thine and mine."
And the silk shall be to the hand that weaves, The pearl to him who dives, The home to the builder; and all life's sheaves To the builder of human lives.
And none go blind that another see, Or die that another live; And none insult with a charity That is not theirs to give.
For each of his plenty shall freely share And take at another's hand: Equals breathing the Common Air And toiling the Common Land.
A dream? A vision? Aye, what you will; Let it be to you as it seems: Of this Nightmare Real we have our fill; To-night is for "pleasant dreams."
Dreams that shall waken the hope that sleeps And knock at each torpid Heart Till it beat drum taps, and the blood that creeps With a lion's spring upstart!
For who are we to be bound and drowned In this river of human blood? Who are we to lie in a swound, Half sunk in the river mud?
Are we not they who delve and blast And hammer and build and burn? Without us not a nail made fast! Not a wheel in the world should turn!
Must we, the Giant, await the grace That is dealt by the puny hand Of him who sits in the feasting place, While we, his Blind Jest, stand Between the pillars? Nay, not so: Aye, if such thing were true, Better were Gaza again, to show What the giant's rage may do!
But yet not this: it were wiser far To enter the feasting hall And say to the Masters, "These things are Not for you alone, but all."
And this shall be in the Century That opes on our eyes to-night; So here's to the struggle, if it must be, And to him who fights the fight.
And here's to the dauntless, jubilant throat That loud to its Comrade sings, Till over the earth shrills the mustering note, And the World Strike's signal rings.
MARSH-BLOOM (To Gaetano Bresci.)
Requiem, requiem, requiem, Blood-red blossom of poison stem Broken for Man, Swamp-sunk leafage and dungeon bloom, Seeded bearer of royal doom, What now is the ban?
What to thee is the island grave? With desert wind and desolate wave Will they silence Death? Can they weight thee now with the heaviest stone? Can they lay aught on thee with "Be alone," That hast conquered breath?
Lo, "it is finished"--a man for a king! Mark you well who have done this thing: The flower has roots; Bitter and rank grow the things of the sea; Ye shall know what sap ran thick in the tree When ye pluck its fruits.
Requiem, requiem, requiem, Sleep on, sleep on, accursed of them Who work our pain; A wild Marsh-blossom shall blow again From a buried root in the slime of men, On the day of the Great Red Rain.
WRITTEN--IN--RED[A] (To Our Living Dead in Mexico's Struggle.)
Written in red their protest stands, For the Gods of the World to see; On the dooming wall their bodiless hands Have blazoned "Upharsin," and flaring brands Illumine the message: "Seize the lands! Open the prisons and make men free!" Flame out the living words of the dead Written--in--red.
Gods of the World! Their mouths are dumb! Your guns have spoken and they are dust. But the shrouded Living, whose hearts were numb, Have felt the beat of a wakening drum Within them sounding--the Dead Men's tongue-- Calling: "Smite off the ancient rust!" Have beheld "Resurrexit," the word of the Dead, Written--in--red.
Bear it aloft, O roaring flame! Skyward aloft, where all may see. Slaves of the World! Our cause is the same; One is the immemorial shame; One is the struggle, and in One name-- =Manhood=--we battle to set men free. "Uncurse us the Land!" burn the words of the Dead, Written--in--red.
[A] Voltairine de Cleyre's last poem.
ESSAYS The Dominant Idea In everything that lives, if one looks searchingly, is limned the shadow line of an idea--an idea, dead or living, sometimes stronger when dead, with rigid, unswerving lines that mark the living embodiment with the stern, immobile cast of the non-living. Daily we move among these unyielding shadows, less pierceable, more enduring than granite, with the blackness of ages in them, dominating living, changing bodies, with dead, unchanging souls. And we meet, also, living souls dominating dying bodies--living ideas regnant over decay and death. Do not imagine that I speak of human life alone. The stamp of persistent or of shifting Will is visible in the grass-blade rooted in its clod of earth, as in the gossamer web of being that floats and swims far over our heads in the free world of air.
Regnant ideas, everywhere! Did you ever see a dead vine bloom? I have seen it. Last summer I trained some morning-glory vines up over a second-story balcony; and every day they blew and curled in the wind, their white, purple-dashed faces winking at the sun, radiant with climbing life. Higher every day the green heads crept, carrying their train of spreading fans waving before the sun-seeking blossoms. Then all at once some mischance happened,--some cut-worm or some mischievous child tore one vine off below, the finest and most ambitious one, of course. In a few hours the leaves hung limp, the sappy stem wilted and began to wither; in a day it was dead,--all but the top, which still clung longingly to its support, with bright head lifted. I mourned a little for the buds that could never open now, and pitied that proud vine whose work in the world was lost. But the next night there was a storm, a heavy, driving storm, with beating rain and blinding lightning. I rose to watch the flashes, and lo! the wonder of the world! In the blackness of the mid-=Night=, in the fury of wind and rain, the dead vine had flowered. Five white, moon-faced blossoms blew gaily round the skeleton vine, shining back triumphant at the red lightning. I gazed at them in dumb wonder. Dear, dead vine, whose will had been so strong to bloom that in the hour of its sudden cut-off from the feeding earth it sent the last sap to its blossoms; and, not waiting for the morning, brought them forth in storm and flash, as white night-glories, which should have been the children of the sun.
In the daylight we all came to look at the wonder, marveling much, and saying, "Surely these must be the last." But every day for three days the dead vine bloomed; and even a week after, when every leaf was dry and brown, and so thin you could see through it, one last bud, dwarfed, weak, a very baby of a blossom, but still white and delicate, with five purple flecks, like those on the live vine beside it, opened and waved at the stars, and waited for the early sun. Over death and decay the Dominant Idea smiled: the vine was in the world to bloom, to bear white trumpet blossoms dashed with purple; and it held its will beyond death.
Our modern teaching is that ideas are but attendant phenomena, impotent to determine the actions or relations of life, as the image in the glass which should say to the body it reflects: "_I_ shall shape _thee_." In truth we know that directly the body goes from before the mirror, the transient image is nothingness; but the real body has its being to live, and will live it, heedless of vanished phantoms of itself, in response to the ever-shifting pressure of things without it.
It is thus that the so-called Materialist Conception of History, the modern Socialists, and a positive majority of Anarchists would have us look upon the world of ideas,--shifting, unreal reflections, having naught to do in the determination of Man's life, but so many mirror appearances of certain material relations, wholly powerless to act upon the course of material things. Mind to them is in itself a blank mirror, though in fact never wholly blank, because always facing the reality of the material and bound to reflect some shadow. To-day I am somebody, to-morrow somebody else, if the scenes have shifted; my Ego is a gibbering phantom, pirouetting in the glass, gesticulating, transforming, hourly or momentarily, gleaming with the phosphor light of a deceptive unreality, melting like the mist upon the hills. Rocks, fields, woods, streams, houses, goods, flesh, blood, bone, sinew,--these are realities, with definite parts to play, with essential characters that abide under all changes; but my Ego does not abide; it is manufactured afresh with every change of these.
I think this unqualified determinism of the material is a great and lamentable error in our modern progressive movement; and while I believe it was a wholesome antidote to the long-continued blunder of Middle Age theology, viz.: that Mind was an utterly irresponsible entity making laws of its own after the manner of an Absolute Emperor, without logic, sequence, or relation, ruler over matter, and its own supreme determinant, not excepting God (who was himself the same sort of a mind writ large)--while I do believe that the modern reconception of Materialism has done a wholesome thing in pricking the bubble of such conceit and restoring man and his "soul" to its "place in nature," I nevertheless believe that to this also there is a limit; and that the absolute sway of Matter is quite as mischievous an error as the unrelated nature of Mind; even that in its direct action upon personal conduct, it has the more ill effect of the two. For if the doctrine of free-will has raised up fanatics and persecutors, who, assuming that men may be good under all conditions if they merely wish to be so, have sought to persuade other men's wills with threats, fines, imprisonments, torture, the spike, the wheel, the axe, the fagot, in order to make them good and save them against their obdurate wills; if the doctrine of Spiritualism, the soul supreme, has done this, the doctrine of Materialistic Determinism has produced shifting, self-excusing, worthless, parasitical characters, who are _this_ now and _that_ at some other time, and anything and nothing upon principle. "My conditions have made me so," they cry, and there is no more to be said; poor mirror-ghosts! how could they help it! To be sure, the influence of such a character rarely reaches so far as that of the principled persecutor; but for every one of the latter, there are a hundred of these easy, doughy characters, who will fit any baking tin, to whom determinist self-excusing appeals; so the balance of evil between the two doctrines is _about_ maintained.