There are thousands of men in politics who are the very salt of the
earth. Indeed, the majority are honest and true. But it is rapidly
becoming fashionable for clans of bold, political schemers to put their
heads together and capture the floating vote and thus defeat the will of
the people; and to such these lines are dedicated.
Modern machine politics is the most subtle and exquisite art that
ever crushed a hope or shattered a dream. It is the beautiful art of
chloroforming public confidence and stealing the reins of power from the
hands of the sleeping sovereigns. It is the mysterious art of political
hoodoo, which works shady miracles in every theater of government, from
the county courthouse to the national capitol.
The jugglers of this art slip into conventions, caucuses and legislative
halls, and whisper a magic word, and lo! in the twinkling of an eye,
majorities are changed to minorities, and minorities to majorities; oft
expressed opinions and deep rooted convictions upon vital principles
and policies of government are reversed in an hour, and the enchanted
floating solons, forgetting old hickory shirt and copperas breeches at
home, forgetting the men with cheeks of tan who walk in the furrow,
forgetting the sturdy toilers at the anvil, the workbench and the drill,
losing sight of the confiding multitudes who but yesterday twined the
laurel wreath of honor about their brows,—fall down upon their faces
before the golden Combine, in that sacred temple of free government which
is dedicated to righteousness and the liberty of the people, crying with
a loud voice both night and day, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!” That
whispered word, so full of the music and the dream, is “Pie.” O, wondrous
word of marvelous power! O, sweet and juicy symbol of perfect happiness.
O, ravishing synonym of golden eagles and the goddess of liberty! In
it are reflected the bewildering glories of a thousand heavens of pure
delight; golden slippers and laurel wreaths to burn; heaving seas of
“sour mash” whose amber surfs forever break on fragrant shores of mint;
sweet journeys on Pullman palaces of rosewood and mahogany to the land
of the orange and the palm. In it are the stolen fires of the stars,
flashing in diamond shirt studs, and the crimson glow of sunset skies
imprisoned in rubies set in gold on lily white hands that will toil again
never more. In it are visions of mansions in spreading groves where the
wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. Is it any wonder,
then, that opinions so suddenly change and promises and pledges so
swiftly dissolve into a puff of wind and leave not a rack behind? Is it
any wonder that Samson is shorn of his locks while yet he slumbers, and
only wakes to find his window up, his strength and piety gone and his
breeches pockets turned wrongside out? Is it any wonder that when, at
last, the Rip Van Winkle of Public Confidence rises up from his trance
he finds only the skeleton of Fidelity at his feet and the gunstock of
safety rotted away from the rusted barrel of sovereignty by his side?
And is it any wonder that he exclaims, in the language of old Rip of the
Adirondacks, “Am I so soon forgot?” Is it any wonder that the bewildered
Commonwealth, like poor old Rip, so often looks around, and failing to
recognize the little pile of bones near by, asks with tearful eyes, “Vare
iss mine leetle dog Schneider?”
But what doth great Diana care
For Samson when he’s lost his hair?
The tears are vain that Rip doth shed:
He slept too long, his dog is dead.
So states are shorn, and nations weep,
For crime committed while they sleep.
Scheming lobbyists of mighty combines juggle together and whisper into
the listening ears of shrewd politicians, “You’ve got the power and we’ve
got the pie. We are willing to swap pie for power. What _we_ want is
legislation or no legislation, as our interests may require. What _you_
want is _office_.” Then the politicians juggle and honey fuggle the
floating vote, and there is a mighty shuffling of political cards and
soon they all join hands behind closed doors and the soft whisper passes
round the ring, “We are one and inseparable for power and for pie; we are
the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra, la! Let the word be mum.” Then
follows the secret banquet of bargain and intrigue under the very dome of
liberty. It is quite exclusive, even more so than a banquet of the four
hundred in the great metropolis. Old Copperas Breeches is not invited nor
Brother Hickory Shirt, nor Dr. Honesty, nor ’Squire Patriotism, nor any
of the old folks at home. There is no room around the festive board for
Professor Pedagogue, of Purity High School, nor Deacon Righteousness, of
Churchville. The public welfare is lost in the shuffle. After a short
blessing is whispered by the Rev. Judasio Iscarriotis, the sumptuous
feast begins, the menu consisting alone of pie: senatorial pie, sweetened
with ring syrup; gubernatorial mince pie, flavored with moonshine;
speakership pie, highly seasoned with the sunshine of spicy promises
of favors to come; clerkship pie, dripping with the honey of fat and
succulent salaries; and on down, to a little half moon dried apple pie of
a free pass to oblivion.
They clink their merry glasses,
Now hear them softly sing—
“The people are all asses,
Diana’s in the swing!”
And after the feast is over,
After the pie is gone,
The combines are in clover,
As we go marching on.
Then the band begins to play, and the elephant moves around, bearing on
his spacious back the anointed high priests of Pie and Power, followed by
a great procession of worshipers, and heralded by a flourish of trumpets
in the hands of the jugglers, who alternately blow and shout, crying out,
as with one voice, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians, who hath the world
by the tail and a down-hill pull! Clear the way for the most high priest
of power! Clear the way for the priestly priest of Pie! Hail, all hail!!”
Thus the dismal tale of history runs; hopes of free government are
crushed; dreams of liberty are shattered; blind Samson nurses his wrath
until his shorn locks grow out again; and then, with giant strength and
insane rage, he lays hold of the pillars of the temple,
And with a crash republics fall,
Down go liberty, combines and all.
This is the shady side of politics. But the burnished crest of the
darkest cloud reflects in golden arcs the splendors of the sun, and the
angels of hope hang a rainbow on its bosom. All power is inherent in the
people, and there are patriotism and courage enough in their bosoms to
weather the storms that rise dark o’er the way, if they do not get lost
in the Adirondacks of Prosperity and drink from the jug of indifference
and sleep too long on their rights.
Combined capital is digging its own grave when it becomes the Diana of
modern machine politics. And combined Labor is driving the nails in its
own coffin when the spirit of anarchy directs its blows for the redress
of its grievances. Until recently the South has maintained its integrity
and its immunity from the hoodoo art of machine politics; but the methods
of destruction have found their way into Southern capitols, and, unless
Samson wakes, he will soon find himself utterly powerless to use his
favorite jaw-bone, or any other kind of a weapon, on the Philistine
combines who are plotting against him in the temple.
God speed the day when Capital and Labor shall combine under the banner
of arbitration and of peace, and when the battle cry of the Republic
shall be, “Equal and exact justice to all, with special favors to one.”