Now I can't write this, because I haven't the evidence to prove
what I see, or think I see. All I have is the mere outline--and
the outline applies, as I have said, to most cities. What one
should have is the color, the detail, the thousand and one little
things in the way of personality--you know what I mean; all that
which is necessary to "lend artistic verisimilitude to an
otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative." (I wish I were in New
York to-night! I'd go to the Casino and see the revival of "The
Mikado.") The Pittsburg story can't be written, and it should not
be written, without this; and to do it properly one would have to
spend much time in Pittsburg and become saturated with the
atmosphere of the place; and when he emerged, if he ever did
emerge, he would be ready to undertake this rather stupendous
study in psychology. I do not feel at all equipped for this task,
and no amount of material without the personal contact could
equip me for this service. With my material, I could only write
the old and squalid story of a rather commonplace exposure of
municipal grafting, and that wouldn't be worth while.
The story of Pittsburg would be all that the story of any city
is--as I have indicated: the bi-partisan machine, the public
service corporation, etc.--but it would be more. It would
illustrate the curious effects of long acceptance of cold,
intellectual theories in place of religion, and how this develops
the ability to separate morals and manners; how one's theology
needn't interfere with one's religion, and all that. It would be
the story of the union of politics and business; and the trail
would lead up to those proud and insolent aristocracies that are
founded on the purchase of the privilege of making the laws, and
down to those stews of horror where they pay for the privilege of
breaking the laws. It would be the story of Chris Magee, the
good-natured, human boss; of Blakeley, the upright prosecutor; of
the methods of hired detectives and the corruption of
officialdom. Pittsburg has riches, art, organized charity, and
piety; but she lacks wealth, beauty, social justice, and
religion. And sending the "bad" to prison, and electing the
"good" to office, and changing the paper charters of the city,
are not going to work any real reform. They think they'll get
"good government" and "civic righteousness," and then their
problems will be solved. This is what they propose to do; this is
all they tell us now, and I can't write a story on that. The
story would be as futile as little legal reforms.
It is, however, consoling and inspiring to believe--yes, to
know--that there are in Pittsburg--as in all cities--hundreds of
thousands of decent, virtuous, wholesome, toiling people; that
these make up by far the larger part of the population, too, and
that they will save Pittsburg, and make her as good as she is
great. It is a fact stimulating to the imagination and
encouraging to the soul that, in all these stores and shops and
mills, there are hard-working, modest, unknown thousands who are
pure and loyal, who are humanity's hope; that even the most
stunted and abused figures out of the Survey give more promise
than that class which rides upon their backs and devours them as
it rides.
Good government, efficient government, if by those phrases is
meant, as is usually meant, government by the "good"--whoever
they may be!--and the efficient, will not do; it will avail
nothing to Pittsburg or to any city, to substitute for grafters,
great or petty, personally honest men who will legally give away
franchises for nothing, instead of bartering them illegally for
big bribes. Pittsburg can't be saved by an aristocracy of the
better element, she can be saved only by democracy--with a very
little "d." And she will be saved that way some day, never fear,
though not until all the other cities are similarly saved.