As the cold of snow in the time of harvest, so is a faithful
messenger to them that send him: for he refresheth the soul of
his masters.--_Proverbs xxv:_ 13
In all this Cuban business there is one man stands out on the horizon
of my memory like Mars at perihelion.
[Sidenote: The President needed a man]
When war broke out between Spain and the United States, it was very
necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents.
Garcia was somewhere in the mountain fastnesses of Cuba--no one knew
where. No mail or telegraph message could reach him. The President
must secure his co-operation, and quickly. What to do!
[Sidenote: And found one]
Some one said to the President, "There is a fellow by the name of
Rowan will find Garcia for you, if anybody can."
[Sidenote: He delivered the message]
Rowan was sent for and was given a letter to be delivered to Garcia.
How "the fellow by the name of Rowan" took the letter, sealed it up in
an oilskin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by
night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the
jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the Island,
having traversed a hostile country on foot, and delivered his letter
to Garcia--are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail.
The point that I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to
be delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask, "Where
is he at?" By the Eternal! there is a man whose form should be cast in
deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land.
It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this and
that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be
loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies: do the
thing--"Carry a message to Garcia."
[Sidenote: The Moral]
General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias.
No man who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many
hands were needed, but has been well-nigh appalled at times by the
imbecility of the average man--the inability or unwillingness to
concentrate on a thing and do it.
[Sidenote: There are other Garcias]
Slipshod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, and
half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook
or crook or threat he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or
mayhap, God in His goodness performs a miracle, and sends him an Angel
of Light for an assistant. You, reader, put this matter to a test: You
are sitting now in your office--six clerks are within call. Summon any
one and make this request: "Please look in the encyclopedia and make a
brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Correggio."
Will the clerk quietly say, "Yes, sir," and go do the task?
On your life he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye and
ask one or more of the following questions:
[Sidenote: Which Encyclopedia?]
Who was he?
Which encyclopedia?
Where is the encyclopedia?
Was I hired for that?
Don't you mean Bismarck?
[Sidenote: What's the matter with Charlie doing it?]
What's the matter with Charlie doing it?
Is he dead?
Is there any hurry?
Shall I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself?
What do you want to know for?
_I wasn't hired for that anyway!_
And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the
questions, and explained how to find the information, and why you want
it, the clerk will go off and get one of the other clerks to help him
try to find Garcia--and then come back and tell you there is no such
man. Of course I may lose my bet, but according to the Law of Average
I will not.
Now, if you are wise, you will not bother to explain to your
"assistant" that Correggio is indexed under the C's, not in the K's,
but you will smile very sweetly and say, "Never mind," and go look it
up yourself.
[Sidenote: _Dread of getting "the bounce"_]
And this incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this
infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold
and lift--these are the things that put pure Socialism so far into the
future. If men will not act for themselves, what will they do when
the benefit of their effort is for all? A first mate with knotted club
seems necessary; and the dread of getting "the bounce" Saturday night
holds many a worker to his place.
Advertise for a stenographer, and nine out of ten who apply can
neither spell nor punctuate--and do not think it necessary to.
Can such a one write a letter to Garcia?
"You see that bookkeeper," said a foreman to me in a large factory.
"Yes; what about him?"
[Sidenote: _Who wants a man like this?_]
"Well, he's a fine accountant, but if I'd send him up-town on an
errand, he might accomplish the errand all right, and on the other
hand, might stop at four saloons on the way, and when he got to Main
Street would forget what he had been sent for."
Can such a man be entrusted to carry a message to Garcia?
We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the
"downtrodden denizens of the sweat-shop" and the "homeless wanderer
searching for honest employment," and with it all often go many hard
words for the men in power.
[Sidenote: _The weeding-out process_]
Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a
vain attempt to get frowsy ne'er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and
his long, patient striving with "help" that does nothing but loaf when
his back is turned. In every store and factory there is a constant
weeding-out process going on. The employer is continually sending away
"help" that have shown their incapacity to further the interests of
the business, and others are being taken on.
[Sidenote: _This man says times are scarce_]
No matter how good times are, this sorting continues: only if times
are hard and work is scarce, the sorting is done finer--but out and
forever out the incompetent and unworthy go. It is the survival of the
fittest. Self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best--those
who can carry a message to Garcia.
I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to
manage a business of his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to
any one else, because he carries with him constantly the insane
suspicion that his employer is oppressing, or intending to oppress,
him. He can not give orders; and he will not receive them. Should a
message be given him to take to Garcia, his answer would probably be,
"Take it yourself!"
[Sidenote: _A spiritual cripple_]
Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind
whistling through his threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare
employ him, for he is a regular firebrand of discontent. He is
impervious to reason, and the only thing that can impress him is the
toe of a thick-soled Number Nine boot.
Of course I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied
than a physical cripple; but in our pitying let us drop a tear, too,
for the men who are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whose
working hours are not limited by the whistle, and whose hair is fast
turning white through the struggle to hold in line dowdy indifference,
slipshod imbecility, and the heartless ingratitude which, but for
their enterprise, would be both hungry and homeless.
[Sidenote: _A word of sympathy for the man who succeeds_]
[Sidenote: _Rags not necessarily a recommendation_]
Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I have; but when all the
world has gone a-slumming I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the
man who succeeds--the man who, against great odds, has directed the
efforts of others, and having succeeded, finds there's nothing in it:
nothing but bare board and clothes. I have carried a dinner-pail and
worked for day's wages, and I have also been an employer of labor,
and I know there is something to be said on both sides. There is no
excellence, per se, in poverty; rags are no recommendation; and all
employers are not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all poor
men are virtuous.
[Sidenote: _Good men are always needed_]
[Sidenote: _Needed today and needed badly--A MAN_]
My heart goes out to the man who does his work when the "boss" is
away, as well as when he is at home. And the man who, when given
a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the missive, without asking any
idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into
the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets
"laid off," nor has to go on a strike for higher wages. Civilization
is one long, anxious search for just such individuals. Anything such
a man asks shall be granted. His kind is so rare that no employer can
afford to let him go. He is wanted in every city, town and village--in
every office, shop, store and factory.
The world cries out for such: he is needed, and needed badly--the man
who can carry