Oh, yes, I own a mill or two where little children toil; but why this
foolish how-de-do, this uproar and turmoil? You say these children are
but slaves, who, through the age-long day, must work in dark and noisome
caves to earn a pauper’s pay? You hold me up to public scorn as one
who’s steeped in sin; and yet I feel that I adorn the world I’m living
in.
_But yesterday I wrote two checks for twenty-seven plunks to build a
Home for Human Wrecks and buy them horsehair trunks._
In building up monopolies I’ve crushed a thousand men? I’m tired of that
old chestnut; please don’t spring that gag again. I cannot answer for
the fate of those by Trade unmade; for men who cannot hit the gait must
drop from the parade. If scores of people got the worst of deals I had
in line, if by the losers I am cursed, that is no fault of mine. And
you, who come with platitude, are but an also ran; I use my money doing
good, as much as any man.
_I’m doing good while Virtue rants and of my conduct moans; for a
Retreat for Maiden Aunts I just gave twenty bones._
I hold too cheap employees’ lives, you cry in tones intense; I’m making
widows of their wives, to keep down my expense. I will not buy a fire
escape, or lifeguards now in style, and so the orphan’s wearing crape
upon his Sunday tile. I know just what my trade will stand before it
bankrupt falls, and so I can’t equip each hand with costly folderols.
There is no sentiment in trade, let that be understood; but when my work
aside is laid, my joy’s in doing good.
_Today I coughed up seven bucks to Ladies of the Grail, who wish to
furnish roasted ducks to suffragists in jail._
You say I violate all laws and laugh the courts to scorn, and war on
every worthy cause as soon as it is born? You can’t admit my moral
health—you wouldn’t if you could; I spend my days in gaining wealth, my
nights in doing good.
_And while the hostile critic roars, I’m giving every day; I’m sending
nice pink pinafores to heathen in Cathay._
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