The Daily Worker Newspaper, November 23, 1927, Page 6

Page Six HE DAILY WORKER, NEW YORK; WEDNESDAY, NOV. 23, 1927 THE DAILY WORKER ‘“Y Country ‘Tis OF THEE” Published by the DAILY WORKER PUBLISHING CO. Daily, Except Sunday 83 First Street, New York, N. Y. Cable Address SUBSCRIPTION & By Mail (in New York only): $8.00 per year $4.50 six months $2.50 three month: Phone, Orchard 1680 “Daiwork” A out checks to = DAILY WO irst Street, New York, N. Y. TH T MINOR . DUNNE . ROBER Editor.... Assistant Editor. ander Entered as second-class mail at the 7 the act of Marc Ludlow, 1914---Columbine, 1927 The mist of mass murder which has been in the Colorado air for a month has been precipitated in a bloody rain. Not quite as bloody but just as brutal as the Ludlow holocaust is the slaughter at the Columbine mine. The class struggle in Colorado is sharp as the crack of the rifles in the hands of state police which sent their deadly missiles | into the bodies of unarmed workers—men and women. Who are the heroes hailed by the capitalist press? Are they the men and women of the mining cam led by I, W. W. s, who faced with their bare hands the forces of | Rockef. ate government armed with every device of mod- | ern warfare. who gave their lives that company unionism would be smashed and the labor movement be stronger? No, the heroes of the capitalist press are the well-armed | thugs who murdered at the orders of the capitalists of Colorado. Brave men these. The capitalist press is able to report that one was hit by stone and one had a finger slashed. Governor Adams praises Louis N. Scherf, who gave the order to fire. Lieutenant Linderfeld was likewise praised by Governor Ammons of the same state at the time of the Ludlow massacre. Ludlow had its Linderfeld. Columbine has its Scherf. But these individuals are only instruments. .They make no policy and give orders that have been given to them. Back of Linderfeld stood Rockefelier and his government, back of Scherf stands Rockefeller and his government. An Ammons becomes an Adams, one a republican, the other | a democrat, but both are representatives of American capitalism and both strew the bloodstained ground of Colorado with the bodies of murdered miners and their wives. Our heroes are the men and women of the working-class who died that others of their class might breathe a little more of the air of freedom. Cynics will say it is not wise to die for such small gains but the wisdom of capitalism’s apologists is con- founded by the fact that the working class wades for a long while thru its own blood before it wins power. Then, as throughout the capitalist world since the Rus revolution, wiseacres substitute wailing for wisdom. Slowly but surely the American working class is building the traditions of struggle and sacrifice which together with organiza- tion, class-consciousness and militant leadership will enable it to bring crashing to the ground the whole structure of capitalist imperialism. The main task now is to allow no specious pleas of official leaders who have surrendered to the capitalist rulers of America to conceal the implications of the struggle in Colorado or to pic- ture it as an incident isolated from the whole struggle of the American masses. The struggle in Colorado differs only in detail from the strug- gle of the miners in Pennsylvania, Ohio and West Virginia, from the struggle of the traction workers in New York, from that of the needle trades workers, from the struggle of the automobile workers, from the struggle of textile workers, north and south— it is a part of the Americal class struggle. Every time the armed forces of a state government appear openly as instruments of the capitalist class as in Colorado, every time an injunction is granted by a federal court which outlaws _unions and the efforts of workers to organize, every time the capitalist press lauds the murderers of the striking workers, every time a worker is jailed for activity in the class struggle, the lie is given to the upholders of capitalist “democracy” in and out of the ranks of the working class. The working men and women of the Colorado coal fields have proven their loyalty to their class and the organized labor move- ment. To these heroic workers must go our undying gratitude and unswerving support. , The martyred dead in Colorado have become at once the sym- bol of our oppression and the inspiration for victorious struggle against it. It is not true that “the path of glory leads but to the grave” as poets say, but that for the working class the graves of those who fall in the class struggle mark out the path to victory. an After recognizing as legal the “Jim Crow” law that segre- gates colored children from white in Missouri schools the United States supreme court developed a tired feeling and threw out several petitions because the briefs were too long. It was-un- fortunate for the lawyers who drew up the briefs that they were * not demanding anti-labor injunctions. But in that case one short sentence would be sufficient. * ‘The great only appear great when we afe on our knees; let us rise.” This is a motto-apparently unknown to the crawling @fficials of the American Federation of Labor who are on their xnees before Coolidge, begging for relief for the miners. The miners should either make them get off their knees or stand them on their heads. * * Samuel Untermyer, the well-known lawyer would solve the traction problem in New York “with fairness to the car rider, the city and the company.” Naturally Samuel forgot the traction employes. Their’s not to ask him why; their’s but to slave and die. What would Untermyer say if the traction employes de- cided to do a little thinking, solving and acting on their own hook one of these days? They are the bosses as soon as they feel that they are, or at least soon afterwards. i * Matthew Woll declared that nothing would please the em- | , ployers better than to see the American workers organize a Labor | Party. Nothing, except to see them continue following Matthew’s advice and voting for the republican and democrat parties. * r | | | | © Kons rnasessiiron | Money By UPTON SINCLAIR. (Continued from Last Issue.) XXVII. Adonais { COME now to the dearest friend I ever had among men. Since he is gone, there seems a large hole in the | world. It was Jack London who gave him to me, some twenty-five years ago, sending me a book of poems, “The Testimony of the Suns,” by George Sterling. In the fly-leaf he wrote, “T have a friend, the dearest in this world.” Since friendship is a thing without limits, I also took possession of this poet. We corresponded for seven or eight years, and then I went to California to visit him, and stayed several months at Carmel. A year or two later the fates played a strange prank upon us—he lost his heart to the woman who was later to become my wife. How much of that strange story will it be decent for me to tell? It is hard for me to judge, because what the world calls “tact” is not my strong point; and I cannot ask my wife, because she is ill, and since our friend’s dreadful death, I do not men- tion him, Some day the story will be known, because he wrote her a hundred or so-of sonfiets, the most. beautiful in the world. For sixteen years his attitude never changed: her marriage made no difference—when he came to visit us, he would follow her about with his eyes, and sit and murmur her name as if under a spell; our friends would look at us and smile, but George never cared what anyone thought. All his life long women had flung themselves at his head, and he had given them the pity and sympathy his gentle nature could not withhold. It was the tragedy of his fate that the woman he respected was the one he failed to win. When first he met her, he wrote in a copy of “The House of Orchards,” “I have thought of this as my last book. Do jou wish it to be the last?” But later he wrote, “To know that you live is enough. You have given me back my art.” When he first met her, and was | bringing her'a sonnet every day, they were walking on Riverside Drive in |New York, and L chanced to come jalong. She was working on a book, and I, with my customary reformer’s impulse, remarked, “You have been overworking; you are worn out.” She answered, “This poet has just been telling me that I look like a star in alabaster.” “Well, I think you look like a skull,” I said and went on, jleaving the poet grinding his teeth ‘in fury. “Some day I am going to | kill that man!” he exclaimed; and his companion replied, “That is the first man that ever told me the truth in |my life. I am going to marry him!” | So she did; and for a while there | appeared a certain element of acer- |bity in the criticisms which George would pen upon the margins of my! manuscripts. But tenderness and | patience were the least contribution |I could make to our friendship; so I | would laugh, and y tly George would grow remorseful, and tell me that maybe I was half right after all. There were two men in him, and a strange duel forever going on in his soul. In his literary youth he had fallen under the spell of Ambrose Bierce, an able writer, a bitter black cynic, and a cruel, dominate old } » bigot, He stamped inerasably upon George’s sensitive’mind the heartless art-for-art’s-sake formula, the notion of a poet as a superior being, aloof from the problems of men, and writ- ing for the chosen few. On the other hand, George was a chum of Jack London and others of the young “reds,” and became a socialist and remained one to the end. Bierce quar- reled with him on this account, and broke with him, as he did with every- one else. But in art the Bierce influ- ence remained dominant, and George Sterling would write about the inter- stellar spaces and the writhing of oily waters in San Francisco harbor, and the white crests of the surf on Point Lobos, and the loves of ancient immoral queens. After which he would go about the streets of New York on a winter night, and come back without his overcoat, because he had given it to some poor wretch on the bread-line; he would be shivering, not with cold, but with horror and grief, and would break all the art-for-art’s-sake rules, and pour out some lines of passionate indignation, which he refused to con- sider poetry, but which I assured him would outliy hi fancy stuff. At =» ‘in 0° our “mourning pick- ets” on RiseAwor, during the Colo- rado «.+ ita«ke of 1914, George was in New York, and his “star in ala- baster” was walking up and down eight hours a day amid a mob of star- ing idlers, her husband in jail and only a few “wobblies” and Jewish “reds” from the East Side to keep her com- pany. George appeared and offered her his arm. “Go away,” she said: “this is no job for a poet!” But of course he would not go; he stuck by her side for two weeks, and up at the Lamb’s Club, where he was staying, the art-snobs and wealthy loafers “joshed” him mercilessly—some even insulted him, and there was a fight or. two.g During these excitements George wandered down to the Bat- tery, and looking out over the bay he wrote that stunning poem, “To the Goddess of Liberty.” Oh! .is it bale-fire in thy brazen jhand— The traitor-light set on betraying coasts To lure to doom the mariner? .. . You will find that in my anthology, “The Cry for Justice.” Also his song about Babylon, which really is New York, and San Francisco too: | In Babylon, high Babylon, |. What gear is bought and sold? All merchandise beneath the sun | That bartered is for gold; | Amber and oils from far beyond | The desert and the fen, | And wines whereof our throats are | fond— | Yea! and the souls of men! In Pabylon, grey Babylon, What goods are sold and bought? Vesture of linen subtly spun, And cups from agate wrought; Rainment of many-colored silk For some fair denizen, | And ivory more white than milk— Yea! and the souls of men! .. , Also I mention his tribute to the Episcopal church—and others—quoted jin “The Profits of Religion’— Within the House of Mammon his priesthood stands alert By mysteries attended, by dusk and splendors girt, Knowing, for faiths departed, his own,| shall still endure, And they be found his chosen, un- troubled, solemn, sure. averse) abe eel «S08 wmeneweie “Machine guns and rifles mow down peaceful pickets at Columbine Mine of Rocky Mountain Fuel Company. Pickets had not even pocket knives.”—Denver, Colorado dispatch Within the House of Mammon the golden altar lifts Where dragon-lamps are shrouded as costly incense drifts— | A dust of old ideals, now fragrant} from the coals, To tell of hopes long-ended, to tell | the death of souls. I have told how my friend Mencken asked me to write about Sterling without mentioning alcohol. The first time I visited George I was to be the orator at a dinner of the Ruskin Club in Oakland, and George was to read a poem. We met at the Bohemian Club. in San Francisco, and George drank a couple of cocktails on an empty stomach, and we set out. On the ferry-boat I had difficulty in un- derstanding his conversation; and finally the painful~realization dawn- ed over me that the great poet was drunk. My own father had been a drinking man, and several of my relatives in the South, so I was no stranger to the spectacle; but this was the first time I had ever wo an intellectual man in that conditioh; and the next day I wrote George a note, saying it was too painful, and I was not going to stay at Carmel. He came running over to my house, and with tears in his-eyes vowed that he would never touch another drop while I was in California. Sometimes I have wished I might have stayed the rest of my life; it might be that is the greatest service I could have rendered to the future. From that day on I never saw George with any sign of drink on him. He visited us at Croton, and went over the huge manuscript of “The Cry for Justice,” and chopped down some dead chestnut trees and cut them up for our fireplace. He was an athlete, and beautiful to look at—a face like Dante’s; grave and yet tender, and a tall, active body. We have a snapshot of him in bath- ing trunks, standing upon the rocks of Point Lobos with an abalone hook in his hand, and nothing more grace- ful was ever planned by a Greek sculptor. George went back to San Francisco and lived at the Bohemian Club, where some admirer had bequeathed him a room for life. It is a place of satyrs, and the worst environment that could have been imagined under the circumstances. George had begun his drinking with Jack London and Ambrose Bierce, and then it was all gaicty and youth, the chanting of George’s “Abalone Song,” and the “grove play,” and the Bohemian “jinks.” But later on in life it be- comes something different. Others may sing the romance and the charm of San Francisco; to me it is a plague-city, where all tie lovely spirits drink poison—first Nora May French, and then Carrie Sterling, and then Jack London, and then my best of friends. - George had more admirers than any other man I ever knew, and he gave himself to them without limit. When they were drinking, he could rot sit apart; so tragedy closed upon him. He would come to visit us in Pasadena, and always then he was ‘on the wagon,” and never going to drink again; but we could see his toneliness and his despair—not about himself, for he was too proud to voice shat, but for mankind, and for the universe. It may seem a strange statement, that a poet could be killed by the nebular hypothesis; but M. C. S. declares that is what happened to George Sterling. I believe the leaders jof science now reject the nebular hypothesis, and have a new one; but meantime, they had fixed firmly in George’s mind the idea that the uni- verse is running down like a clock, that in some millions of years the earth ‘will be cold, and in some hun- Jimena: dréds of millions of year's the sun will be cold, and so what, difference does it make what we poor insects do? You will find that at\the be- ginning, in “The Testimony of the Suns,” and at the end in the drama, “Truth.” It is what one might ‘call applied atheism. Once, M. C. S. tells me, George of- fered never to drink again, if she would ask him not to. But her notion of fair play did not permit her to do this. What could she give him in return? he cares. of her own life were too many; she had a husband who refused to be afraid of his ene- mies, and so she had to be afraid for two, and there were long periods when she could not even answer George’s letters. He stayed in San Francisco, and now and then he would sev he was coming to see us, and when he did not come, we would know why. Mencken was coming to visit George, and just before his coming George was drunk. He was fifty- six years old, and there was no longer any fun about it,-but an agony of pain and humiliation; and so he took cyanide of potassium, as he had many times threatened to do. To me it is something so cruel that I would not talk about it, were it not for the next generation of poets and writers, who are parroting the ayt-for-art’s-sake devilment, and dancing to hell with John Bootleg. Consider my friend Mencken. The death of this beautiful and noble and generous-souled poet has taught him nothing whatsoever; he writes the same cheerfully flippant letters in celebration of the American saloon. “Whatever George told you in mo- ments of katzenjammer, I, am sure that he got a great deal more fun out of alcohol than woe. It was his best friend for many years and made life tolerable. He committed suicide in the end, not because he wanted to get rid of drink, but simply because he could no longer drink enough to give him any pleasure.” Was more poisonous nonsense ever penned by an intellectual man? How many pleasures there are which do not pall with age, and do not destroy their devotees! The pleasures of knowlege, for example—of gaining it, and helping to spread it. The pleasure of sport; I play tennis, and it is just as much fun to me at forty- eight as is was at fourteen. The pleasures of music; I play the violin, after a fashion,’ and my _ friend Mencken plays it better, I hope—and does he find that every year he has to play more violently in order to hear it, and that after playing he suffers agonies of sickness, remorse and dread? I say for shame upon an in- tellectual man who cannot make such distinctions; for shame upon a teacher of youth who has no care whether he sets their feet upon the road to wis- dom and happiness, or to misery and suicide! Let George Sterling speak from his grave the last words upon the subject —a few lines from.“The Man I Might Have Been.” Clear-visioned with betraying night, I count his merits o'er, And get no comfort from the sight, Nor any cure therefore. I'd mourn my desecrated " (His maimed and sorry twin), But+ well he knows my makeshift tears— The man I might have been, Decisively his looks declare The heart’s divine success; He held no parley with despair, Nor pact with wantonness. ... 2 Fates that held us at your choice, How strange a web ye spin! Why chose ye not with equal voice The man I might have been? a (To Be Continued.) | i | | Red Rays ee nice governor cf Colorado has decided that an insurrection exists around a coal mine where the state police killed five striking mimers and nded twenty. Martial law is de- clared and the troops under the direc- tion of the democratic, liberal, gov- ernor Will shoot down more miners, unless they bend their necks to the yoke and their backs to the econongjc lash of their masters. Government by the people, of the people and for the beople! This is just what they have in Colorado. * OHN D. ROCKEFELLER continues to play golf and his sanctimonious son, founder of the company union in the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company mines, continues to™lay the corner stones of churches and continues to contribute millions to “charity.” If his thugs in Colorado continue to be quick on the trigger he can afford to continue playing the role of the * * | generous, publie-spirited citizen. Gov- |ernment by the people, of the people and for the people in Colorado means government, by, of and for Rocke- feller. * FEN the murder of miners in Colo- vado has not succeeded in pushing the struggle in the bituminous coal fields of Pennsylvania, Ohio and In- diana off the front page. In those states, the injunction industry is get- ting into its stride. What do you think? In a certain district in In- diana the striking miners are pro- hibited from attending a church which is patronized by scabs. What is to become of the strikers’ immortal souls? What the devil does the opera- tors’ judge care about souls? It is regrettable that some striking miners are still under the influence of the sky pilots. * * * * * j ee John L. Lewis and William Green made a big point of this in their appeal to the president to do something about the bituminous sit- uation. What is the country coming to if strikers are prevented from at- tending religious services? No doubt Calvin thot this was regrettable, but no doubt he also thot of the million dollar Mellon wedding. We must have million dollar weddings, even if a few thousand souls go to hell. What was hell made for anyway, except for proletarian souls that do not exist in law-and-orderly bodies? * * * ESIDES, what could a strike-break- , ing president think of labor leaders who came to him with an humble petition for relief for the coal miners, but who, instead of laying the blame on the operators, blamed the railroads? And it so happens, that Tweedledee owns the mines and Tweedledum owns the railroads! And Tweedledee and Tweedledum are closer than the Siamese twins. Cool- idge, the coal-owner’s servant will do nothing to help the miners. This would be in violation of the principle of non-interference in industrial dis- putes—on the side of the miners. * Way a young miner representing several locals—practically all the live locais in the Pittsburgh district —got up at the recent conference of labor leaders in Mellon’s city, to de- mand militant action, he was given the bum’s rush out of the hall. Fol- lowing the meeting, Lewis and Green crawled all the way from Pittsburgh to Harrisburg to lay the miners’ case before governor Fisher and after giv- ing their belly-sores a chance to heal, crawled to Washington to plead with the president of the United States. They crawled figuratively, not literally. They don’t have to crawl or even to walk. Lewis was wise enough to increase his salary to $12,- * * 000 a year at the last miners’ con- - vention. Green is serving the work- ingclass for the same yearly allow- ance. They can afford to»be sym- pathetic and discreet, * * *. ie the labor fakers expected that the employers would permit them to pose as the guardians of the workers, even in effigy, in return for their as- sistance in fighting radicalism, they are doomed to disappointment. The capitalists are determined \that the workers shall havé no other gods be- fore them, The capitalists are short- sighted. They are not doing the right thing by their labor lieutenants,” The liberal New York World, as sliray a capitalist sheet as ever polluted a cess-pool, points out that Rockefeller erred when he drove the United Mise Workers out of Colorado, thus leave ing the field to a more radical or- ganization. This is what the World says and perhaps thinks, but rebels are made by oppressive conditions rather by preambles. * iro te UT if the capitalists are short sighted, how much more so are the workers who fail to rally to the embattled miners in Colorado be- cause they fight under the banner of the I. W. W., even tho they carry the star spangled banner at the head of their parades. After all the capital- ists can afford to be short-sighted just now. The workers cannot. In a struggle such as is now taking placa in Colorado, the capitalist front will be unbroken. ences of opinion among them as to the best methods to be used in de- feating the workers. But they will all stand together against the work- ers. The workers thruout the country must rally to the support of the Colo- rado miners and to their comrades in the bituminous fields. —T. J. O'FLAHERTY There may be differ- ~