The Grand Old Man of Labor
by Joseph Cottler
HE heard the cry first in the street where he lived on the East
end of London, and for the rest of his life the cry kept ringing in his
ears. He was a small boy then with his nose flat against the
windowpane. The tramping on the cobbles outside drew him often
to the window, and he watched men, the fathers and older brothers
of his playmates, moving aimlessly about. They gathered in groups
they drifted apart and together again like scraps of rubbish blown
about in the back yard. And the cry of one of them penetrated the
shut window and lodged in his brain:--
"God, I've no work to do. My wife, my kids want bread, and I've
no work to do."
When Sam was a grown-up of ten his father took him out of the
free school for Jewish boys, and apprenticed him to a shoemaker.
His father himself was by trade a cigarmaker. Often after supper
he rose from the table saying he was off to a meeting of the
Cigarmakers' Society.
"I would rather be a cigarmaker," remarked Sam, the shoemaker
of eight weeks standing.
"And why?" asked father Gompers.
"Because shoemakers have no society," replied Sam.
With that the Society of Cigarmakers enrobed a new apprentice
boy. Sam took his place at a long worktable. In the daily company
of men his raw, open mind was molded as tightly as the rich brown
velvety leaves of tobacco molded between his fingers. They talked
of hard times, of wages and starvation in England. Some spoke of
a land to the west, where wages were higher and they sang:--
To the West, to the West, to the land of the free
Where mighty Missouri rolls down to the sea;
Where a man is a man if he's willing to toil
And the humblest may gather the fruits of the soil
Yet even there a civil war had broken out over the freedom of
workers. The English factory owners, Sam heard, were on the
side of the South; but the working class was with Lincoln. In
the whole world Abraham Lincoln had no more loyal admirer
than the thirteen-year-old boy Sam Gompers. When his fattier,
one day, announced gloomily that to save themselves from starvation they would have to leave England for America, Sam
thrillingly thought that he would be closer to Abraham Lincoln.
His father, who once before had been driven to break the ties
of family and friends by emigrating from Amsterdam to London,
was in despair.
Between the East end of London and the East Side of New
York there was only a step: the struggle to pay the landlord and
the grocer was unchanged. The one difference for Sam lay in
the many and different races of people he accosted this side of
Castle Garden. His new fellow countrymen greeted him in a
score of tongues. The shop where he found work was manned
mostly by Germans. But at the Cooper Institute where he attended lectures and night school, his American friends were also
Irish, Bohemian, Russian, Swedish.
Most of his education came to him with his wages; the shop
was his university. He grew to manhood in an atmosphere
choked and blended with tobacco dust. All day long he took
the soft leaves stripped off their stems, one by one off the pile.
He examined the leaf, and shaved off the frayed edge to a hair's
breadth. Then he wrapped it around the sausage of tobacco,
deftly knitting the holes in the leaf and shaping the cigar.
He enjoyed the work because once his fingers had become
expert, his mind was left free. Cigarmakers could cultivate one
another's society during working hours.
"Sing us something, Otto," they coaxed. And high above the
littered bench rose the dreamy spirit of the song
Kennst du das Land . . .
Sometimes it was, "Read to us, Sam." Sam had a strong, mellow voice and there was always a book or magazine in his pocket. Discussion always followed reading. Always they argued
some question or other, rarely deciding anything but heaps of
cigars. Now and then Sam would hastily draw out a pencil and
piece of paper, and note down a striking thought or hint for
homework.
"But Karl Marx says . . ." someone would remark--and Sam
made the note that he must learn German, must read Karl Marx.
They tasked of themselves, of their lot as workers and citizens--Sam now a voter. At such times a mood of despair prevailed,
because the days of the cigarmakers seemed numbered. From
every quarter they discerned threats to their existence. A toot
had been invented for molding cigars, and the craftsmen saw
in it a portent of the time when their skill would be thrown into
the discard.
"Either we destroy the machine, or it will destroy us," believed
some of Samuel Gompers'shopmates.
"But to destroy the machine is to stop the wheels of progress," objected Sam.
Then the "sweatshop" menaced them. Some merchants had
bought up a block of tenements. There they installed families
of immigrants whom they put to work making cigars. The immigrant family paid rent to the merchant, was forced to buy their
raw tobacco and tools from him, their food even. The cigar
merchant paid little for his labor, had no rent to pay for a factory, and made profit on the sale of provisions. Naturally he
was able to sell his cigars at astoundingly low prices. But at
whose expense? Samuel Gompers visited "sweatshops." He
found that merely to keep alive, every member of the "sweatshop" family had to work early and late, seven days a week. The
low price of the "sweatshop" cigar dragged down the price of
the factory cigar, and that in turn beat down the wages of all
craftsmen like Samuel Gompers. They found themselves unable
any longer to provide their families with decent food or living
quarters. The cigar smoker was content, the cigar manufacturer
also, but the worker was desperate.
"Sweatshops are degrading," Sam and his friends agreed bitterly.
Then in 1873 amother depression paralyzed the industry of the country. Through the blizzards of the winter Samuel Gompers saw the lines of men outside the free soup kitchens in every
ward. What knew those bewildered, suffering men of stock market deflation or bank credits? They knew only that they begged
for work and were turned away, that their families were hungry.
Again the cry rang in the ears of Samuel Gompers:--
"God, I've no work to do. My wife, my kids want bread, and
I've no work to do."
Was there no answer to this cry? Some of his friends had
panaceas for poverty.
"The Government should print paper money," they said. "Then
money will be so plentiful that we can all have some."
"Reduce the hours of work," others said. They put their idea
into the slogan: "Eight hours for work. Eight hours for rest.
Eight hours for what we will."
"If the Government owned all industries," contended others
"the workers would be well off."
Samuel Gompers shook his head. He knew of no cure-all for
the ills of the workingman. He knew only his distress. And he
pitied him and stood ready to risk his own welfare to help him.
Sam Gompers' shopmates often told what he once risked for
"Conchy."
"Conchy," as he was nicknamed was a middle-aged sick man
with very weak eyes. Sam Gompers and he worked at a bench
near the windows of the dim factory. One morning when Sam
came to work, he found Conchy sitting at a bench in the dimmest part of the factory.
Sam went to him. "What's the matter?" he asked.
"They put me back here and gave that new young fellow my
seat near the window," Conchy said plaintively.
"What for?"
"Well, they just put him there, that's all. I don't know why."
Sam went back to his seat and sent a callboy to Mr. Smith,
the new foreman. The boy came back with word that Mr. Smith
was busy.
"Tell him please it's important," insisted Sam.
Mr. Smith arrived. "Well, what do you want?" he demanded.
"Why did you put Conchy away back in the dark and the young fellow down here in the light?" asked Sam.
With an oath the foreman rapped: "None of your business."
Conchy was an old employee, Sam pointed out; his sight had
failed in the work. The young fellow--
"That's my business," said the foreman.
"You mean to say you're going to let the young fellow keep Conchy's seat?"
"Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it?"
Sam rose. He gathered up his tools. "Not much," he said, "except that he can have this seat, too."
There was a second of silence. Then a voice broke out-- "Yes, and he can have this seat, too."
Another man rose: "And this seat."
Fifty men pushed back their chairs: "And this seat."
The men had struck.
Five minutes later the strike was settled. The factory was
working as usual, with Conchy back in his old seat.
"If we always acted together," Sam Gompers told his shopmates, "we should never be either standing in free soup lines, or working twelve hours every day."
That was his answer to the cry in the streets the cry he could
never forget since his childhood in London when he preferred
the trade of cigarmaking to shoemaking because cigarmakers
had a "Society."
"Let us act together," was not a new appeal in America, even among workingmen. For almost fifty years before Samuel Gompers came to work in America, workers had sometimes united
to parade their grievances. In such unions the shoemakers and
printers protested against low wages, the hatters and other
factory hands against their fourteen hours of daily toil. The
bricklayers, the plasterers, the plumbers--good men of toil--organized societies. Intelligent workers realized that if ever
they were to rise out of the cellars in the slums where so many
of them lived, they would have to stand united. But these unions
were temporary. When indignation welled up in a trade, the
workers rushed together; when their indignation was appeased
or routed, they drifted apart.
"What labor needs," said Sam and his friends, speaking of the
sweatshops and soup kitchens, "what labor needs is permanent
strong unions."
The cigarmakers' local union, to which Sam had belonged since the age of fourteen, was a crude club and yet as good as
any of that time. It maintained little order or discipline among
its members. Any day in any shop, a worker might suddenly
throw down his tools and remark angrily: "I am going on strike."
If enough of his friends followed him, perhaps there was a
stike. But few strikes begun like that ended successfully for the
workers. There was even, in New York City, a council of all
crafts, called the Workingmen's Association. Perhaps its most
notable act was to give Samuel Gompers the opportunity of
making his first public speech. It happened im a mass meeting
that the twenty-four-year-old cigarmaker rose to stammer out
his feeling against sweatshops. When he sat down, one of the
labor officials--a German--said kindly to him: "That was all
right, Sam. You will yet a good speaker be."
Sam had made a start. As he saw it industry was a jungle infested by beasts of prey in the shape of low wages and long
hours, and withstanding them timidly, the patchwork of labor
groups. To civilize the jungle the labor patchwork would have
to be knit together more solidly. Only then could the worker
win a seat alongside his employer, and together lay down plans
for their common welfare.
"That's a good talk, Sam," said his friends over their mugs of
beer. "Now what would you do to strengthen the Cigarmakers'
Union?"
To begin with, thought Sam, there were too many small
unions of cigarmakers. They must give way to one big union.
Its constitution would resemble the charter of an American city
divided into wards over which sat a council. The shops were
wards which elected delegates to the Union Council. And in all disputes with employers over the conditions of work, the
Council would govern....
"That's the kind of union I should like to see," said Sam.
So began Cigarmakers' Local Number 144. Its president,
Samuel Gompers, remarked that it was democratic in form,
and strongly knit because every member, no matter where be
worked, committed himself to help every other member in
debates with his employer over wages and working conditions.
To their delight, the clear workers early began to reap the
benefits of their union in Local Number 144, and the name
Samuel Gompers became popular among the working class
throughout New York City.
But not among certain employers. For if the workers' lot was
improved, their employers' profits were cut down. Some employers resented this. In their own Councils they hissed the
name of Samuel Gompers. Once his boss summoned Sam to the
office. Both men face to face, respected each other; Sam for
his boss's kindness, and the boss for Sam's fine work at the
bench.
"Sam," said his boss in a distressed voice, "I needn't tell you
what I think of you and your work. But the employers' organization to which I belong has voted to blacklist the leaders of
the recent strike."
"Which means"--Sam helped him to say it--"that I'm out of
a job. It's not your fault."
When he got back to the shop to pack his tools, his fellow
workers indignantly rose to declare a strike. Sam climbed on
a chair--he now made speeches without stammering--and the
men gathered around him.... It was contrary to the rules of
Local Number 144 to walk out in that fashion. They must be
loyal not to him, but to the whole union; they must stay at work.
. . . And they did.
He found a job with a manufacturer who did not belong to
an employers' association. Once day his new boss summoned him
to his office.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Gompers. Mr. Gompers, how wouH
you like to be my foreman at twenty-five dollars a week?"
Sam was then earning twelve dollars. He waited to hear more.
"In fact, I look to you," said his boss, "to become my superintendent. And that is not all. If you will induce the union workers
to take a reduction in pay, you can have half what I save. With
your influence, it ought to be easy."
So that was it. Sam did not waste more time before packing
his tools than was necessary to repay the insult. His haste swept
him out before he could raise a nickel for carfare, and he walked
home. He did not mind that, nor the winter slush, nor his torn shoes. If he was beside himself with anguish, the reason was
his wife and kids. They would dine again on a soup of flour and
water. One employer, realizing his staunchness, had sent a messenger to his wife offering her thirty dollars a week if she could
induce Sam to give up the union. His loyal wife had refused.
But was he fair to her and the children? He might give in, and
ease the suffering of his family. But he thought of all the workers
and their families and their faith in him.
He talked the matter over with a few other leaders in the
labor unions. "Let us pledge each other," he proposed, "never
to rise outside the labor movement." And together they swore,
like monks taking holy vows. Their purpose was to show the
workers of every trade why and how they should combine in
unions, so that no employer could refuse to deal with them as
equals. In his vision, Sam Gompers saw the time when employer and worker--labor and capital--would sit at the same
table, and talk frankly and freely of each others needs and
problems. Then, he felt, there would be no more misery among
the toiling citizens of America. The vision was inspiring, but
it could never become real, Sam knew, until labor stood so
united that reluctant capital wouldn't dare refuse its cooperation.
As he had been one of the principal organizers of the Cigarmakers' Local Number 144, Sam helped also to organize a union
of all the trades in New York City, called the Amalgamated
Trades and Labor Union. He believed that not only must one
cigarmaker stand with another, one printer with another, every
man with the men of his trade, but every worker must stand by
every other worker. A certain Government official understood
Sam Gompers, for he said: "Mr. Gompers"--the labor leader
had apologized for coming to him on this occasion--"Mr. Gompers, I regard you as the spokesman for the umderdog of the
world."
Now, with the force of organized labor behind him, Samuel
Gompers attacked the cigar sweatshops. He set about educating the public, educating representatives of the people elected to the Legislature. He showed, publicly and privately,
pictures of rooms in tenement houses where children as young
as six, pale and weary, squatted on a dirty floor, stripping tobacco until late in the night or until they fell over with fatigue
on the tobacco heap.
The sweatshop merchants retialiated. They denied those pictures, produced more favorable ones. They fought by advertisement, they went to law. The battle against the cigar sweatshops lasted more than ten years, but victory came finally to the forces of organized labor.
Samuel Gompers was learning how to make social change
in a democracy. Though young, he knew already how to organize for the protection of workers. He was satisfied with
labor unions in his own city. Now he turned his attention to
the labor union of the whole country.
He talked about it with men of various trades. Many an
evening, after the day's work, he sat down at a table in some
public place to discuss his pet hope--the Federation of American Labor. His boon companions were printers, carpenters, tailors, stonecutters--any workers who belonged to the union of their trade. Employers were wise, Sam felt; throughout the nation they severe banding together. In a few trades, the employees were doing the same thing. All the local unions of
cigarmakers, for instance, had affiliated as the International
Cigarmakers; likewise the printers. On special occasions a
national union held a convention where a few delegates met,
passed some resolutions, and went home. That was fine, agreed
Sam; he would like to see those national unions stronger. But
they treated of matters in their own trade. They were like State
Legislatures. Now just as all the states were federated, as the
United States of America, all trade-unions of the country ought
likewise to federate. Such was his plan for the welfare of the
American worker.
But, some people objected, the American worker already
had a national union of all trades: the Knights of Labor. In
December of 1869, nine tailors of Philadelphia had started the
Knights of Labor, a union of workers of every kind in the
Country. Their purpose was to improve the lot of the American
worker. The Knights of Labor were growing. Was not that the
answer to Sam Gompers' hope?
No, said Sam. The purpose of the Knights of Labor was good,
but they would never achieve it by their method. Take, for
instance . . .
By two o'clock in the morning, Sam usually convinced or wore out his opponents.
For almost ten years Samuel Gompers preached his favorite
sermon: the Federation of American Labor. As the father of a
big family, he could ill afford to travel yet he went out to distant conventions of labor unions to deliver his sermon. Whenever he felt discouraged, he thought of his fellow workers
living in slums, of pale and weary children in factories, of
mayhem and death coming to factory hands with no compensation to their stricken families. There was his inspiration,
and he came to be known as the spokesman for the workers of
America.
At last, in December of 1886, came the moment Sam Gompers had worked for. In Colmmbus, Ohio, the American Federation of Labor, the union of all labor minions, was organized.
In its constitution it was modeled after the United States of
America. But just as the States in 1787 did not yield much
power to the Federal Govemment, so the labor unions did not
yield much power to their Federation. Weak as it was, however, it was the realization of Sam Gompers' dream. If its president were skillful and devoted, it would grow.
No one wanted the presidency of the new American Federation of Labor, for the office paid a salary of only one thousand
dollars a year. One could hardly support a family on that.
Samuel Gompers father of the Federation, was first nominated.
He declined. But when the subsequent nominees also declined,
he stepped forward for another sacrifice in behalf of the working class of his country.
Shortly after, John Doe read "in the papers" of the American
Federation of Labor, and saw the picture of its president: a
short, stocky individual, with black hair and dark snapping
eyes. It was a picture John Doe was to see often in the years
to come.
His first office in New York at 332 East Eighth Street, was
no more commodious than a pantry. It had a kitchen table for
a desk. The rest of the office equipment consisted of empty
grocers boxes. Thus installed, Samuel Gompers began his new
life as professional agent of labor. Heretofore he had been
concerned largely with the problems only of his own trade, cigarmaking. Now his concern was with the problems of every trade. He learned to speak of his work with the glassblower
and the steamfitter as with the tailor and carpenter. They, in
turn, listened more readily to his appeal to stand united in
their trade, to add their trade-union to all others in the Federation. From all parts of the country workers came to him
and wrote to him for advice and help.
Thus he became aware of the griefs and grievances of all
workers, and he spoke for them.... Are the men in the steel
mills of Western Pennsylvania required to work twelve hours
a day? One morning the president of the steel company receives a courteous letter from Samuel Gompers, who suggests
a friendly task about the welfare of his employees.... The
garment workers are protesting the unsafe and unsanitary condition of factories: and the factory owners have to reckon with
Samuel Gompers.... Out on the West Coast the seamen are
realizing that in a democratic world, they alone are bound
like serfs to the sea by the mule that they moist not quit their
ship even in a safe harbor. One day they come 'upon notices
of a seamen's meeting called by Samuel Gompers. Mr. Gompers encourages them to stand united in their fight. Congressmen have a visit from Mr. Gompers, who explains the slavery
of seamen, and suggests a new law. Congressmen get used to
seeing Mr. Gompers. He comes on various errands. Now he
represents a body of voters who protest the cruelty of child
labor; now he appears in Congress to plead for the unemployed
who have wives and kids to feed, and no work to do. We have
a rich land, says Mr. Gompers warmly. Yet we allow our
abundant tools to rust and our fertile soil to lie fallow while
people starve. It is stupid and brutal.
Wherever he appeared and on whatever occasion, Samuel
Gompers contended that the American worker had the right
to a better life.
Nor was the struggle for the worker's rights always to be
fought in a swivel chair. Sometimes it took a sinister form, and
at such times Samuel Gompers sallied into the field like a
crusader in a holy cause.
One pictures him, for instance, as the coal miners of Pennsylvania and West Virginia saw him in the'90's. Out of curiosity
or hopelessness, groups of miners gathered at the roadside or in a hall to hear the stranger from New York. He told them first what they themselves knew too sorrowfully, but they
marveled that any outsider should know or care: They lived
lives of bondage their homes were shacks owned by the coal
company. The food they ate and the clothes they wore had to
be bought from the coal company. Their sons were brought
into the world by the company's doctor; at the age of eight
sent into the company's mines; clothed and fed from the company's stores, buried in the company's graveyard. They were
slaves.... And what did he advise? They must unite and
demand, like self-respecting men, a decent life.
The coal companies resented Samuel Gompers; he was attacking their profits, and they tried to drive him from their
towns, Their lawyers arraigned him in court. The labor leader
hurt their business they maintained his task was illegal.
Speech is free in America, replied Samuel Gompers.
But he was inciting the men to strike, said the protectors of
profit. Strikes hurt the country; therefore he, Samuel Gompers,
was his country's enemy....
Samuel Gompers was not frightened by such attacks. He felt
that his thinking compatriots would see through them. But too
frequently strikes did break out sometimes with violent accompaniment of mob scenes, fights, and bloodshed. At such
times, the public was shocked, and demanded that workers
and their employers settle their disputes peaceably.
Strikes distressed Samuel Gompers more than anyone else,
and he tried all fair means to avoid them. He knew the suffering a strike brought down on the very workers he wished to
help. But sometimes he was powerless to prevent a strike. At
other times, however, when every other means had failed to
abolish the wrongs to a group of workers, he shouldered the
responsibility and fearlessly called for a strike.
In a republic, he said, strikes were necessary. They were like
pain in the social body. They forced people's attention to a disease, and resulted in better industrial health. Employers and
workers understood each other better after they had suffered
in a strike, and the nation thereby gained. "I tnust that the day
will never come when the workers surrender their right to strike," he said.
He upheld the workers' right to strike because he believed
in democracy. To him democracy was like a strenuous game in
which groups of people joined together as teams, for the
common advantage. The zest and beauty of the game was that
each player was free to choose his side. Employers lined on one
side of the field, for example; workers on the opposite. Of
course this sort of play was not for children. The contestants
were in deadly earnest, hurt and scarred in the brunt of battle.
But if the rules of the game were observed, it developed the
players as did no other form of poetical life.... But the rules
must be observed. To those who would prevent him from advising the workers of the country he warned: Mind the rules
of democracy--free speech. Those employers who would prevent their workers from forming unions he warned: You are
violating a rule of freedom. Employers unite; workers have
the right to do likewise.
The employers of the country must learn, moreover, that the
way to avoid strikes of their workers is not by opposing their
unions, but by collaborating with them and sharing their problems. The good of the country demands a common council of
labor and capital.
For forty years Samuel Gompers stood as on a platform,
gavel in hand, his dark eyes snapping and his voice raised to
implant his ideas for the worker's welfare in the conscience of
his country. Led by him the trade-unions flourished. He himself came to he regarded as one of the leaders of America. To many his life was like a fairy tale. "Once there was a little cigarmaker"--so the story might begin"--"and he looked about him
and saw Evil Things crushing the Man in Overalls. So the little
cigarmaker fashioned a weapon called Trade-Unionism, and
went forth to do battle with the Labor Evils in the shape of
Long Hours and Low Wages...." The romance told of
young Samuel Gompers in his office furnished with empty grocer's boxes. That was long ago, in the days when he was little
known, But in the ripeness of time, he became a mighty champion, and a power m the land to be feared and loved. Then his
office contained desks and secretaries in the elegant American
Federation of Labor building, within walking distance of the
White House. The dwellers in the White House often called for the advice of Mr. Gompers. The little cigarmaker was not
abashed not even when he was guest of the King of Great
Britain, whose ragged subject he once was. He was not abashed
because he, too, represented a mighty power, Labor. He had
taught Labor the value of acting through union. He had shown
Capital the necessity of deliberating with Labor on their common welfare.
The real romance in the life of Samuel Gompers was his devotion to what he called "the holy cause of labor." Worldly men
who appreciated his talents offered him on several occasions
fortunes in money if he would give up his holy cause and enter
business. But he preferred to live in his small house, comparatively poor, and continue his devotions to the holy cause. Once
a capitalist proposed to him that he become the president of a
corporation about to operate in Mexico. The corporation intended to run farms on a gigantic scale. With the cheap labor
there said the capitalist, millions in profits were to be made
in Mexico. Now, Samuel Gompers had been thinking of Mexico.
He himself was about to operate there, because of cheap labor.
He intended in fact, to make it less cheap. He declined the business offer, of course; he had other profits in mind, holier ones.
His business in Mexico was to uplift the degraded worker, the
peon, until he stood shoulder to shoulder with his neighbor, the
worker across the Rio Grande.
In the fall of 1924, the American Federation of Labor was
holding its annual convention at El Paso. Its founder, "the
Grand Old Man of Labor," still sat in the presidential chair.
This was fated to be the last time he would face his flock. But
he did not know that. In Juarez across the Rio Grande, another
mighty organization of workers, the Mexican Federation of
Labor, had also convened, and to the lips of their speakers one
word, a name, came often. It fell on the air with the hush of
a sacred word, and then the air blazed with a "Viva!" The word
was Gompers. The Grand Old Man did not know that. But one
day one thousand men marched across the International Bridge
and into the hall where he sat, gavel in hand. He had dreamed
of this moment, when the foreign workers would sit in common council with the American. His other dream, of workers sharing in the councils of their employers and of the Government--that had already come true. Now this. His mission in
life, he felt, was fulfilled he was ready to die, and no regret.
Catching sight of the old man on the platform the Mexicans
some of them barefooted, burst into wild applause. They
cheered him, they sang to him; a few of them fell on their knees
before him, blessing him for what he had done to free them
from peonage.
The program of the convention called for the election of a
president. Now, except for one year, Samuel Gompers had been
re-elected every vear for forty years. Times had changed, however. Many delegates disagreed with the old man's policies.
They felt that younger labor leaders, new ideas, should prevail.
The old man looked worn out. His days were numbered....
A delegate rose and nominated Samuel Gompers for president,
and the motion was seconded. Not a delegate present but felt
that whatever his disagreement with the old man, he owed him
every homage in his final hours. For the cause of labor alone,
the Grand Old Man had consecrated his life. More than any
other man in the country, it was he who had given Labor a
voice. And that voice he had trained until it was heard with
respect throughout the world, for it spoke in the interests of
the workers....
So Samuel Gompers was elected unanimously. The Grand
Old Man was chief to the last.
From Champions of Democracy, by Joseph Cotter, copyright 1930 by Joseph Cottler. Published by Little, Brown, and company.
I Hear America Singing
(In Leaves of Grass, 1860)
by Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be
.....blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves
.....off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck
.....hand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing
.....as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the
.....morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
.....or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young
.....fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Cornhuskers: Psalm of
Those Who Go Forth Before Daylight
by Carl Sandburg, 1918
THE policeman buys shoes slow and careful; the teamster buys gloves slow and careful; they take care of their feet and hands; they live on their feet and hands.
The milkman never argues; he works alone and no one speaks to him; the city is asleep when he is on the job; he puts a bottle on six hundred porches and calls it a day's work; he climbs two hundred wooden stairways; two horses are company for him; he never argues.
The rolling-mill men and the sheet-steel men are brothers of cinders; they empty cinders out of their shoes after the day's work; they ask their wives to fix burnt holes in the knees of their trousers; their necks and ears are covered with a smut; they scour their necks and ears; they are brothers of cinders.
The Man with the Hoe
by Edwin Markham
(The following poem and painting are moving
testimonies to what the too prevalent
inhumanity of humanity can cause.)
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back, the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this--
More tongued with cries against the world's blind greed--
More filled with signs and portents for the soul--
More packed with danger to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of the Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world,
A protest that is also prophecy.
"L'homme à la houe"
by Jean-François Millet
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings--
With those who shaped him to the thing he is--
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world,
After the silence of the centuries?
The Village Blacksmith
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut tree
the village smithy stands.
The smith, a mighty man is he,
with large and sinewy hands,
and the muscles of his brawny arms
are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
his face is like the tan.
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
and looks the whole world in the face
for he owes not any man.
Illustration by Estelle Hollingsworth
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
you can hear his bellows blow.
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
with measured beat and slow.
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
when the evening sun is low.
And the children coming home from school
look in at the open door.
They love to see the flaming forge
and hear the bellows roar
and catch the burning sparks that fly
like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
and sits among his boys.
He hears the parson pray and preach,
he hears his daughter's voice,
singing in the village choir,
and it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
singing in Paradise.
He needs must think of her once more,
how in the grave she lies,
and with his hard, rough hand
he wipes a tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
onward through life he goes;
each morning sees some task begin
each evening sees it close.
Something attempted, something done,
has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
for the lesson thou hast taught.
Thus at the flaming forge of life,
our fortunes must be wrought.
Thus on it's sounding anvil shaped
each burning deed and thought.
|
The Grand Old Man of Labor by Joseph Cottler
Favorite Genealogy Web Links Page