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Yours for the Revolution

Chapter One: 1906

Socialism is not the same as communism.  The two economic theories are quite different.  Socialism is basically a political and economic philosophy whereby the government participates in benefiting the community as a whole. Communism is an economic theory that promotes a classless society and discourages the concept of private property.  But unfortunately many people associate socialism closely with communism. This confusion as to socialism and communism has existed in the United States for more than a century and that confusion has been taken advantage by many a politician.   How often have we seen politicians interchange the terms loosely in a slight of hand type tactic to confuse issues or accuse their opponent of being a communist or a socialist so as to draw public ire and outrage.

Under the Marxist-Lennon concept, socialism was closely tied with communism and all property was to be publicly owned and each person works and gets paid according to their abilities and their needs.  However, it should be pointed out that both democracies and communist forms of governance employ, to a certain extent, socialist characteristics.   As socialism can be applied to make communism more appealing to the masses, socialism can also be applied to temper economic philosophies such as capitalism.

Capitalism is at the other end of the spectrum from communism. It is an economic system in which a country's trade and industry are primarily profit driven and controlled by private individuals and corporations rather than by the state.  A capitalistic form of governance is primarily determined by the private sector in the production and distribution of goods and services. It is uniquely characterized by competitive pricing being determined mainly by competition in a free market system. Under pure capitalism, those at the top would continually gain momentum and eventually create crippling monopolies.  When this began to happened in the United States in the late19th century, it became necessary for the government to step in and put into place controls to break up and prevent monopolies.

As monopolies of the railroads, steel mills and commodities such as coal, kerosene, oil and other necessary products began to have a stranglehold on the nation, it became apparent that government involvement in the economic health of the nation was becoming increasingly necessary.  A monopoly is the extreme result of pure capitalism. It ultimately creates a lack of competition, which more often than not leads to exorbitant price fixing and shoddy products.  In 1890, in response to growing concerns over monopolies, the Sherman Antitrust Act was effected giving the federal government the power to break up big companies into smaller entities that did not interfere with the flow of commerce in interstate and international trade.

The idea of the American government’s involvement in helping its citizens is not a new concept.  In 1854, Abraham Lincoln stated, “The legitimate object of government is to do for a community of people whatever they need to have done, but can not do at all, or can not so well do, for themselves – in their separate, and individual capacities.”  Since making that statement, there has been much discussion as to what “the legitimate object of government” actually is.   As time has passed, the American population has expanded significantly and views of the role of government have changed as well.  But, even in the era of my great- grandfather, the word socialism brought with it a negative stigma  At the time of this writing, the word socialism is still viewed by many as anti American. More often than not, socialism is often associated with negative connotations. Words such as communism and  nationalism, which are in turn associated with words such as  jingoism, chauvinism and xenophobia. In short, the word socialism, is guilty by association.

Before radio became popular in the 1920s, people enjoyed listening to speeches.  The longer the speech, the better.  Great orators, theologians, politicians, gypsies and even snake oil salesmen could make a living if they could just find an audience and hold people's interest.  In 1906, my great-grandfather, Dr. Alexander Fitzgerald Irvine, Sr., a graduate and fellow of Yale University and member of the New Haven theological society, was becoming known as an outspoken socialist and rabble-rouser through his association and organizing efforts for the local labor party in New Haven.  In an effort to enlighten the Yale University and New Haven communities regarding the benefits of promoting social programs for the working class, he sought to invite literary talent and fellow outspoken socialist, Jack London, to speak at Yale University.  

Dr. Irvine was also the Secretary of the Connecticut Socialist Party. Concerned that even well educated people were not adequately familiar with even the most basic precepts of socialism, Dr. Irvine sought to try and initiate further discussion on the topic.  At that time in history, no major university in the United States, including Yale, had dared offer any serious scholastic curriculum on the subject of socialism. Dr. Irvine, familiar with Jack London's writings on the subject of socialism, sought to further the discussion of socialism by inviting him to speak at Yale University.

At the time, many of the Yale faculty were either not yet familiar with the popular writings of Mr. London or they were only familiar with some of his popular novels.  However, a sentiment did exist within the New Haven clergy that opposed socialism and the associated socialism with the rise of labor movements.  Many of the churches in New Haven had members of their clergy that were also considered the local “captains of industry” who abhorred the idea of the church having any association with the labor movement.

The word “socialism” was fast becoming a very negative connotation as it was being associated with organizing laborers.  The objective of the organizers was to achieve goals of collective bargaining for the millions of common worker against the overwhelming power of the few moguls of industry.  Monopolies were quickly becoming established by the titans of industry and creating vast fortunes for those with the wherewithal to take it.  In order to achieve maximum profits by these moguls, wages of the workers were kept as low as possible and any attempts at labor organizing was dealt with harshly.  Many workers who dared to raise their voice were beaten and sometimes died at the hands of industrial police as the legitimate powers of the time looked the other way.

Jack London was an up and coming writer becoming known nationally for widely popular novels such as, Call of the Wild, White Fang and Sea Wolf.  In 1906, London's writings were already considered  to be an invaluable contribution to American literature.  At the same time, he was also becoming somewhat notorious for his controversial writings on the subject of socialism. Although his adventure novels were popular with the general public, his outspoken views on socialism were significantly less popular, especially with the New Haven clergy.  In that era, the word “socialism” was increasingly being associated with European revolutionary groups such as the Bolsheviks and their Marxist Russian Social Democratic Labor Party.  Most Americans opposed anything that followed the word “Marxist” and associated the word “socialism” closely with that of “communism.”

While 1906 was a period of technological enlightenment in the United States, it was also a period of turmoil and civil unrest.  Many of the working class had very differing views about the disparaging difference in the wealth being rapidly acquired by Wall Street bankers, the railroads and entrepreneurial industrialists.  As a result, the labor movement was slow to gain momentum with populist movements.  Labor movements in the United States were still in the early stages of development and the organizers often had very differing philosophies.  Many of the factions of the early labor movement were very much at odds with one another.

Dr. Irvine, who was himself becoming known as an outspoken socialist in the Yale University and New Haven religious community, knew of several Yale students that he had previously had conversations about further exploring the subject matter of socialism from an academic viewpoint.  Together, Dr. Irvine and these socialist leaning students, at the suggestion of Dr. Irvine, sought to put together a plan to host Jack London for a speaking engagement at the university. They knew that many at Yale University and in the New Haven community had probably already heard of Jack London in reference to his novels and speculated that his name recognition might be advantageous in drawing a large crowd.

Dr. Irvine was successful in wiring Jack London to invite him to speak while his young colleagues focused on setting up a meeting with the Yale Union to acquire a venue for the event.  Jack London at the time had been making a number of speaking engagements around the country on the subject of socialism.   He was touring on the East Coast when my great-grandfather offered the opportunity for him to speak at Yale University.  Even though the invitation was on very short notice and without any compensation, Jack London graciously accepted the opportunity to speak, especially since it was Yale University and on a subject he felt so dear to his heart.  His reply read simply, “Yours for the revolution”.      

Excited at the positive response from Jack London, the small ad hoc committee of students now focused on finding a venue for the speaking engagement.  The Yale Union was a freshman debating society that had access to Woolsey Hall on the Yale campus.  The group of students were aware that the Yale Union had very little money and hoped they might become a sympathetic source and ultimately become useful toward gaining access to Woolsey Hall.  A meeting was quickly arranged with the Yale Union board to discuss the use of Woolsey Hall.  

At the meeting the following day, the elderly president of the Yale Union commented, "They say Jack London is a Socialist.”                                               

"Yes, he is, rather," Dr. Irvine answered, nonchalantly. "Well," he added, "I suppose we will have to take our chances.  Will you introduce him, Doctor?"        

"Certainly," replied  Dr. Irvine.                                                                                 

"What's his topic?"                                                                                                 

"He calls it "The Coming Crisis."                                                                             

“Social, I suppose, eh?" asked the president.                                                         

"Yes, it's a suggested remedy for a lot of our troubles,"  replied Dr. Irvine, as if all was solved.                                                                    

“I don't know this Dr. Irvine from a gate-post” the Yale Union treasurer responded. “What if people are offended by this socialist talk on university grounds?”

Another faculty member expressed concern that such an invitation might be interpreted as “a nod of approval to socialism by Yale University.”  A few of the socialist students then had a few rounds back and forth with the treasurer.

“Gentlemen, Yale is a university, and not a monastery,” argued one of the students. “Besides, Jack London is currently one of the most distinguished literary men in America," Dr. Irvine pointed out.  

After much discussion with the student union, Dr. Irvine and his fellow organizers were finally told that Woolsey Hall was available for their speaking engagement for fifty dollars.  The students then conferred with one another about how to go about raising the fifty dollars.

"That's easy," suggested Dr. Irvine, though he didn't have fifty cents to his name at the time.  "I'll be responsible for the fifty dollars. Of course," he said, as he remembered the empty coffers of the Connecticut State Socialist treasury, "we'll have to charge an admission fee of ten cents."  

“What about frost or failure”, someone asked.

Dr. Irvine again promised he would make good on the debt, “come hell or high water.”

When it was finally decided the hall would be rented, the advertising began.  One of the students painted a colorful poster that featured Jack London in a red sweater and in the background, the lurid glare of huge flames ready to engulf him.  Streets, trees, shops and factories were thereafter bombarded with printed announcements.

The next morning, Yale University and the New Haven community awoke to find handbills tacked to every tree and wall with a large caption printed in bright red letters, "Jack London at Woolsey Hall."   

Although public speakers were popular in that era, Yale and the New Haven community had never been so thoroughly informed of a speaking engagement on such short notice.   The event was promoted as the speaking engagement of all times and quickly became the main topic of discussion at both Yale University and within the Hew Haven community.  

Chapter Two: Arrival of the Socialist

It was a cold, crisp early January morning in New Haven when the train pulled into Union Station in New Haven.  There was no fanfare whatsoever as Jack London stepped off the train and onto the station platform.  He was wearing a black cheviot suit, white silk shirt with a rolling collar, a stylish white tie and patent leather pumps.  Although dressed well, his hair was crudely combed low over one side of his forehead and he looked like a man to whom convention didn't mean much.  Having spent the previous night up drinking and playing cards until dawn, his normally youthful face now looked sullen and gray.

Although dapper in his appearance, he quickly discovered that he was not dressed for the harsh new England weather.  Mild for the time of year, the temperature was just above zero and actually temperate by Connecticut standards.  Stepping into the brisk cold, Jack found himself suddenly sober and chilled to the bone.  He was unshaven and his posture was slouched at both the shoulders and the knees.

Jack looked around and could see that the ground was covered with fresh snow.  The lack of foot prints indicated that the snow had probably just fallen the night before.  He pulled his coat tight as he tried to fend himself from the subfreezing weather.  Pulling a sterling silver whiskey flask from his coat pocket, he took one last, long tug of Kentucky bourbon and turned the flask upside down, as if to see if it were really empty.

“A little early for that; is it not, sir?” asked a stern voice from underneath the station awning.

Jack, looking confused, turned bent over and squinting to see a city police officer walking towards him. The sun was now behind the big man's face and he appeared as a silhouette against the early morning sun.

The officer put one hand on his hip and rubbed his chin with the other. “We do like to observe proper gentlemanly decorum here in New Haven, sir,” he said.

“Oh, I"m sorry. How rude of me,” replied Jack as he extended the flask and turned it upside down. “Fresh out. Won't happen again.”

“Are you expecting someone to meet you here, sir?” asked the officer.

“Oh... uh, ye... yes officer,” Jack stuttered in a now shivering voice.

“I see.  Yer not quite used to the New England cold; eh sir?” asked the officer as he looked down and inspected Jack's attire.

“No. I'm afraid I... I hadn't anticipated it being so d..da...damned c..co..cold,” Jack stuttered.  “I guess I... I should have dressed warmer.”

“Yes sir.  Well, see that you find another means to warm yourself, sir,” retorted the officer.  “Being a university community as we are, sir, we have strict laws against drinking in public and displays of public intoxication.”

“Ah, Mr. London.  I see you've made the acquaintance of Officer McGillicutty,” came a soft voice from behind.

“Aye, I should have guessed,” replied Officer McGillicutty with a hardy laugh.  “And so, this is the likes of the famous, Jack London, eh?”

“A cold fact to be sure, sir.  A cold fact to be sure,” responded Dr. Irvine as he and Jack looked each other over and smiled.  “But, a fact none the less. Yes, this would most certainly be the likes of Mr. Jack London.”

“I would have thought ye to be about seven feet tall. Well then, I guess a little nip in the morning is okay then, eh?” responded Officer McGillicutty.   “Well sir, just remember, we don't tolerate no displayings of public intoxication.” With a hardy laugh, the big man took one more tug, slid the flask back underneath his uniform and bid the two men adieu.

“I remember when we were more accustomed to when they'd try and crack your skull,” responded Jack with a shiver. “I'll tell you true, coppers around trains have always made me nervous.”

“Ah well, Officer McGillicutty is himself one of my congregation. And, he is himself a member of the working class; right?” quipped Dr. Irvine as he extended his hand. “So... good to see you, Jack. First things first.  Let's get you out of this cold. I have an automobile waiting.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way, but...  That's a job I wouldn't want, though,” replied Jack.

The two men walked around the side of the station and climbed into an awaiting brand new Ford Model F four seat 'Runabout' open horseless carriage.  As they approached the vehicle, Dr. Irvine introduced Jack to a young theology student sitting behind the wheel. “Jack, I want you to meet Billy Phelps.  Billy is a student in our school of divinity,”

“A future soldier of socialism in the making, I hope?” inquired Jack with his voice slightly slurred.

“Of course, sir,” Billy replied. “And a soldier of the Lords', as well.”

“Aye, a soldier of the Lord and with a fine automobile,” Jack retorted as he rolled himself up on the bench seat while trying to balance himself.  He positioned himself with some assistance between Billy and Dr. Irvine and then slowly slumped over in the back seat against Dr. Irvine. “Now there's a distribution of wealth I will accept,” he murmured before passing out.

As the trio drove through New Haven, every snow covered tree in the landscape appeared to be papered with the red leaflets announcing Jack London"s pending engagement at Woolsey Hall later that evening.  After a few minutes of the cold New Haven air Jack began to come around and attempted to sit up straight.

Dr. Irvine asked . “Nervous?”

“No. No not if we have Officer McGillicutty and his fine, flashy little flask on our side and a fast car to our avail,” Jack replied. “Hey, where's the copper and his hootch. That stuff gave me a peculiar appetite for libations,” Jack laughed.  “Are there any pubs open yet?”

“Jack, you need to get some food in you first,” pleaded Dr. Irvine. “Please, let me welcome you to my home.”

“A perpendicular would be just fine, sir” replied Jack.

“Alright,” responded Dr. Irvine in a somewhat disappointed tone. “Billy, why don"t you go ahead and drive us to the Erie Grau.”

“Okay,” Billy responded. “What"s a perpendicular, Dr. Irvine?”

“Well, it's sort of a free lunch...  while bellied up at a bar.”

As the automobile pulled up to the Erie Grau tavern, Jack had again passed out and was beginning to snore.

“Billy, let's just take our venerated guest back to my home and we'll let him sleep it off.”

Later in the afternoon, Jack awoke in the home of Dr. Irvine. The residence, although humble, was clean and tidy.  Much of the furniture was covered  with books. Although a bit untidy, it was none the less befitting of a modest Yale theological scholar. Sitting next to him in a rocking chair was Dr. Irvine, reading one of Jack's more recent books, "The Sea Wolf."

“Oh... my head,” Jack whispered as he sat up and held his head in his hands.

“How about something to eat?” asked Dr. Irvine as he set the book down.

“How about something to drink?” Jack half shouted in a laugh.  

Suddenly realizing where he was, Jack spoke in a more composed voice. “Dr. Irvine, I"m really sorry. I didn't mean to come into your home and put you out. Your wife must think...”

“There's no need to apologize,” Dr. Irvine interrupted. “We're not exactly faint of heart in this household.”

“Well, thank you for that, Dr. Irvine,” replied Jack London. “Let me treat you and your students to a round or two and we can talk more about the revolution. I'd like to meet some of what today's Yale has to offer the world.”

Dr. Irvine loaned Jack a heavy coat and they set out to walk to the Yale campus. The walk was less than a mile.   As they walked, the two men conversed about the current state of affairs around the country and the world.  Both worldly men, they enjoyed each others level of conversation.

As they rounded a corner, they walked past one of the handbills.

“What the devil...” Jack said. “Look at all the red. It makes me look like Lucifer himself.”

“Oh Jack, I'm sure it wasn't meant to associate you with the devil.”

“Was red the only color available.” Jack asked. I just hope they don't try and burn me at the stake. You know, I get treated quite differently when I'm introduced as 'Jack London, the writer' than I do as “Jack London, the socialist.”

“Well, that's why it's so important that we get the word out about what socialism is really about,” replied Dr. Irvine. “The mere mention of the word and people think of  Bolsheviks and Russian Cossacks.”

“And reds,” Jack replied.

As the two entered the campus, Dr. Irvine was greeted by a member of his ad hoc committee. “Jack, I want to introduce you to David Shew, Mr. Shew is a theologian in the making and he's also the artist who designed the handbills you've enjoyed seeing all over town.”

“Hello, David,”  Jack said as he extended his hand. “Nice work on the handbill.”

“Thank you sir,” replied David. “Do you really like it? I used a picture of you from the jacket of one of your books. I hope that's okay.”

“Oh certainly, certainly,” Jack shot back nodding his head in approval. “I especially like the flames in the background. All the red.  It kind of makes me look like I'm the true devil's advocate that I am. Yes, I definitely liked the way you used a lot of red.  I was just telling Dr. Irvine that. Truth be told, I'm quite partial to red headed women, too, don't you know.”

Chapter 3:  Jack"s Story

Dr. Irvine and his guest, once again being driven by Billy, traveled around the Yale campus rounding up the group of students that had helped organize the Woolsey Hall lecture. They all met at the Erie Grau Tavern to meet the famous Jack London and learn about him first hand. Dr. Irvine had always associated himself with the temperance movement and felt that drink was the downfall of many a man. Although he had never entered the Erie Grau before, he felt right at home, recognizing several of the clientele from his church.

Dr. Irvine thought to himself that maybe he should go over and explain why he's at a drinking establishment when he's a known advocate of the temperance movement. After mulling it over, he decided that maybe it would be best to just leave it alone. After all, if they were to make an issue of it, they too would have to explain their own presence.

After waiting for several minutes for students to arrive, the first question asked by one of the students was, “Mr. London, what was the most significant event in your life that most influenced you to consider yourself a socialist?”

“Well,” Jack responded slowly and thoughtfully,  “As a youngster,  I was about 16 at the time, I wanted to join an encampment of destitute and impoverished lost souls camped out in front of the Oakland City Hall. While others my age aspired to join the trades or become a professional businessman, I wanted, more than anything else, to become a soldier of the working class. I have to confess, I didn't really want to work so much as I was fascinated  with the idea of being a martyr for the workers of America.”

The students laughed as Jack went on to explain how in the Panic of 1893, the nation"s economy had suffered the worse economic depression to date. As a result of the railroads over extending their financial capacity, many banks began to fail and people found themselves scrambling to withdraw their money from the banks before they closed. As the banks became insolvent and began to fail, the country experienced new levels of high unemployment that had never been seen before.

Jack further explained that he was but a mere teenager at the time and that he had just returned from his first international adventure, having sailed to the coast of Japan on a fishing vessel. He went on to explain that he had thereafter experienced his first encounter with hard labor as he was himself exploited as child laborer while working in a cannery when the Panic of 1893 hit.

“In early 1894, still living with my parents and sister in Oakland, I felt the yearning for a new adventure. Working hard in the canneries the previous year had left a bad impression with me. I despised selling my muscle for a mere pittance and leaving me with neither the energy nor funds to enjoy any fruits of my hard labor. It left me too tired to even read.

An encampment of unemployed just outside of town had begun to capture my attention as it came to grow to great proportions. I was living in my hometown of Oakland, California. They were an army of mostly angry and frustrated men and were being led by a entertaining character who called himself, General Charles T. Kelly. Kelly"s primary objective was ultimately to force the government, through the public conscious, to feed the unemployed and initiate relief efforts to help get them to get back on their feet. To achieve that goal, he wanted to lead two thousand of his followers from Oakland to the Capitol Building in Washington D.C.

At that time, this belief that the government has a responsibility to provide a safety net for the downtrodden was a polarizing subject with the dividing lines placed squarely between the few at the top and the down trodden workers at the bottom.  Magnates like Vanderbilt and his railroad empire, Rockefeller and his oil, Carnegie and his steel, all had become too disproportionately wealthy off the sweat and toil of workers who were left with little to show for their time and toil.  This new labor movement, although ostracized by many as being radical and socialistic, was none the less an early unifying factor in bringing the various socialist labor parties together and unifying their ultimate objectives. The common objective of the labor parties was to temper the current capitalistic form of business and government to that of a more socialist form that gave an equal or greater amount of preference to the labor movement as it did big industry, Wall Street and its ilk.  

Kelly"s Industrial Army was purported to be leaving Oakland on April 6, at seven in the morning by means of open rail cars headed to the California state capital in Sacramento.  The army of unemployed was ultimately working their way by rail to Washington DC to join up with other industrial armies from around the country and confront the federal government.

Unfortunately for me, I missed the train as it had left two hours earlier than scheduled. The previous evening, my sister, concerned for my well being, had made a gift to me of ten dollars. It was all she had. She knew I was broke and did not want to see me out into the world totally penniless and destitute. I now felt I had to spend a part of this money for railroad passage to catch up with Kelly"s Army in Sacramento.

On the train to Sacramento, I overheard a man that appeared to be talking to himself. At first, I tried to avoid eye contact with the man. However, the seat next to him was the only unoccupied seat left in the car. As the conductor made his way down the aisle checking tickets, I looked around to see if there were any other seats available; there weren"t. As I turned back toward the conductor, he looked at me curiously.

"Young man," he said, "you are blocking the aisle," He said this in a somewhat surly manner. "Are you afraid this gentleman will bite you?" he asked.

Well, a number of passengers began to laugh. Now somewhat embarrassed, I set my homemade canvas backpack on the floor and slipped sheepishly into the seat. I tried to continue avoiding eye contact with the gentleman when I heard a voice come from underneath the floorboards.

"Is he gone?" asked the voice from underneath.

This strange man next to ne then used his foot to slide his bag to one side. As I looked down, I could now see that there was a rather large knothole in one of the floor boards. There, through the knothole, I could just make out the back of a man"s head.

The man in the seat whispered, "Yes, he"s gone." he then looked over towards me and put his finger to his lips. I just nodded my head showing that I understood.

The man next to me now addressed me personally, "So, on your way to catch up with Kelly"s Army, eh?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Same here.” The gentleman below said.

“We were just discussing the irony of my riding the railroad inside the comfort of a Pullman car while on my way to join a protest over how the greedy railroad barons are robbing the working man," the man next to me explained.  

“Aye, a bit of poetic irony, eh” the man below retorted. He had a distinct Irish accident and appeared to be about twenty-five years old or so.

"There you comfortably sit, indignant over the greed of our host, yet here we still are, gaining experience and understanding from our travels, as we seek to bridge untraveled..." He spoke as if the narrator in a Shakespearean play.

I interrupted him, "To those who have traversed far seas and many lands, and who can bridge untraveled countries by the aid of experience and of understanding, such partings have pain, but a pain lessened by the certain knowledge of their span and purpose."

"Ah, Signa, by Quida." the man below retorted. "So, you"re a fan of Marie Louise De la Ramee, are you?" he asked.

"Very much so," I responded.

"A very delightful woman," he replied.

"Do you know her?" I asked him in an astonished tone.

"Well, actually... I have only had the honor of hearing her speak while I was a student at Oxford University."

"You studied at Oxford University?" asked the man seated next to me. "You must be rich and smart."

"I had that opportunity to attend college for awhile, it is true. But, wealthy, I"m not. My education at Oxford was while I was a member of the British Royal Navy. I have come to America. Not to find wealth, but rather to find myself. Now, after six months of bouncing from job to job, I continue to find myself among the ranks of the unemployed. So, I am not rich and I don"t find myself particularly that smart either."

"My name is John London," I told him." But, my friends call me Sailor Jack."

"Glad to meet you, Sailor Jack, You can just call me Pat. At your service, sir," he replied. Who is this person riding below us? What is your name, sir?" he asked of the man riding next to me.

"My name's William. Glad to make your acquaintance." he replied.

"So Pat, you're on your way to join Kelly's Army as well?"

"I am indeed, sir,” replied William. "I wants to tell them dirty scoundrels in Washington D.C. just whats I thinks of them all helping the rich get richer and we, the working fellers, pay for their dang castles and grand yachts. Tis not fair. I want to demand that the government do something to help them's what don't own no dang railroads."

"Why didn't you just buy a ticket?" I asked Pat.

"Because I worried they might not be able to break a thousand pound note," he replied. “I felt it  would be rude of me, a foreigner and all, to embarrass them railroad people, so here I am.  Always thinking of others, that's me downfall in life.”

Although I had begun calling myself, Sailor Jack, the Sailor part never really caught on. From this time forward, I became known to my new friends as just, "Jack." The significance of this probably goes to the separation from myself as a discontent cannery worker in Oakland, to that of a man who now sought to live by his own wits and forever avoid the laborious toils that steal the life from a man. Like my traveling companions, I too didn't want to be a tool of the rich. I

A short while after the train pulled into Sacramento, William and I disembarked and worked our way toward Gen. Kelly"s newly established encampment, which we were told was alongside the Sacramento River. On the way, we stopped off at a small market where I purchased a stale loaf of bread and a tin of sardines. The purchase of the bread and sardines turned out to be a smart move. By the time we had caught up with the encampment, we had already long since missed the soup line.

While sharing the bread and sardines and sitting around a small camp fire with William, solving the world"s problems, another young man, slightly older than myself, but younger than William, sat down and joined in the conversation. Although he had not previously been introduced, he addressed both William and I by name. His voice was familiar.

"Ah, the man beneath the floorboards," laughed William. "Now we have a face to associate with the voice, he laughed."

"You"re the guy underneath the train?" I asked as I extended a chunk of bread and the tin of sardines to him.

"Name"s Pat," he replied as he gladly accepted the bread and sardines. "Now, I know you fellows are new to riding the rails and all," he began, "but why in the world would you pay your good, hard earned money to those stinking, greedy, thieving railroad bastards that have put us in this hell on Earth we is in now? Shame on ya!"

Pat was obviously well read and principled. He did not sound like the typical railroad hobo or social misfit. He also appeared to know a lot more about living out and surviving life among hobos and bums than either William or I did.  The rest of the evening was spent discussing the evil chemistry of man and money and how the government needed to do something about this widening disparagement of wealth.

I had brought with me a small diary in which I made regular entries. I was eager to make notes of the first day and these new found friends. It seems that Pat had been all oer the world and could recite stories for hours on end.

The next morning, William and I sat with our blankets pulled tightly around ourselves as we shivered from the forty degree weather. We had been awake most of the night, too cold to sleep. Pat, on the other hand, was still asleep. Wrapped in only a light blanket, Pat appeared to be as comfortable as if he were sleeping on a feather mattress in a fine San Francisco hotel. After Pat awoke, we went down to the river"s edge. I put my hand in the water and quickly recoiled. I started to comment about how the water was too cold. But, before I could finish my words, I felt the splash of cold water as Pat had just jumped in, clothes and all.

"Aren"t you freezing," I asked.

"It"s always cold at this time of year," responded Pat. "But you"re going to have to harden yourself if you want to survive while living outdoors. When you are on the road, the opportunity to get clean does not come about that often. You will do well to learn to take these opportunities when they come."

Without a second thought and before I could change my mind, I too jumped in the river. The water was so cold that it seemed to burn. I stood up and made my way toward the riverbank. I was so cold that I could barely move my legs. My jaw was now dropped to my chest.

William extended his hand to help me back up onto dry land.

As he did, William laughed and asked me, "Why did you jump in when your clothes are still clean?"

Embarrassed by my own impetuousness, I just smiled  and pulled William in the water with me.

William let out a howl and joined Pat and I in laughter.  Others looked on thought we were crazy.

"Deep, unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state - George Eliot," Pat proclaimed.

"This George Eliot, he sounds like a man who knows suffering," I replied.

"George Eliot was actually a woman," Pat responded.

"A woman?" I half laughed, somewhat surprised.

"Yes, Marian Evans Cross. She felt it was necessary to use the name of a man in order that her writings be taken seriously," William explained as we now sat shivering together on the riverbank.

"I want to be a serious writer one day," I told Pat.

"Well, you at least have half of that struggle accomplished," retorted Pat.

"How"s that," I inquired.

"You"re a man, are you not?" asked Pat. "Aye, as absurd as it may sound, that"s half the battle right there. It"s not a fair world, Sailor Jack. It is therefore our duty in life to challenge the injustice we come across and enlighten the ignorant to a more just system of governance."

I asked Pat. "Who said that?”

“I just did,” he replied. “Just now.”

"You always seem to speak as though you were on some kind of stage or something," Pat remarked.

"Ah yes. true. All the world"s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances;  And one man in his time plays many parts," Pat replied.

"That sounds familiar," William commented.  "Did you write that?"

"William Shakespeare," I interrupted.  "I believe he said that in Hamlet..."

"Shakesphere indeed," replied Pat.  “But not Hamlet. It was from,   As You Like It, believed to have been written in about 1600."

Pat further explained, "Look, if you gentlemen endeavor to ever reach the hearts of others and be held high in their esteem, you must first learn to step out of your own pathetic character, that of the antagonist, and into the role of the protagonist.  You must play yourself as that of righteousness and virtuosity.   People, both men and women alike, want to be wooed by what they perceive to be thoughtfulness and caring.  They are not impressed by the insults of the cavalier and conceited.  They want to be placed on a pedestal by someone they believe to be even better than themselves.  Someone who they think adores them.  People yearn for praise.  Find the praise they are looking for, and you have found their key."

That night, I made an entry into my personal journal regarding Pat's advice.  He made it clear that we needed to learn to portray ourselves in mannerisms that best befit the situation.  This was a trait that stayed with me over the years.  It is also a talent that I use to this day in doing business with editors, publishers and whenever money or the renumeration thereof is at issue.   Always be honest, always be kind and always try to find praise. The next several days we spent impatiently waiting for news of further train passage to Washington D.C.  The soldiers of Kelly's Industrial Army had now begun to grow restless. When the supply of soup began to dwindle, many in the encampment became disenchanted and increasingly bitter.  Fights among the ranks started to become commonplace.

William and I followed Pat's advice on developing patience and an inner strength and day by day we became increasingly toughened to the elements of nature, though we still had much difficulty in dealing with the constant waiting.  To ease our suffering, Pat, William and I would make an occasional visit to the citizenry of Sacramento. Rather than take our chances waiting in long soup lines hoping to share in meager proportions of soup and bread, we would go into town and find an audience to address.  I was always amazed at the many interesting stories pat had in his repertoire.  He would talk about the Holy Lands, about the great pyramids in Egypt, the sacrifice of Jesus for the sins of humanity.  Although a soft-spoken man, Pat would project his voice, incorporate theatrical gesturing and make eye contact with the people in his audience.  In almost all situations, Pat's sermons, speeches and recitals resulted in some sort of donation and sometimes to a genuine sit down meal.

Finally, after several days of endless waiting, an open car train had been arranged by the Sacramento City Council.  It seems, the council had by now had enough of the belligerence demonstrated by angry member's of Kelly"s Army, so they financed enough of the costs to get these dastardly rebels out of the state of California.  Later that same day, as the train pulled into Truckee, we disembarked while the train took on water and coal.  At first, it seemed like the whole town consisted of Chinese residents and Chinese businesses.  It became quickly obvious that this was not a town whereby we were going to easily find a handout or a sit down.  Frustrated, we decided to forget spending a night in Truckee and instead opted to continue on in the open car.

Riding in the open cars was a cold and rigorous undertaking.  Scores of men were huddled together in extremely crowded conditions and there had been no provision for food, water or sanitation.  When we finally left California and entered the state of Nevada, we three sojourners were ready for a rest. Riding in open cars, we felt the pain of hot embers from the steam engine as they landed on our clothing.    We soon learned that the state of Nevada loathed the presence of Kelly"s Industrial Army and refused to be held hostage to our demands of assistance.  We were told that therein, Kelly"s troops would have to catch whatever trains they could to reach their final destination in Washington D.C. The railroads would no longer be providing any free rides.

Pat taught us how to take a piece of wood and make, what he called, a ticket. We would take a short length of hardwood and notch it in the middle.  When catching a train, we would crawl underneath the belly of the train and use the ticket to balance ourselves on a brake rod that ran horizontally underneath the train cars.  The ride was extremely rough and we were constantly jolted by the roughness of the uneven train tracks.  Sleeping underneath a moving train was difficult, horrifying and the feeling of accomplishment was fleeting even when achieved.

Pat also advised us to always keep an eye out for hobo encampments. "When you see an encampment, you best get off the train as soon as possible.  Those guys are there waiting for an opportunity to ride the rails and have probably already been kicked off by railroad bulls working the area.  You don't want to mess with the railroad bulls as they"d just as soon split your skull open as look at you,” Pat warned us.  “If you"re going to go into the hobo camps, be ready to fight for your life.  They can spot an amateur from a mile away and they won't hesitate to take everything you have.”

"So, all these hobos, tramps and bums sound as bad as the railroad bulls," I remember commenting.

"Hobos live by a code, the bulls just live by their billy clubs," Pat explained. "Tramps will work when they have too.  Bums won't work at all. Hobos are a working-people who wander from one place to another.  They don't particularly like tramps or bums and they especially don't like sightseers and tourists."

For the next couple of weeks, we boarded whatever trains we could catch, often in the stealth of night.  Riding at night was one of the scariest experiences I had ever experienced in my short life. It was pitch black and the sound was absolutely deafening.  Occasionally, we would become sleepy and doze off, even with the constant roar of the tracks and the grinding of steel wheels against steel tracks.  After awhile, we became used to the loud noise, the cold and even the burning cinders and we were able to catch an occasional nod. However, we all knew that many a stealth traveler had lost his life as the result of falling asleep while riding underneath a train.  On one particular night, I remember a young man riding a car ahead of us falling and loosing both of his legs.  To this day  don't know if the young man lived or died. I just remember seeing his legless torso and flailing arms passing underneath.  It was truly horrible.

When our train finally came into Council Bluffs, Iowa, we were met by a militia of railroad guards and local police.  They ordered us to disembark.  It was in Council Bluffs that the we finally caught up with the rest of Kelly"s Army.   At this point, we were allowed to leave by the railroad bulls but were forewarned that herein forward, if we were caught riding the rails, we faced the wrath of the railroad bulls clubs.

We also learned that mail was being distributed to the members of Kelly"s Army.  Not wanting to use my own name, I had given my mother instructions to use the alias, John Drake.  When possible I would write my mother and let her know how I;m doing. When I finally was able to received a letter from my mother, I cherished it like it was the family Bible.  The letter read:

“Dear Son,

I sent you a few lines this afternoon as soon as I received your postal of the 16th and mailed it immediately that you should know immediately that there were some 8 or 10 letters at Chicago waiting for you each one which contained stamps, paper and envelopes, two of which contains money in greenbacks, one 2 dollars and the other $3.00, which you must stand very much in need of. John just as soon as we know whether you have got what we have already sent, we will try and send you some more. John take good care of yourself, and do not under any circumstances fight, if if should come to that. Remember you are all I have and both papa and I are growing old and you are all we have to look to in our old age.... When we did not get a letter for three weeks I worried so that I could neither eat or sleep, but Papa would always say " never mind Jack, he knows how to take care of himself, and he will make his mark yet." John, Papa builds great expectations of your future success.... John, under no circumstances place yourself in a position to be imprisoned, you have gone to see the country and not to spend your time behind bars. Be careful of fever and ague that is the bane of the East. Keep your liver and kidneys all right and you need not fear it. If you succeed in getting your Chicago mail, be careful not to fall into the water with what money we have sent you, for as it is in greenbacks it might be spoiled like your writing paper. Now my dear son take good care of yourself and remember our thoughts and best wishes for your success, happiness and safe return are always with you.

With lots of love, Papa, Mama and Sister."

I missed the love I was raised around and I missed my comfortable home. However, I now had a new mission in life, I wanted to learn about the world I lived in.  Not with rose colored glasses, but the real world that challenged and tested my mettle. I wanted to expand, not only level of endurance, but my level of understanding of the human condition.  However, my immediate goal was to hightail it to the Chicago post office so I could receive the letters sent by my mother.

It was at that time, my friends and I parted ways, never to hear from or see one another again.  On this adventure, I learned some tough lessens about man"s inhumanity to man.  I know now that we, as a society, were never meant to become so calloused and uncaring towards our fellow man so as to jettison all forms of care and compassion to the wayside.  To this day, I still see and feel the inert torture and indignation of apathy coming from a class of people who assume their rights superior of all others. I had come to feel that if we truly are a civilized society, as we hold ourselves out to be, we have a duty to care for one another and provide for the needs of the young, the elderly and the infirm.  Through propaganda, the word "socialism" has become a vial word meant to insult and degrade.  I learned from this early sojourn that is these capitalistic ideas that we are supposed to respect and hold in high regard, have become the curse of the working man and held him down.  With a purely capitalistic government, we are no longer working toward unification and enlightenment, we are instead working only to fool ourselves and become the very tools that will always protect the rich and their monopoly on wealth.  With just the mere suggestion of socialism, men are willing to drop their plows and pick up their weapons to fend for the rich and their capitalistic rule.

I avow not to be used as such a tool. That sir, is why I consider myself a socialist.”

Chapter 4: The Fighting Parson

The next question was not asked by a student, but rather by Jack London himself, “Dr. Irvine, this is a two-part question; first Dr. Irvine, will you please speak of how we came to be acquainted, and then please tell us tell us, just how in hell did you became known as 'The Fighting Parson'?”

Dr. Irvine pondered for a few seconds, chuckled to himself, and then replied with a wide smile, “Okay...  When I first arrived in the new world, I called myself, 'Pat'.  Many Irish immigrants were referred to as, 'Pat'.  I liked the name Pat and the anonymity it gave me.  I especially liked the feeling of self confidence it bestowed upon me since I had no one I felt I had to answer too, other than my own conscience.  Understand, I was not yet the Dr. Irvine, fellow of Yale University and ordained minister.  Like young Sailor Jack, I was still in the process of trying to find my path in life. But, I wasn't just any Pat, truth be told, I was the crazy Pat underneath the train, riding the rails chasing Kelly"s Industrial Army.“

“Oh my,” replied one of the students.  “I would have never guessed.”

“You were a British Marine?” another student asked.

“All of the student's now gazed upon me as if I were in a spotlight on stage.  'Yes, I had just finished serving as a British Royal Marine and when I left the marines, it also finished my education at Oxford University.   After coming to the New World, I quickly learned how to ride the rails to see the country.   And, see the country I did. I also quickly became disillusioned by the lack of prospects for employment, from New York all the way to the West Coast.  The prospects in California were no better, so I decided to latch onto whatever came along and Kelly's Industrial Army seemed like a good idea at the time.  I guess being a former marine, the term 'army' appealed to me.

“Any how, as I said, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  But, before I get ahead of myself, before becoming a marine in the British Navy, I grew up with 11 brothers and sisters, five of whom died in childhood.  Those of us who were left were sent out to work as soon as we were able. I began at the age of nine.  My first work was peddling newspapers.  I remember my first night in the streets.  Food was scarce in the home, and I begged to be allowed to do what other boys were doing.  But, I was not quite so well prepared. I began in the winter.  I was shoeless, hat-less, and in rags.  My contribution to the family treasury amounted to about fifty cents a week; but it looked very large to me back then. It was my first earning and I was very proud I was able to contribute  to the needs of the family.  I was no longer a child.

“Our home was a two-room cottage. Over one room was a little loft, my bedroom for fourteen years.  The cottage floor was hard, dried mud.  There was a wide, open fireplace. Several holes made in the wall by displacing of bricks here and there contained my father's old pipes.  A few ornaments, yellow with the smoke of years, adorned the mantel piece. At the front window sat my father, and around him his shoe-making tools.  A candlestick about three feet high, in which burned a large tallow candle, was set in front of my father.  My mother was the only one in the house who could read, and she used to read aloud from a story paper called The Weekly Budget.  We were never interested in the news.

“The outside world was shut off from us, and the news consisted of whatever was brought by word of mouth by the folks who had their shoes cobbled; that was interesting. In those long winter evenings, I sat in the corner among the shoes.  On scraps of leather I used to imitate writing, and often I would quietly steal up to my mother and show her these scratchings, and ask her whether they meant anything or not.  I thought somehow by accident I would surely get something.  My mother merely shook her head and smiled. She taught me many letters of the alphabet, but it took me years to string them together.

“Looking to better my situation I left my home in Atrim and went to Scotland.  I labored in a coal-pit as a helper to one of my brothers.  My pay for twelve hours a day was a dollar and fifty cents a week.  If I had not been living in the same house with my brother, this would not have sustained me in physical efficiency.   The coal dust covered my skin like a tight fitting garment, and coal was part of every mouthful of food I ate in that fetid atmosphere.  I had a powerful body that defied the dangers of the pit; but the labor was exhausting, and my face was blistered every day with the hot oil dripping from the lamp on my brow.   

“I left my brother's pit with the hope of getting a larger wage; but there was very little difference between the pits.  Everywhere I went, labor and wages were about the same. Everywhere life had the same dull, monotonous round. It was a writhing, squirming mass of blackened humanity struggling for a mere physical existence, a bare living. The desire to learn to read and write returned to me with renewed intensity, and gave me keen discontent with the life in the pits.  

“I then went to the great, smoky, dirty city of Glasgow to look for a job. I considered it a great shame to be without one, and a crime to be prowling the city at night, homeless and work-less.  God at this time was a very real Person to me and I spent the greater part of many a night on my knees, in some alley, or down by the docks, praying for a chance to work, to be clean and to learn to read.    

“One day, I met a young man of about my own age.  We got to talking about our unique experiences, and in just a few minutes my life was changed by this young man as  he outlined his plan to join the British Royal Navy.  This not only sounded like a good plan, it sounded like a path to becoming  educated and so I joined him in the endeavor.  I saw in the marine service an opportunity to see the world and my chance for an education.      

“We both passed the physical examination and were sent to a training depot in the south of Kent.  In the daily exercises of the gymnasium, I was made to feel very keenly by the instructors the awkwardness of my body; but I was so thrilled with the joy of the classroom, that it took a good deal of forcing to interest me in the handling of guns, bayonets, the swinging of clubs, vaulting of horses, and other gymnasium exercises.   I could think only in the terms of the education I most keenly desired.  This was my first source of trouble. Whatever else a soldier may be, he is a soldier first.  His chief business in life is to be a killer, a strong, intelligent, professional killer; and nearly all energies of instruction are bent to give him that kind of power.    

 “I made rapid progress in school, and I attended all lectures, prayer meetings, religious assemblies and social gatherings, to exercise a talent which I already possessed, of giving voice to my religious beliefs.  But, my Irish dialect was badly out of place, and it took a good deal of courage to take part in these things.  But more embarrassing than my attempts at public speech were my attempts to keep up with my squad in the gymnasium and on the parade ground.

“The gymnasium was open every evening for exercise and amusement.  One evening my drill sergeant happened to be there.  I saw him engaged in a whispered conference with one of the gymnasium instructors.   A few minutes later the instructor came to me and urged me to enter the boxing contest which was going on in the middle of the floor, and which was the favorite amusement of the evening.  If my drill sergeant imagined that a thrashing would wake me up, he was a very good judge.  It did.      

“There is something fiendish in the Celtic nature, some beast in the blood, which, when aroused, is exceedingly helpful in matters of this kind. I took lessons in boxing from one of my mates and quickly learned the basic fundamentals.  There was a positive viciousness in my attack, which was perfectly legitimate in such circumstances; but it was the first time I had ever felt the beast in my blood, and I turned him loose; and if I had been made Prime Minister of England by a miracle, I could not have felt one-hundredth part of the pride that I did, when, inside of the first thirty seconds, I had stretched my instructor on his back at my feet.

“Next morning I found myself a hero. In the course of the night, I had become famous in a small circle as a bruiser.  With regard to literature, I was like a man lost in a forest. I had no guide. One night I attended a lecture by Dr. J. W. Kirton, the author of a tract called, 'Buy Your Own Cherries.'  This tract my mother had read to me when I was a boy, and it had made a very profound impression upon me.  The author was very kind, he gave me an interview and advised me to read as my first novel, 'John Halifax, Gentleman'.

“Inside of a week I had read the book twice, the second time with a dictionary, and pencil.  The story fascinated me, and the way in which it was told opened up new channels of improvement.  I memorized whole pages of it, and even took long walks by the seaside repeating over and over what I had memorized.  One day while over my well-marked "John Halifax," I came across this passage: "What would you do, John, if you were shut up here, and had to get over the yew hedge ?  You could not climb it." I know that, and therefore I should not waste time in trying." Would you give up, then ?"   I'll tell you what I'd do: I'd begin and break it, twig by twig, till I forced my way through,and got out safe at the other side."   “This was a new inspiration.  My Bible studies at Oxford University had given me a longing to see the Holy Land. Perhaps the longing was super-induced by the possibility of being drafted to the Mediterranean Squadron.  On inquiry I learned that the flagship of that squadron, the Alexandra, had a library and a school on board. So, I made this kind of a proposition to the Almighty.  I did it, of course, with a humble spirit and a devout mind; but I did it in a very clear and positive manner:  “Give me the flagship for the sake of the schooling I will get there, and I will give you my life!"   

“My  prayers were answered.  The itinerary of my first year aboard the Alexandra year included Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Syria, Asia Minor, Cyprus, Crete and Sicily.  Of these Syria was of the greatest interest to me.    

“While lying off Piraeus, the seaport of Athens, I was doing guard duty on deck in the first watch.  I had substituted for a comrade who had gone to visit the ancient city.  There had been an informal dinner, and there were whispers among the men that some high mogul was in the Admiral"s cabin.  Toward the close of the first watch I was joined on my beat by a man in plain clothes, who, with a lighted cigar in his mouth, marched fore and aft on the starboard side of the ship with me.  In anticipation of entering Greek waters, I had read for months, and this stranger was astonished to find a common soldier so well informed on the history of Greece. I had not yet been ashore, but I had arranged to go the following day.  The gentleman, on leaving, handed me a card on which he had penciled what I think was an introduction. I had only time to ask him his name, and he said, "George, just George."  Next day I discovered I had been pow-wowing with a king.  

“After serving for six years in the Royal Navy and traversing the globe, I made application for my discharge from the service.  My service in the navy left me with a yearning to travel.  I thereafter traveled to America.  I quickly learned tat the USA was not the land of milk and honey that people believed.  I met many people who were poor, downtrodden and without hope. I reminded myself of the my promise.

“After my interlude with Kelly's Industrial Army.  I drifted around for a bit longer and eventually settled in New Haven to begin a life devoted to God and became an ordained minister of the gospel.  But before I became the pastor of my own church, I worked in a small parish that served the needs of the poor. I got to know the congregation and before long, I had made many friends in the New Haven community.  I was eventually asked to work with some theology students through Yale University.  I accepted and was, to my sheer delight, I was allowed to further my studies and earn my theological doctorate.  I worked and studied day and night and eventually matriculated receiving my doctoral degree and became a fellow theologian among the Yale faculty.

“This brought about an opportunity to have my own pastorate.  When I interviewed for the position, I was told by the outgoing clergyman, who appeared to be frustrated with the politics within the church, “ A  man here may do one of three things, he may degenerate and conform to type, he may stay for three or four years by the aid of diplomacy and

much grace.  He may go mad.  Therefore, an essential qualification for this pastorate is a keen sense of humor. If my successor has this, he will enjoy the community ministry for a few years and will do much good among the children.  He will enjoy the view from the parsonage, the bay, the river, the mountains.  He will make friends, too, of some of the most genuinely good people on earth. He must come, as I came, believing this place to be a suburb of paradise, and blessed will that man be if he departs before he changes his mind.”

“That is satire, and possibly out of place in the pulpit, but it may be that these words could be applied without stretching the truth to other pastorates. The preacher is their, "hired man."  He may be brainy, but not too brainy, social, but not too social, religious, but not too religious.  He must trim his sails to suit every breeze of the community; his mental qualities must be acceptable to the contemporary ancestors by whom he is surrounded, or he does not fit.

“The bitterness in the pastor's words were evident, but the truths they contained were important. It may be that more sermons with equal plain speaking would do good. It may be that the conservatism, not to say the Pharisee-ism, of the modem church requires a John the Baptist to pierce it to the core, and expose its inner rottenness.  The church that does not welcome the poor man and his family with just as much heartiness, sincerity and kindly

sympathy as it does the rich man and his family is certainly not worthy of the great Teacher who spoke of the great difficulty the rich man has in entering the kingdom of God.

“An old hall in the outskirts of the city, on a railroad bank served as our church.  There we opened our Sunday School and began our church activities.  I got a band of Yale men to go to work at the hall. The son of Senator Crane, of Massachusetts, became head of the movement, but that plan was spoiled by a man of the English Lutheran persuasion, who was an instructor in Yale.  It appeared that the church of which this man was a member had been trying to rent this old hall and, not succeeding in that, they claimed the community. This instructor complained to the Yale authorities, and without a word to me the Yale band was withdrawn.  

“In the middle of our first year our little church received a staggering blow in the death of Mr. Philo S. Bennett. We had become very intimate. I dined with him once a week.  He was about to retire from business, and after a rest he was to give his time to the church idea.  He inquired about buildings, and he had fixed his mind on a 25,000 square foot structure.  He spoke to others of these plans, but in Idaho, that summer, he was killed in an accident. Mrs. Bennett sent for me and I took charge of the funeral arrangements.  One Mr. Bennett's close friends, Mr. Bryan, came to my aid.   After the funeral he read and discussed the will. I was present at several of these discussions. The sealed letter written by the dead man was the bone of contention. Then the lawyers came in and the case went into the courts.  The world knew but a fragment of the truth. It looked to me at first as if a selfish motive actuated Mr. Bryan, but as I got at the details one after another, details the world can never know, I developed a profound respect for him.  He was the only person involved that cared anything for the mind, will or intention of the dead man, and his entire legal battle was not that he should get what Mr. Bennett had willed him, but that the designs of his friend should not be frustrated: not merely with regard to the fifty thousand dollars he offered to distribute, but with regard to the money for poor students.

“We missed Mr. Bennett, not only for his moral and financial help, but because of his great business ability.  During the coal strike of 1902, for instance, when coal was beyond the reach of the poor, we organized among the working people a coal company.  The coal dealers blocked our plans everywhere. We were shut out.  Then the idea came to us to charter a shipload and bring it from Glasgow.

“It was the keen business ability of Mr. Bennett that helped us to success.  We needed $15,000 to cable over. I laid the plans before Mr. Bennett; he went over them carefully and put up the money. Before we needed it, however, we had sold stock at a dollar a share, and the coal in Scotland brought in an amount beyond our immediate needs.  This, of course, was interfering with business men's affairs, and the dealers in coal were not slow to express themselves.

“I was a director of the coal company for a short time.  The newspapers announced that I was going into the coal business to make a living; but I had neither desire nor ability in that direction.  It was a great day in New Haven when our ship entered the harbor and broke the siege.  We sold coal for half the current price.

“The idea of a church building had held a number of people in our little church for a long time, but after Mr. Bennett’s death that hope seemed to die, and those to whom a church home was more than a church, left us; those of that mind that didn't leave voluntarily were lured away by ministers who had a building.  The amount of ecclesiastical pilfering that goes on in a small city like New Haven is surprising.  Conversion is a lost art or a lost experience,

and the average minister whose reputation and salary depend upon the number of people he can corral usually has two fields of action: one is the Sunday School and the other is the loose membership of other churches.  The theft is usually deliberate.

“When my income was about forty dollars a month, subscribed by very poor people, a pastor who had been building up his church at the expense of his neighbors, wrote me that he was trying to persuade one of our members to join his church.  It was the most brazen thing I had ever known.  He felt that our dissolution was a matter of time, and he wanted his share of the wreckage.  He went after the only person in our church who had an income that more than supplied personal needs. Afterward, this same minister entered into a deal with the trustees of the hall we used, by which the hall and the Sunday  School were handed over to him.  Of course, we made no fight over the thing, we just let him take them.  This is called "bringing in the Kingdom of God."

“We were not free from dissension within our own ranks, either. Mr. Bryan came to lecture for us in the largest theater in town.  Admission was to be by ticket, on Sunday afternoon.  The committee of our church that took charge of the tickets began to distribute seats the best seats and boxes their personal friends.  Thousands were clamoring for tickets. It was an opportunity to give the city a big, helpful meeting, and to do it democratically

and well.  But the committee would brook no interference. I announced in the papers that all tickets were general admissions, and ""first come, first served" would be our principle.  Sunday morning, when I was half-way through my discourse, one of the committee handed me a note. I did not open it until I finished. It was a threat that if I did not call off the democratic order, the committee would leave the church.  The meeting was a great success, and the committee made good its threat.  What the writer of the following letter expected of me I have no idea, nor did his letter enlighten me :

'Dear Ser:

Wen I gave my name for a church member it was fer a peeples church, not a fol-de-rol solo and labor union church.

Drop my name.'

“We had at our opening a solo by the finest singer in the city, and I had thanked the labor unions for their help. His name was dropped.  An educated woman thought she saw in our simple creed an open door she had been seeking for years.  She joined us with enthusiasm.  One day I was calling on her, and as I sat by the door I saw a dark figure pass with a sack of coal on his back.  The figure looked familiar.

“Pardon me,' I said, as I stepped out to make sure. 'Hello, Fritz!' I called. The coal heaver had only trousers and an undershirt on.  Sweat poured over his coal-blackened face. We gripped hands. The lady watched us with interest.

'Do you know him ?' she asked.

"Yes, indeed!' I said. 'And you must know him, for he is one of our deacons.'

“She never came back.  Democracy like that was too much for her. The deacon himself left our church a few months later because he discovered that I did not believe in a literal hell of 'fire and brimstone,' whatever that is.

“I came to that realization soon after I had begun giving assistance and encouragement to members of the labor movement in New Haven.  After I was forced from my pastoral duties by those who opposed the labor movement, I soon came to realize that a clergyman is certainly qualified to speak of the characteristics of the pastorate. I retired in considerable turmoil. In my final sermon, I spoke of the childrens' services on Wednesday nights, the men"s Bible class and a group of sixty added to the church at its fiftieth anniversary as among the happy features of my administration. I went on to point out that those new members were not welcomed by the "Society" because they brought no money into the treasury. During those four and one-half years of my pasturage I tried to democratize the church. I wanted to bring in "new blood." I tried to interest the workingmen, as many other pastors have tried to do and with varying success. I spoke a great deal about the church and the masses, how they are drifting apart. I was a minister who tried to bring them together. I offered services when all seats were free, and workingmen were invited. Many joined the church. But the attempt was a failure, for the church board of deacons as a whole didn"t take kindly to people without money.                                            

“It was inevitable that these working men should be weighed solely by their contributions. That was the standard of the Society. "How true it is that this standard is applied in more churches than the Pilgrim Church in New Haven those who are in the churches know. It is not true, of course, universally, but this is not by any means an isolated case. Possibly the organization of the Congregational churches is faulty in this respect. There is the church and there is the Society.  The Society"s committee runs the business of the church. It is apt to be made up of men to whom the dollar is most essential, and often the committee exercises absolute power in most of the affairs of the church. In this case it froze out a man who wanted to go out and bring in men from the highways and byways, and now he has gone to establish what he calls the church of the democracy. It is to be a church independent of the rich. There are such churches, not many, to be sure, but they come pretty close to the gospel of the New Testament.

My church closed as the parsonage one after another turned away from the idea of helping the working man to have a voice.  Thereafter, I began finding it increasingly difficult to find work..  Oh, I had my suspicions.  None the less, I continued to labor at job after job. Continually, I found myself being let go. One day while publishing one of my sermons, I found a young bookbinder in a commercial house. It was obvious that he was a master craftsman. After several conversations with this man, I advised him to hang out a shingle and work for himself.  He did so. When I was casting around for a new method of earning a living I thought of him, and asked him to take me as an apprentice.  He did so, and I put an apron on and began to work at his bench.  One day a professor in the Yale Medical School called to have some books bound at the bindery. "Who is that fellow at your bench ?" he asked. "Mr. Irvine," the bookbinder replied, "The Socialist?" "Yes." He took the young binder aside and told him that he could expect no recognition from the "best citizens" of New Haven as long as he kept me. Off came my apron, and I found myself looking around again for work. I was in the public library one day when the scribe of the ministerial association to which I belonged accosted me: "Hello, Irvine!" "Hello, Christian isn’t it? How are you" "Splendid, sir" replied Christian; and in the same breath he said, "Say, you don’t come around to the congregational association anymore; do you want your name kept on the roll?"              

I hesitated for a moment, then said: "Whatever would give you most pleasure, brother —leaving it on or taking it off —do that!" That was all — not another word —he reported that I wanted my name removed, and that practically ended my ministerial standing in the New Haven community.                          

Some weeks later I ran into a Jewish Rabbi who was a board member of the New Haven congregational association "Hello, Irvine!" he said as looked at me with a stern look. "Dr. Smyth and I are coming to see you, Irvine," he said.           

"I'd be mighty glad to see you both, Rabbi. What are you coming for ?" I asked.     "Well, we think it"s too bad that the labor gang use you as a sucker and we want to see if we can"t get a place in some mission for you."                               

"Rabbi, some of your rich Jews have been after you for appearing on our platform. Come now, isn't that so? Well, it's because they believe as I believe, that you are used as a sucker.  I don't like your choice of the word 'sucker' Rabbi; but, there are fifty ministers in town.  If you Capitalist have forty-nine suckers, why not let Labor have one?' That made him rather furious and he said:

"You remind me of Jesus, a fanatic. He died at 33 when he might have lived to a good old age and done some good !'                                                                   

“That,' I said, 'is the highest compliment I have ever received.' I bared my head and then left him on the sidewalk with his jaw resting on his chest.“

Chapter 5: Woolsey Hall

Following a mild meal of chicken soup and corn dodgers, the two gentlemen were driven by Billy to Woolsey Hall on the Yale campus.  Although the lecture was not scheduled for another hour, a number of people were already beginning to gather to hear Mr. London speak. [talk about mingling with various factions]

When the time came, the audience turned out to be a mixture of faculty, students and towns people.  Woolsey Hall was filled to capacity for the occasion.  When Dr. Irvine introduced Mr. London, there was only polite applause.  Mr. London walked up to the edge of the stage and slowly cleared his throat and looked the audience over.  After several seconds of nervous silence, Jack London finally began to speak.

"I speak tonight on behalf of the Intercollegiate Socialist Society.  This is a society formed, not for the purpose of getting Socialist votes in the colleges and universities of the United States, but for the purpose of starting in the various colleges an intelligent study of Socialism.  It is to be deplored that so far in the United States there has been no such intelligent study of Socialism.

“Socialism is something that has been tabooed, or else it has been misunderstood, misinterpreted, misconstrued.  For instance, I know, I am confident that there is no man in this audience tonight who knows anything about Socialism who will say that its aim is anything else and anything less than noble.  Yet, reading the capitalist press of the United States, one constantly has impressed upon him the feeling that Socialism is something in aim that is not noble.

“Socialism is nothing more nor less than a science and a philosophy that deals with the human, and attempts to make a better world for the human; attempts to get a more rational organization of society than we have today.  And Socialism is clean, noble and alive.  I, for instance, was born in the working class.  I lived on a ranch in California in a state of sordidness and wretchedness. I did not have always enough to eat.  I am trying to give this little bit of biography in order to make you understand my own approach to Socialism.  I had no outlook but what you might call an up-look.  Above me towered the colossal edifice of society, and I felt that up there were beautiful clothes; men wore boiled shirts, and women were beautifully gowned, and there were there all the good things to eat and plenty of them. So much for the flesh.  I felt also that up there I would find things of the spirit, clean and noble living and deeds and ideals, and I resolved to climb up there.  But it was my destiny, before I climbed, to go down.  Starting in the working class, I went down into what Gorky calls the 'cellar of society,' down into the abyss, down into the carnal houses of civilization.  This is something it is not considered good form to speak about, but I went down there and lived, and 'sweated my bloody sweats' in jails and prisons of various sorts, digging my way, and starving and looking at society from an entirely new point of view. I found there, it is true, all the inefficiencies of society, the men who were born failures, but I found there also, and in great numbers, the men who had been worked out by society, the men who sold their muscles. “Now, as I looked, I learned a lesson, and that was that it was not the thing for me to do to remain what I had been, that is, a seller of muscle.  I saw that all men bought and sold commodities, and that the most unfortunate of sellers was the man who sold muscle, because his was the one stock that did not renew itself.  The shoe merchant sold shoes, and as fast as he sold shoes, he put in more shoes in his store.  He constantly replenished his stock.  The brain merchant did the same thing.  As fast as he sold his brain, he replenished it.  But the man who sold nothing but muscle, each day reduced his stock of muscle, until at last when he was forty or forty-five or fifty years of age he had sold out his complete stock of muscle, and as he had no children take care of him, no children fortunately situated, he went down into the shambles, down into the abyss, and perished.  Whereas, the man who sold brain, when he was forty-five or fifty or fifty-five or sixty, he had a finer stock, a fuller stock, than any time in his life before, and he was receiving a higher price for his wares.  And so I resolved to become a seller of brain.  When I succeeded in becoming a merchant of brain, I found that society opened its doors to me higher up, and I went up there expecting to get in with people who lived lives that were clean, noble and alive.  I fully expected that, and I, who had come through all this material want and wretchedness, in on the comfortable parlor floor of society was appalled by the gross and selfish materialism I found there.  I did not find life clean, and alive.

“In the business world , well... why should I stop; why should I take two minutes to tell you of the business world. You know the base side of the business world today.  Accounts are given in all our daily papers and all our magazines of the rottenness and betrayal and crime that pertains to the business world. I found there nothing that was clean, noble and alive.  And in the political world I found the same thing. I found our political leaders were men who were mastered by machine bosses, who obeyed the dictates of machine bosses who were themselves bought and sold, who rode on railroad passes and who sold legislation to capitalist -purchasers of capitalist legislation.

“I went to the university. I found the university, in the main, practically wholly so, I found the university clean and noble, but I did not find the university alive.  I found that the American university had this ideal, as phrased by a professor in the Chicago University, namely: The passionless pursuit of passionless intelligence' clean and noble, I grant you, but not alive enough.  I, for one, who am very much alive and who mingle with men who are very much alive, feel that such an ideal is a decadent ideal, believing that  there should be a passionate pursuit of intelligence.

“And the reflection of this university ideal I find the conservatism and unconcern of the American university in the great mass of the American people, the people who are suffering, the people who are in want.  And so I became interested in an attempt to arouse in the minds of the young men of our universities an interest in the study of Socialism.  Of course, such is my vanity it is only human vanity that I personally believe that practically every young man who has noble impulses, who wants to go in for something that is clean, noble and alive that practically every young man who will study Socialism, its science and philosophy, will become a convert to its doctrines. Such is my belief. . . .

“We do not desire merely to make converts, to have our young men of the universities all become Socialists.  We do not expect that, but want them to raise their voices for or against. If they cannot fight for us, we want them to fight against us of course, sincerely fight against us, believing that right conduct lies in combating Socialism because Socialism is a great growing force.  But what we do not want is that which obtains today and has obtained in the past of the university, a mere deadness and unconcern and ignorance so far as Socialism is concerned.

“Fight for us or against us. Raise your voices one way or the other; be alive! That is the idea upon which we are working.”

Upon conclusion of his speech, Mr. London's lecture was again met with only polite applause.  Only a few people had walked out and verbal harassment by undergraduates was kept to a minimum.  Both Jack London and Dr. Irvine were thereafter invited to a student dormitory to answer questions on the subject of socialism.

Chapter 6: The Democratic Socialist

In response to a widespread national economic depression, Franklin Delano Roosevelt encouraged the Congress to enact the Social Security Act.  In 1935 Congress enacted a system involving a transfer of payroll deductions whereby younger workers would pay into a fund to support older, retired people. By 1937, every state had enacted their own unemployment insurance program as a part of the Social Security Act.

In 1962, Milton Freedman, a conservative American economist who did research on the  the complexities involved in the stabilization of world economies, wrote, “History suggest only that capitalism is a necessary condition for political freedom. Clearly, it is not a sufficient condition.” Friedman promoted economic freedom as a national necessity vital to political freedom and believed that the government had a vested interest in helping maintain control over the nations money. He further believed in a balance of trade and argued against the idea of government providing free services to the poor. He believed that a corporation"s first duty is to maximize profits and that any attempts by government in requiring corporations to assist the community was highly subversive to the capitalist system and would ultimately lead to totalitarianism. Friedman opposed concepts of welfare and particularly opposed social security saying it was an unfair system and that government should not involve itself in providing services to the poor and needy.

Over the next several decades anything even closely associated with government involvement in helping the poor has become increasingly scrutinized and viewed by both social and economic conservatives as an unnecessary role of government. Those who received any form of public welfare were increasingly being characterized as lazy and undeserving of any help derived from tax dollars. This stigma has been increasingly applied to minorities even though corporate America was quickly becoming the major recipients of tax dollar assistance.

In the 2016 presidential cycle, Bernie Sanders, an unlikely candidate ran for president on the Democratic ticket.  Prior to his campaign, Sanders had always held himself to be an independent.  Although he did not win, he did manage to open many people's minds to the concept of Democratic Socialism. Nonetheless, even after more than a century, the stigma that the word socialism brought in 1906 has not significantly change as too many people, influenced by their favorite news sources, now only believe what they want to believe. 

Apparently, not everything gets better with age.