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    Henry George

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    Chapter 2
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    The more you study this question, the more you will see that the true law of social life is the law of love, and law of liberty, the law of each for all and all for each; that the golden rule of morals is also the golden rule of the science of wealth; that the highest expressions of religious truth include the widest generalizations of political economy.

    --Henry George


    Henry George died in Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven. Nearly twenty
    years have passed since men heard his voice, looked on his strong,
    lithe, active form, saw the gleam of his honest eyes, and felt the
    presence of a man--a man who wanted nothing and gave everything--a man
    who gave himself. Twenty years!

    And in those years the world has experienced, and is now passing
    through, a peaceful revolution such as men have never before seen.
    Those years have given us a new science of religion; a new education;
    a new penology; a new healing art; a new method in commerce.

    The wisdom of honesty as a business asset is nowhere questioned, and
    the clergy has ceased to call upon men to prepare for death. We are
    preparing to live, and the way we are preparing to live is by living.

    The remedy Henry George prescribed for economic ills was as simple as
    it was new, and new things and simple things are ever looked on as
    objectionable. The universality of conservatism proves that it must
    have its use and purpose in the eternal order. It keeps us from going
    too fast; it prevents us from bringing about changes for which mankind
    is not prepared. Nature's methods are evolutionary, not revolutionary.

    Slaves can not be made free by edict. Moses led his people out of only
    one kind of captivity, and in the wilderness they wandered in bondage
    still. Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation did not free the colored
    race, because it is the law of God that he who would be free must free
    himself. A servile people are slaves by habit, and habit is the only
    fetter. Freedom, like happiness, is a condition of mind. A whining,
    complaining, pinching, pilfering class that listens for the whistle,
    watches the clock, that works only when under the menacing eye of the
    boss, and stands in eternal fear of the blue envelope here, and
    perdition hereafter, can never be made free by legislative enactment.
    Freedom can not be granted, any more than education can be imparted:
    both must be achieved, or we yammer forever without the pale. A
    simple, strong and honest people is free. People enslaved by
    superstition and ruled by the dead have work at filing fetters ahead
    of them, which only they themselves can do. Henry George did not
    realize this, and his strength lay in the fact that he did not. He did
    not know when men get the crook out of their backs, the hinges out of
    their knees, and the cringe out of their souls, that then they are
    free. Slaves place in the hands of tyrants all the power that tyrants
    possess. Fortunate it was for Henry George, and for the world, that he
    did not know that any man who labors to help the workingman will be
    mobbed by the proletariat for his pains a little later on. Monarchies
    maybe ungrateful, but their attitude is a sweet perfume compared to
    the ingratitude of the laborer. He can be helped only by stealth, and
    his freedom must come from within. The moral weakness of man is the
    one thing that makes tyranny possible.

    Tyranny is a condition in the heart of serfs. Tyrants tyrannize only
    over people of a certain cast of mind. Tyrants are men who have stolen
    power--convicts who have wrested guns from their guards. Watch them,
    and in a little while they will again shift places. Henry George was a
    very great man: great in his economic, prophetic insight; great in his
    faith, his hope, his love. He gave his message to the world, and
    passed on, scourged, depressed, undone, because the world did not
    accept the truths he voiced. Yet all for which he strived and
    struggled will yet come true--his prayer will be answered. And the
    political parties and the men who in his life opposed him are now
    adopting his opinions, quoting his reasons, and in time will bring
    about the changes he advocated. Of all modern prophets and reformers,
    Henry George is the only one whose arguments are absolutely
    unanswerable and whose forecast was sure.

    * * * * *

    Henry George was that rare, peculiar and strange thing--an honest man.
    Whether he had genius or not we can not say, since genius has never
    been defined twice alike, nor put in the alembic and resolved into its
    constituent parts. All accounts go to show that from very childhood
    Henry George was singularly direct and true. His ancestry was Welsh,
    Scotch and English in about equal proportions, and the traits of the
    middle class were his, even to a theological sturdiness that robbed
    his mind of most of its humor. Reformers must needs be color-blind,
    otherwise they would never get their work done--they see red or purple
    and nothing else. Born in Philadelphia in Eighteen Hundred Thirty-
    nine, on Tenth Street, below Pine, in a house still standing, and
    which should be marked with a bronze plate, but is not, Henry George
    took on a good many of the moral traits of his Quaker neighbors. His
    father was a clerk in the Custom-House, having graduated from a
    position as sea-captain on account of an excess of caution and a taste
    for penmanship. Later the good man went into the publishing business,
    backed by the Episcopal Church, and issued Sunday-School leaflets,
    sermons and prayer-books. In fact, he became the official printer of
    the denomination. With him was a man named Appleton, who finally went
    over to New York and started in on his own account, founding the firm
    of D. Appleton and Company, which forty years thereafter was to
    publish to the world a book called, "Progress and Poverty."

    The worthy father of Henry George was a good Churchman, but not a
    businessman. He bought the things he ought not, and left unsold the
    things he should have worked off. He didn't know the value of time.
    Other people did things while he was getting ready to commence to
    begin.

    And so the whirligig of time sent him back to his desk at the Custom-
    House, on a salary so modest that it meant poverty, and progress crab-
    fashion.

    The children old enough to work got jobs, and Henry of the red hair
    and freckles found a place as printer's devil at two dollars a week.
    College was out of the question, and Girard Institute was regarded as
    infidelic. However, episcopacy did not have quite so strong a hold
    on this household as it once had. The Georges believed in freedom and
    took William Lloyd Garrison's paper, "The Liberator," and the mother
    read it aloud by the light of a penny dip. Next came "Uncle Tom's
    Cabin," and when, in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-six, the Republican Party
    was born, the George family, father, mother and children, all had
    pronounced views on the subject of human rights--very different views
    from those held by the royal Georges of England. When Henry George was
    sixteen, the restlessness of coming manhood found expression, and he
    shipped before the mast and sailed away to the Antipodes. The boy had
    the small, compact form, the physical activity and the daring which
    make a first-class sailor, but happily his brain was too full of ideas
    to transform him into a dog of the sea.

    A trip to Australia, with salt pork all the time, sea-biscuit every
    day, lobscouse on Sundays, plum-duff once a month, and a total absence
    of mental stimulus, cured him of the idea that freedom was to be found
    on the bounding wave and the rolling deep.

    At seventeen he was back at the case, setting type and getting a man's
    pay because he was able to "rastle the dic.," which means that he was
    on familiar terms with the dictionary and could correct proof.

    Education is a matter of desire, and the printer's case with bad copy
    to revise is better than "English Twenty-two" at Harvard. Henry George
    moused nights at the Quaker Apprentices' Library, and he also read
    Franklin's "Autobiography"; his mind was full of Poor Richard maxims,
    which he sprinkled through his diary; but best of all, with seven
    other printers he formed another "Junta," and they met twice a week to
    discuss "poetry, economics and Mormonism." It was very sophomoric, of
    course, but boys of eighteen who study anything and defend it in
    essays and orations are right out on the highway which leads to
    superiority. The trouble with the 'prentice is that he does not know
    how to spend his evenings; the love of leisure and the wish for a good
    time cause the moments to slip past him, out of his reach forever, out
    into the great ocean of time.

    Life is a sequence--the logical, farseeing mind is a cumulative
    consequence. Men who are wise at forty were not idle at twenty. "Read
    anything half an hour a day, and in ten years you will be learned,"
    says Emerson.

    Henry George worked and read, and the "Junta" gave him the first taste
    of that intoxicating thing, thinking on one's feet. We grow by
    expression, and never really know a thing until we tell it to somebody
    else. Henry George was getting an education, getting it in the only
    way any one ever can, or has, or does--getting it by doing.

    But the wanderlust was again at work; California was calling--the land
    of miracle--and printer's ink began to pall. Henry George was a
    sailor; every part of a sailing ship was to him familiar--from bilge-
    water to pennant, from bowsprit to sternpost. He could swab the
    mainmast, reef the topsail in a squall, preside in the cook's-galley,
    or if the mate were drunk and the captain ashore he could take charge
    of the ship, put for open sea and ride out the storm by scudding
    before the wind.

    Ships in need of sailors were lying in the offing. When young Henry
    George took a walk it was always along the docks. He knew every ship
    there in the Delaware, and visited with the sailormen, who told of the
    happenings in far-off climes. News from California much interested
    him; California was another America, hopelessly separated from us by
    an impassable range of forbidding mountains, reinforced with desert
    plains, peopled only by hostile savages. But the sea was an open
    highway to this land of enchantment. California called! And finally
    Henry George overcame temptation by succumbing to it, and sailed away
    southward in the staunch little ship "Shubrick," bound for the modern
    Eldorado by way of Cape Horn. It was a six months' passage, with many
    stops and much trading, and time that seem lifted out of the calendar
    and thrown away. Henry George arrived in California penniless. But he
    had health and a willingness to work. He became a farmhand, a tramp
    pedler, a laborer shoveling gravel into a sluice-way and standing all
    day knee-deep in water. It was all good, for it taught the youth that
    life was life; and wherever you go you carry your mental and spiritual
    assets, as well as your cares, on the crupper. Then there came a job
    in the composing-room of a newspaper, and the life-work of Henry
    George was really begun, for his employers had discovered that he
    could "rastle the dic.," and if copy were scarce he could create it.

    * * * * *

    The gold-fever got into the blood of Henry George, and his savings
    became a shining mark for the mining-shark. A thousand men lose money
    at mining where one strikes pay-gravel. Henry George was one of the
    thousand.

    He got good wages and boarded at the best hotel in San Francisco, the
    "What Cheer House." This storied hostelry was owned by a man named
    Woodward, who had a few ideas of his own. Woodward not only hated Rum,
    Romanism and Rebellion, but also women. Woodward was a confirmed
    bachelor, having been confirmed by a lady bachelor in some dark,
    mysterious way, years before. So no woman was allowed either to stop
    at the hotel or to work in it. The labor was done by Chinese, and
    Henry George wrote home to his sisters, describing the place as an
    immaculate conception.

    Next to the fact that no women were allowed in the "What Cheer House,"
    was the further more astounding proposition that the place was run on
    absolutely temperance principles, thus, for the time at least,
    silencing that hoary adage of the genus wiseacre that no hotel can
    succeed without a bar. Woodward became rich, and from the proceeds of
    his temperance hotel founded Woodward Gardens--a park beloved by all
    who know their San Francisco.

    The third peculiar thing about this hotel was that it had a library of
    a thousand volumes.

    It was the only public library in San Francisco at that time, and it
    was the books that led Henry George to spend twice as much for board
    as he otherwise would have done.

    While Henry George was at the "What Cheer House," an English traveler
    added a volume to the little library, Buckle's "History of
    Civilization." Woodward tried to read the book, but failing to become
    interested in it, between serving the soup and the fish, handed it to
    a waiter saying, "Here, give it to that red-headed printer; he can get
    something out of it if anybody can." Henry George took the book to his
    room, and that night sat reading it until two o'clock in the morning.
    That statement of Buckle's, "Adam Smith's 'Wealth of Nations' has
    influenced civilization more profoundly than any other book ever
    written, save none," caught the young printer's attention.

    The next day he looked in the library for the "Wealth of Nations," and
    sure enough, it was there! He began to read. He read and reread. And
    whether Buckle's statement is correct or not, this holds: Adam Smith's
    "Wealth of Nations" influenced Henry George more profoundly than any
    other book he had ever read.

    Henry George was not yet immune from the gold-fever microbe, and
    several times was lured away into the mountains, "grubstaking" a man
    with hope plus and secrets as to gold-bearing quartz that would
    paralyze the world.

    When twenty-one we find our young man one of six printers who bought
    out the "Evening Journal." Henry George was foreman of the composing-
    room, but took a hand anywhere and everywhere. A curious comment on
    the business acumen of the "Journal" men lies in their agreement that
    all should have an equal voice in the policy of the paper. Hence we
    infer that all were equally ignorant of the stern fact that in
    business nothing succeeds but one-man power. So the "Journal" went
    drifting on the rocks in financial foggy weather and the hungry waves
    devoured her.

    When Fate desires a great success she sends her chosen one failure.
    Henry George at twenty-two was ragged, in debt--and also in love. The
    "What Cheer House" was all right for a man getting good wages, but
    when you go into business for yourself it is different, and George
    found board with a private family.

    The lady in the case was Miss Fox, ward and niece of the landlord with
    whom the impecunious printer boarded.

    Annie Fox and our printer read Dana's "Household Book of Poetry," with
    heads close together.

    The inevitable happened--they decided to pool their poverty in the
    interests of progress. To ask the landlord for his blessing seemed out
    of the question, in view of the fact that the printer was two weeks
    behind in his board. The girl had the proverbial clothes on her back.

    Matthew McClosky, the uncle, was a good deal of a man. He showed his
    shrewdness and appreciation of the present order by buying a large
    tract of land near the city, and grew rich on the unearned increment.
    Had his niece and the printer confided in him they might have shared
    in his prosperity, in which case "Progress and Poverty" would never
    have been written.

    It was the memorable year of Eighteen Hundred Sixty-one. The heart of
    Henry George was with the Union--he had decided to enlist. He told the
    girl so behind the kitchen-door. Her answer was a flood of tears, and
    a call to arms. The result was that the next night the couple stole
    out, and made their way to a Methodist parsonage, where they were
    married.

    Henry George was nominally a member of the Methodist Church, but the
    creed of Thomas Paine was more to his liking--"The world is my
    country; mankind are my friends; to do good is my religion." The young
    lady was a Catholic, and so the preacher compromised by reading the
    Episcopal service. The only witnesses were the minister's wife and
    Henry George's chum, Isaac Trump. "I didn't catch your friend's name,"
    said the minister in filling out the marriage-certificate.

    "I. Trump," was the reply.

    "I observe you do," was the answer; "but oblige me with the
    gentleman's name."

    There are three great epochs in life--birth, death, marriage. The
    first two named you can not avoid. Since life is a sequence, no one
    can say what would have happened had not this or that occurred. Mrs.
    George proved an honest, earnest, helpful wife. Her conservatism
    curbed the restless spirit of her husband and gave his mind time to
    ripen, for until his marriage the ideals of the French Revolution were
    strong in his heart. He saw the evils of life and was intent on
    changing them. The Catholic faith is an elastic one, both esoteric and
    exoteric, and those who are able can take the poetic view of dogma
    instead of the literal, if they prefer. Henry George and his wife took
    the spiritual or symbolic view, and moved steadily forward in the
    middle of the road. He was too gentle and considerate to quote
    Voltaire and Rousseau at inopportune times, and she sustained and
    encouraged his mental independence. All of which is here voiced with
    one foot on the soft pedal, and with no thought of putting forth an
    argument to the effect that young gentlemen with liberal views should
    marry ladies who belong to the Catholic persuasion.

    The day after his marriage the bridegroom found work in a printery at
    twelve dollars a week, and thus was the pivotal point safely rounded.

    * * * * *

    Here was a man absolutely honest, with no bad habits, industrious and
    economical, but lacking in that peculiar something which spells
    success. The type is not rare. One trouble was that our Henry George
    stuck to no one place long enough to make himself a necessity. Men of
    half his ability made twice as much money.

    The days went by, and Henry George wrote to Trump, "I am advance-agent
    for the stork." Now storks bring love and hope--and care, and anxious
    days and sleepless nights. Henry George's domestic affairs had
    steadied his bark, and while his relatives in Philadelphia thought he
    carried an excess of Romish ballast, it was all for the best. He read,
    studied, thought, and wanting little his mind did not list either to
    port or to starboard.

    Henry George had graduated from the case into the editorial room. He
    worked on all the newspapers, by turn, in San Francisco and
    Sacramento, and had come to be regarded as one of the strongest
    editorial writers on the Coast. The business office was beyond his
    province, and as a newspaper was a business venture, and is run
    neither to educate the public nor for the proprietor's health, the
    manager did not look upon Henry George as exactly "safe." And hence
    the reason is plain why George was regarded as a sectional bookcase
    and not as a fixture.

    At thirty he had evolved to a point where the New York "Tribune" asked
    him to write a signed editorial for them on the Chinese question. Then
    he wrote for the "Overland Monthly"; and when a great literary light
    came to San Francisco to appear on the lyceum stage, Henry George was
    asked to introduce him to the audience, especially if the man was
    believed to have heresy secreted on his person, in which case of
    course the local clergy took no risks of contamination, not being
    immune.

    On the occasion of the death of a certain tramp printer, whose name is
    now lost to us in the hell-box of time, no clergyman being found to
    perform the service, Henry George officiated, and preached a sermon
    which rang through the city like a trumpet-call, extolling not what
    the man was, but what he might have been.

    This custom of the laity taking charge of funerals still exists in the
    West, to a degree not known, say, in New England, where in certain
    localities people are not considered legally dead unless both an
    orthodox doctor and an orthodox preacher officiate.

    The very poor, and the outcasts of society, in San Francisco began to
    look upon Henry George as the Bishop of Outsiders. Often he was called
    upon to go and visit the stricken, the sick and the dying. And there
    was a kind of poetic fitness in all this, for the man possessed that
    superior type of moral and intellectual fiber which makes a great
    physician or an excellent priest--he could "minister." And it was only
    division of labor that separated the offices of doctor and priest, and
    actually they are and should be one.

    In Sacramento now lives a successful merchant, a Jew by birth, and a
    man of great grace of spirit, who has this superior, spiritual quality
    which makes his services sought after, and in response to demand he
    goes all over the State saying the last words over the dust of those
    who in their lives had lost faith in the established order, or had too
    much faith in God.

    After his thirty-sixth year Henry George slipped by natural process
    into this semi-religious order--a priest after the order of
    Melchizedek. He was spokesman for those who had no social standing, a
    voice for the voiceless, a friend to the friendless, even those who
    were not friends to themselves.

    But at thirty-seven he was up on the mountain-side where he saw to a
    distance that very few men could. He felt his own dignity and knew his
    worth. The president of the University of California, recognizing his
    ability as a thinker and speaker, asked him to give a course of
    lectures on economics.

    He gave one--this was all they could digest.

    California colleges have had a lot of trouble with economics--it has
    been a theme more fraught for them with danger than theology. How
    Californians make their money and how they spend it is a topic which
    in handling requires great subtlety of intellect, a fine delicacy of
    expression and much diplomacy, otherwise twenty-three petards!

    Here is a passage from Henry George's lecture before the University of
    California:

    For the study of political economy you need no special knowledge, no
    extensive library, no costly laboratory. You do not even need
    textbooks or teachers if you will but think for yourselves. All that
    you need is care in reducing complex phenomena to their elements, in
    distinguishing the essential from the accidental, and in applying the
    simple laws of human action with which you are familiar. Take
    nobody's opinion for granted; "try all things; hold fast to that
    which is good." In this way, the opinions of others will help you
    by their suggestions, elucidations and corrections; otherwise they
    will be to you as words to a parrot.

    All this array of professors, all this paraphernalia of learning, can
    not educate a man. They can but help him educate himself. Here you may
    obtain the tools; but they will be useful to him only who can use
    them. A monkey with a microscope, a mule packing a library, are fit
    emblems of the men--and unfortunately, they are plenty--who pass
    through the whole educational machinery, and come out but learned
    fools, crammed with knowledge which they can not use--all the more
    pitiable, all the more contemptible, all the more in the way of real
    progress, because they pass, with themselves and others, as educated
    men.

    California is a land of extremes--everything grows big and fast,
    especially ideas. No country ever saw such wealth and such poverty
    side by side. The mansions on Nob Hill were so grand that their
    magnificence discouraged the owners and abashed visitors; at
    receptions, a keg of beer on a sawbuck in the kitchen and champagne in
    a washtub, with ham sandwiches in a bushel basket, were all that could
    be assimilated. And yet past the high iron gates of these palaces
    prowled want--gaunt, hungry and menacing.

    Land was never so cheap nor so dear as it has been in California. We
    gave a railroad-company twenty-five thousand acres of land for every
    mile of track it built, and for years a dollar an acre was the ruling
    price at which you could buy to your limit. And yet there were at the
    same time little half-acres for which men pushed a hundred thousand
    dollars in gold-dust over the counter and then crowed about their
    bargain.

    Henry George studied economics at first hand. The dignified frappe
    which he received in way of honorarium for his university lecture had
    its advantages. People in San Francisco wanted to hear what the editor
    had to say as well as to read his utterances. He was invited to give
    the Fourth of July oration at the Grand Opera House--a very great
    compliment.

    Henry George was a reformer, and reformers have but one theme, and
    that theme is Liberty. We grow by expression. There is no doubt that
    the university lecture and the Fourth of July oration added cubits to
    the stature of Henry George. In these two addresses we find the kernel
    of his philosophy--a kernel that was to germinate into a mighty tree
    which would extend its welcoming shade to travelers for many a decade
    yet to come.

    * * * * *

    Like every other great book (or great man), "Progress and Poverty" was
    an accident--a providential accident. The book was ten years in the
    incubation. It began with a newspaper editorial in Eighteen Hundred
    Sixty-nine, and found form in a volume of five hundred pages in
    Eighteen Hundred Seventy-nine.

    The editorial merely called attention to the fact that California, in
    spite of her vast wealth, was peopled, for the most part, with people
    desperately poor; and that ground in the vicinity of any city, town or
    place of enterprise was held at so exorbitant a figure that the poor
    were actually enslaved by the men who owned the land. That is to say,
    the men who owned the land controlled the people who had to live on
    it, for man is a land animal, and can not live apart from land, any
    more than fishes can live at a distance from water. And moreover we
    tax for the improvements on land, thus really placing a penalty on
    enterprise.

    The article attracted attention, and opened the eyes of one man at
    least--and that was the man who wrote it. He had written better than
    he knew; and any writer who does not occasionally surprise himself
    does not write well.

    Henry George had surprised himself, and he wrote another editorial to
    explain the first. These editorials extended themselves into a series,
    and hand-polished and sandpapered, were reprinted in pamphlet form in
    Eighteen Hundred Seventy-one, under the title of "Our Land Policy."
    The temerity which prompted the printing of this pamphlet was evolved
    through a letter from John Stuart Mill. Henry George knew he was right
    in his conclusions, but he felt that he needed the corroboration of a
    great mind that had grappled with abstruse problems; so he sent one of
    his editorials to Mill, the greatest living intellect of his time.

    Mill showed his interest by replying in a long letter, wherein he
    addressed George as a man with a mind equal to his own, not as a
    sophomore trying his wings.

    The letter from Mill was to him a white milepost. The corroboration
    gave him courage, confidence, poise.

    The thousand copies of the pamphlet cost Henry George seventy-five
    dollars. The retail price was twenty-five cents each. Twenty-one
    copies were sold. The rest were given away to good people who promised
    to read them. Pamphlets are for the pamphleteer, but let the fact here
    be recorded that new ideas have always been issued at the author's
    expense--and also risk. Martin Luther, Dean Swift, John Milton, Paine,
    Voltaire, Sam Adams were all pamphleteers. The early Colonial
    "broadsides" were pamphlets issued by men with thoughts plus, and all
    of the men just named fired inky volleys which proved to be shots
    heard 'round the world.

    As the years passed, Henry George was gathering gear; he was getting
    an education. Providence was preparing him for his work. All he
    expressed by tongue or pen had land, labor, production and
    distribution in mind. He was getting acquainted with every phase of
    the subject--anticipating the objections, meeting the objectors,
    opening up side-paths.

    And so, in Eighteen Hundred Seventy-eight, when he sat down to write a
    magazine article on "Our Government Land Policy," the air was full of
    reasons. Soon the article stretched itself beyond magazine length, and
    in order to cover the theme he set down headings:

    1 Wages
    2 Capital
    3 Division of Labor
    4 Population
    5 Subsistence
    6 Rent
    7 Interest
    8 The Remedy for Unequal Distribution

    He wrote all one night--wrote in a fever. The next day his pulse got
    back to normal, and on talking the matter over with his wife he
    decided to begin it all over and work his philosophy up into a book,
    writing as he could, only one or two hours a day.

    He was absolutely without capital, dependent on his income from space-
    writing in the daily newspapers, but he began and the work grew.

    It was all done on "stolen time," to use the phrase of Macaulay, and
    therefore vital, for things done because you have to do them--done to
    get rid of them--contain the red corpuscle.

    On March Twenty-second, Eighteen Hundred Seventy-nine, the precious
    bundle of manuscript was shipped to D. Appleton and Company, New York,
    with instructions that if the work was not accepted, to hold subject
    to the author's order.

    In six weeks came a letter from the Appletons, gracious,
    complimentary, "but"--in fact, no work on political economy had ever
    sold sufficiently either to make money for the author or to pay the
    bare cost of the book to the publisher.

    Here was a dampener, and if Henry George had been a trifle more astute
    in the laws of literary supply and demand, he could and would have
    anticipated the result, even in spite of the natural prejudice which
    an author always feels for the offspring of his brain.

    A letter was now sent Thomas George, the author's brother, in
    Philadelphia, requesting him to go over to New York and find a market
    for the wares.

    Thomas had the work passed on by the Harpers, by Scribner, and all
    "much regretted."

    The next thing was to interest Professor Swinton and several New York
    friends, and have them go in a body and storm the castle of Barabbas.
    The committee called on D. Appleton and Company, and again laid the
    case before them.

    Finally the publishers agreed that if the author would advance money
    for the electrotype-plates, they would undertake the publication.

    But alas, the author was in the proverbial author's condition. On the
    offer being laid before Henry George by mail, he replied that he could
    make the electrotype-plates himself. He was a typesetter and he had
    friends who would give him the use of their printing-outfits. The
    offer was satisfactory to the Appletons, provided Professor Swinton
    would agree to take on his own account a hundred copies of the work on
    suspicion.

    The Professor agreed. And the manuscript was sent back to San
    Francisco, a trifle dog-eared and the worse for five months' wear.

    The author began his typesetting with the same diligence that he had
    brought to bear in the writing. This was stolen time, too. He worked
    an hour in the morning and two hours at night. Other printers offered
    to help, and a genial, bum electrotyper, damnably cheerful, offered to
    come in and lend a hand, provided Henry George would agree to give a
    funeral oration over the derelict one's grave at the proper time.
    Henry George gleefully agreed.

    So the work of making the electrotype-plates moved on apace. In the
    meantime some of Henry George's political friends had interviewed the
    Governor and Henry George was made inspector of gas-meters, at fifteen
    hundred dollars a year.

    It was four months' work to make the plates, but early in the year
    Eighteen Hundred Eighty they were shipped to New York, a few proofs of
    the book being taken, stitched up and sent out for review.

    So far as we know, there was no one in California able to read the
    book and intelligently review it. Leastwise they never did.

    The Appletons, however, gradually awoke to the fact that they had a
    prize, and they made efforts to get the work into right reviewing
    hands. Better still, they began to inquire about what manner of man
    Henry George was.

    Next they wrote to the author suggesting that, if he would come to New
    York and personally present his views, it would help in the sale of
    the books.

    Fortunately Henry George was not hampered by the ownership of real
    estate, nor an excess of personal property, so he hastily packed up,
    transportation having been secured by John Russell Young, a capitalist
    who had faith in his genius from the first.

    Henry George arrived in New York penniless, but Professor Swinton, E.
    L. Youmans (that excellent blind man of great insight), John Russell
    Young and the Appletons gave him a rich reception.

    The tide had turned.

    * * * * *

    Henry George received all the recognition that any thinker and writer
    could desire, from August, Eighteen Hundred Eighty, to the day of his
    death, October Twenty-eighth, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven. Men might
    not agree with him in his conclusions, but few indeed dare meet him in
    a duel of argument, either by pen or upon the public platform.

    He spoke in churches, halls and private parlors. His newspaper and
    magazine articles commanded a price. He met the greatest minds of
    America and of Europe on an equal footing.

    In England his book was having a sale far beyond what it had met with
    at home.

    And when he spoke in London and the chief cities of Great Britain, the
    halls were packed to suffocation. He appealed to the Messianic
    instinct of English workingmen, and they hailed him as the coming man
    --their deliverer. They stripped doors from their hinges and carried
    him aloft upon the improvised platform. They unhitched the horses from
    his carriage and drew him through the streets in triumphal state. This
    all meant little--it was only campaign exuberance--the glare and flare
    of smoky kerosene-torches, and the blare of brass.

    Henry George was right in the same class with Spencer, Huxley, Tyndall
    and John Stuart Mills, none of whom, happily, was a college man, and
    therefore all were free from the handicap of dead learning and
    ossified opinion, and saw things as if they were new. Ignorance is a
    very necessary equipment in doing a great and sublime work that is to
    eclipse anything heretofore performed.

    The mind of Henry George was a flower of slow growth. At thirty-seven
    he was just reaching mental manhood. According to all reasonable
    tables of expectancy, he should have rivaled Humboldt and been in his
    prime at eighty. His brain was the brain of Ricardo; but instead of
    sticking to his boos, he got caught in the swirl of politics, and was
    matched up with the cheap, the selfish, the grasping. The people who
    snatched Henry George out of his proper sphere as a thinker, writer
    and lecturer, and flung him into the turmoil of practical politics,
    were of exactly the class who would, if they could, have a little
    later ridden him on a rail.

    It was all a little like that speech of a man in Indianapolis who
    nominated James Whitcomb Riley for the Presidency of the United
    States. The mob diluted the thought of Henry George and trod his proud
    and honest heart into the mire.

    Had he been elected mayor of New York, he could have done little or
    nothing for reform, for a mayor has only the power delegated to him by
    the ward boss and the genus heeler. Beyond this he can merely apply
    the emergency-brake by the use of the veto.

    Henry George was a racehorse hitched by spoilsmen to an overloaded
    jaunting-car with a drunken driver, bound for Donnybrook Fair.

    And soon men said he was dead.

    * * * * *

    The logic of Henry George's book and its literary style are so
    insistent that it has been studied closely by economists of note in
    every country on the globe. Its argument has never been answered, and
    those who have sought to combat it have rested their case on the
    assertion that Henry George was a theorist and a dreamer, and so far
    as practical affairs were concerned was a failure. With equal logic we
    might brand the Christian religion as a failure because its founder
    was not a personal success, either in his social status or as a
    political leader.

    Gradually the thinking men of the world, the statesmen and the doers,
    are beholding the fact that mankind is an organism, and that a country
    is only as rich as its poorest citizen; that an athlete with Bright's
    disease is not worth as much to humanity as a small, lively and
    healthy boy of ten with cheek of tan and freckles to spare. Health
    comes from right living, and living without useful effort is only
    existence.

    People living on the pavement or in sky-scrapers soon degenerate.

    Man can not thrive apart from land. Abject poverty is found only in
    great cities, where population is huddled like worms in a knot.

    The highest average of intelligence, happiness and prosperity is found
    in villages, where each family owns its home, and the renter is the
    rare exception.

    The word "renter" we used Out West as a term of contempt. The
    ownership of an acre of land gives a sense of security which religion
    can not bestow. God's acre, with vegetables, fruits, flowers, a cow
    and poultry, places a family beyond the reach of famine, even if not
    of avarice. Moreover, this single acre means sound sleep, good
    digestion and resultant good thoughts, all from digging in the dirt
    and mixing with the elements. "All wealth comes from the soil," says
    Adam Smith, and he might have added, man himself comes from the soil
    and is brother to the trees and the flowers. Men can no more live
    apart from land than can the grass. The ownership of a very small plot
    of ground steadies life, lends ballast to existence, and is a bond
    given to society for good behavior.

    "I am no longer an anarchist--I have bought a lot and am building a
    house," a Russian refugee advised his restless colleagues at home,
    when they wrote, asking him for quotations on dynamite.

    It is obvious and easy to say that the people who make city slums
    possible do not want to own houses and would not live upon land and
    improve it, if they could.

    The worst about this statement is that it is true. They are so sunken
    in fear, superstition and indifference that they lack the squirrel's
    thrift in providing a home and laying in a stock of provisions; they
    are even without the ground-hog's ambition to burrow. They are too
    sodden to know what they are missing, and are lacking in the
    imagination which pictures a better condition.

    They are like those pigmy bondsmen who work in the cotton-mills of the
    South--yellow, gaunt, too dead to weep, too hopeless to laugh, too
    pained to feel.

    From these creatures and creators of slums it is absurd to talk of
    gratitude for the offer of betterment. People who expect gratitude do
    not deserve it. Neither can the slumsters by force be placed on land
    and be expected to till it. A generation, at least, will be required
    to work a change, and this change will come through educating the
    children--through the kindergarten and the kindergarten methods--and
    most of all through school-gardens. The so-called "back districts" are
    fast being annihilated, for quick transportation is bringing city and
    country close together. The time is coming, and shortly, too, when a
    fare of one cent a mile will be the universal rule, and a mile a
    minute will not be regarded as an unusual speed.

    Now here is something which Henry George did not say, and if he knew
    was too diplomatic to mention: The reason the people have not had
    possession of the land is because they did not want it. The ownership
    of the land you need to use comes in answer to prayer--and prayer is
    the soul's desire, uttered or unexpressed. The will of the people is
    supreme. If fraud and rascality exist in high places, it is because we
    elect rascals to office.

    The will of the people is supreme. When we cease toadying to brainless
    nabobs, and quit imitating them as soon as we get the money, we will
    be on the road to reformation. As it is, most poor people are just
    itching to live as the rich do. The average servant-girl who gets
    married quits work then and there, and is quite content to live the
    rest of her life as a slave, asking her husband for a quarter at a
    time and cajoling the money out of him by hook or crook, or else
    explorating his trousers for free coinage when opportunity offers.
    Fresh air is free, but the average individual does not know it; and
    neither would this same person use land if it were given him. Freedom
    is a condition of mind.

    Yet apart from the "submerged tenth" is a very large class of people
    to whom land and a home would be a positive paradise, and who are
    simply forced into flats and tenements on account of present economic
    conditions: the land is monopolized, and held by men who neither
    improve it themselves nor will they allow others to. Then hold it
    awaiting a rise in value.

    This increase in value is not on account of anything the owner may do
    --in fact, he is usually an absentee and does nothing. The increase
    comes from the enterprise and thrift of people for whom the owner has
    no interest, beyond contempt.

    If these enterprising people who do the work of the world--making the
    things the world needs--want more land for their business or for
    homes, they have to pay the absentee for the increased value which
    they themselves have brought about. When you beautify and enrich the
    value of your own lot by improving it, you are making it impossible to
    buy the vacant lot next to you without bankruptcy.

    Moreover, you are taxed by the State for any improvement you make on
    your land, and this taxation on improvements must of necessity tend
    toward discouragement of improvement. It is really a surer way to make
    money, to hang on to land and do nothing, than to improve it.

    The remedy proposed by Henry George is simply the Single Tax, and this
    tax to be on land values and not on improvements.

    That is to say, with the Single Tax, the man who owns the vacant lot
    covered with briars and brambles would pay the same tax that you pay
    on your lot next door upon which you have built a house, barn and
    conservatory and planted trees and flowers.

    The immediate tendency of this policy would be to cause the gentleman
    who owned the vacant lot devoted to cockleburs to put up on it a sign,
    "For Sale Cheap."

    Even the opponents of the Single Tax agree that its inauguration would
    at once throw on the market a vast acreage of unimproved land, and
    that is just the one reason why they oppose it. All those thousands of
    acres held by estates, trustees and idle heirs, in the vicinity of
    Boston, Philadelphia and up the Hudson, would be for sale.

    The single tax would give the land back to the people, or at least
    make it possible for people who want it to get what they could use.
    Those who have the desire to improve land, and improve themselves by
    improving it, would no longer be blocked.

    The fresh blood of the country which makes the enterprise of cities
    possible comes from the boys and the girls who warmed their feet on
    October mornings where the cows lay down; who have been brought up to
    work on land, to plant and hoe and harvest and look after livestock.
    This is all education, and very necessary education. "A sand-pile and
    dirt in which to dig is the divine right of every child," says Judge
    Lindsey.

    And if it is the divine right of a child to dig in the dirt, why isn't
    it the divine right of the grown-up? It is, and would be so recognized
    were it not for the fact that we have been obsessed by a fallacy
    called "the divine right of property." This idea has come down to us
    from the Reign of the Barons, when a dozen men owned all of England,
    and plain and unlettered people could not legally own a foot of land.
    All paid tribute to the Barons, who were actually and literally
    robbers.

    We will grant of course that what a man produces and creates is his,
    but the land to which he may be legal heir and which probably he has
    never seen, and which certainly he does not use or improve, is his
    only through a legal fiction. When the matter of legal fiction was
    explained to Colonel Bumble and he was told that legally a husband
    knew the whereabouts of his wife, because the law regarded a man and
    wife as one, Colonel Bumble replied with acerbity, "The law is a
    hass."

    Comparatively few people have the courage of Colonel Bumble, so they
    do not express themselves; but the commonsense of the world is now
    coming to believe that the law was made for man, and not man for the
    law.

    The only people who oppose the single tax are the holders of land who
    are hanging on to it expecting to grow rich through inertia.

    The problem of civilization is to eliminate the parasite. The idle
    person is no better than a dead one and takes up more room. The man
    who lives on the labor of others is a menace to himself and to
    society.

    The taxes necessary to support the government should be paid by those
    who have the funds wherewith to be idle; no longer should the chief
    burden fall on the home-maker.

    Tax the land, and the man who owns it will have to make it productive
    by labor, or else get out and allow some one else to have a chance.

    Do not drive the landlords out--tax them out.

    Let the land gravitate to the people who have the disposition and the
    ability to improve it--and that is just what the Single Tax will do.
    So this, then, is the philosophy of Henry George.
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