Elbert Hubbard - The Mintage
E >>
Elbert Hubbard >> The Mintage
'Tis here you'll find the mintage of my mind.--_Goethe._
-------------------------------------
[Illustration: Elbert Hubbard]
Elbert Hubbard
The Mintage
Being Ten Stories & One More
By Elbert Hubbard
Copyright 1910
Elbert Hubbard
CONTENTS
FIVE BABIES
TO THE WEST
SIMEON STYLITES THE SYRIAN
BATTLE OF THE LITTLE BIG HORN
SAM
CLEOPATRA AND CAESAR
A SPECIAL OCCASION
UNCLE JOE AND AUNT MELINDA
BILLY AND THE BOOK
JOHN THE BAPTIST AND SALOME
THE MASTER
-------------------------------------
All success consists in this: you are doing something
for somebody--are benefiting humanity; and the feeling
of success comes from the consciousness of this.
FIVE BABIES
Riding on the Grand Trunk Railway a few weeks ago, going from
Suspension Bridge to Chicago, I saw a sight so trivial that it seems
unworthy of mention. Yet for three weeks I have remembered it, and so
now I'll relate it, in order to get rid of it.
And possibly these little incidents of life are the items that make or
mar existence.
But here is what I saw on that railroad train: five children, the
oldest a girl of ten, and the youngest a baby boy of three. They were
traveling alone and had come from Germany, duly tagged, ticketed and
certified.
They were going to their Grandmother at Waukegan, Illinois.
The old lady was to meet them in Chicago.
The children spoke not a word of English, but there is a universal
language of the heart that speaks and is understood. So the trainmen
and the children were on very chummy terms.
Now, at London, Ontario, our train waited an hour for the Toronto and
Montreal connections.
Just before we reached London, I saw the Conductor take the three
smallest little passengers to the washroom at the end of the car, roll
up their sleeves, turn their collars in, and duly wash their hands and
faces. Then he combed their hair. They accepted the situation as if
they belonged to the Conductor's family, as of course they did for the
time being. It was a domestic scene that caused the whole car to
smile, and made everybody know everybody else. A touch of nature makes
a whole coach kin.
The children had a bushel-basket full of eatables, but at London that
Conductor took the whole brood over to the dining-hall for supper, and
I saw two fat men scrap as to who should have the privilege of paying
for the kiddies' suppers. The children munched and smiled and said
little things to each other in Teutonic whispers.
After our train left London and the Conductor had taken up his
tickets, he came back, turned over two seats and placed the cushions
lengthwise. One of the trainmen borrowed a couple of blankets from the
sleeping-cars, and with the help of three volunteered overcoats, the
babies were all put to bed, and duly tucked in.
I went back to my Pullman, and went to bed. And as I dozed off I kept
wondering whether the Grandmother would be there in the morning to
meet the little travelers. What sort of disaster had deprived them of
parents, I did not know, nor did I care to ask. The children were
alone, but among friends. They were strong and well, but they kept
very close together and looked to the oldest girl as a mother.
But to be alone in Chicago would be terrible! Would she come!
And so I slept. In the morning there was another Conductor in charge,
a man I had not before seen. I went into the day-coach, thinking that
the man might not know about the babies, and that I might possibly
help the little immigrants. But my services were not needed. The
ten-year-old "little other mother" had freshened up her family, and the
Conductor was assuring them, in awfully bad German, that their
Grandmother would be there--although, of course, he didn't know
anything at all about it.
When the train pulled into the long depot and stopped, the Conductor
took the baby boy on one arm and a little girl on the other.
A porter carried the big lunch-basket, and the little other mother led
a toddler on each side, dodging the hurrying passengers.
Evidently I was the only spectator of the play.
-------------------------------------
"Will she be there--will she be there?" I asked myself nervously.
She was there, all right, there at the gate. The Conductor was
seemingly as gratified as I. He turned his charges over to the old
woman, who was weeping for joy, and hugging the children between
bursts of lavish, loving Deutsch.
I climbed into a Parmelee bus and said, "Auditorium Annex, please."
And as I sat there in the bus, while they were packing the grips on
top, the Conductor passed by, carrying a tin box in one hand and his
train cap in the other.
I saw an Elk's tooth on his watch-chain.
I called to him, "I saw you help the babies--good boy!"
He looked at me in doubt.
"Those German children," I said; "I'm glad you were so kind to them!"
"Oh," he answered, smiling; "yes, I had forgotten; why, of course,
that is a railroad man's business, you know--to help everybody who
needs help."
He waved his hand and disappeared up the stairway that led to the
offices.
And it came to me that he had forgotten the incident so soon, simply
because to help had become the habit of his life. He may read this,
and he may not. There he was--big, bold, bluff and bronzed, his hair
just touched with the frost of years, and beneath his brass buttons a
heart beating with a desire to bless and benefit. I do not know his
name, but the sight of the man, carrying a child on each arm, their
arms encircling his neck in perfect faith, their long journey done,
and he turning them over in safety to their Grandmother, was something
to renew one's faith in humanity.
Even a great Railway System has a soul.
If you answer that corporations have no souls, I'll say: "Friend, you
were never more mistaken in your life. The business that has no soul
soon ceases to exist; and the success of a company or corporation
turns on the kind of soul it possesses. Soul is necessary to service.
Courtesy, kindness, honesty and efficiency are tangible soul-assets;
and all good railroad men know it."
-------------------------------------
By taking thought you can add cubits to your stature.
TO THE WEST
To stand by the open grave of one you have loved, and feel the sky
shut down over less worth in the world is the supreme test.
There you prove your worth, if ever.
You must live and face the day, and face each succeeding day,
realizing that "the moving finger writes, and having writ moves on,
nor all your tears shall blot a line of it."
Heroes are born, but it is calamity that discovers them.
Once in Western Kansas, in the early Eighties, I saw a loaded
four-horse wagon skid and topple in going across a gully.
The driver sprang from his seat and tried to hold the wagon upright.
The weight was too great for his strength, powerful man though he was.
The horses swerved down the ditch instead of crossing it, and the
overturning wagon caught the man and pinned him to the ground.
Half a dozen of us sprang from our horses. After much effort the
tangled animals were unhitched and the wagon was righted.
The man was dead.
In the wagon were the wife and six children, the oldest child a boy of
fifteen. All were safely caught in the canvas top and escaped unhurt.
We camped there--not knowing what else to do.
We straightened the mangled form of the dead, and covered the body
with a blanket.
That night the mother and the oldest boy sat by the campfire and
watched the long night away with their dead.
The stars marched in solemn procession across the sky.
The slow, crawling night passed.
The first faint flush of dawn appeared in the East.
I lay near the campfire, my head pillowed on a saddle, and heard the
widowed mother and her boy talking in low but earnest tones.
"We must go back--we must go back to Illinois. It is the only thing to
do," I heard the mother moan.
And the boy answered: "Mother, listen to what I say: We will go on--we
will go on. We know where father was going to take us--we know what he
was going to do. We will go on, and we will do what he intended to do,
and if possible we will do it better. We will go on!"
That first burst of pink in the East had turned to gold.
Great streaks of light stretched from horizon to zenith.
I could see in the dim and hazy light the hobbled horses grazing
across the plain a quarter of a mile away.
The boy of fifteen arose and put fuel on the fire.
After breakfast I saw that boy get a spade, a shovel and a pick out of
the wagon.
With help of others a grave was dug there on the prairie.
The dead was rolled in a blanket and tied about with thongs, after the
fashion of the Indians.
Lines were taken from a harness, and we lowered the body into the
grave.
The grave was filled up by friendly hands working in nervous haste.
I saw the boy pat down the mound with the back of a spade.
I saw him carve with awkward, boyish hands the initials of his father,
the date of his birth and the day of his death.
I saw him drive the slab down at the head of the grave.
I saw him harness the four horses.
I saw him help his little brothers into the canvas-covered wagon.
I saw him help his mother climb the wheel as she took her place on the
seat.
I saw him spring up beside her.
I saw him gather up the lines in his brown, slim hands, and swing the
whip over the leaders, as he gave the shrill word of command and
turned the horses to the West.
And the cavalcade moved forward to the West--always to the West.
The boy had met calamity and disaster. He had not flinched.
In a single day he had left boyhood behind and become a man.
And the years that followed proved him genuine.
What was it worked the change? Grief and responsibility, nobly met.
-------------------------------------
The church has aureoled and sainted the men and
women who have fought the Cosmic Urge. To do nothing
and to be nothing was regarded as a virtue.
SIMEON STYLITES THE SYRIAN
The church has aureoled and sainted the men and women who have fought
the Cosmic Urge. To do nothing and to be nothing was regarded as a
virtue.
As the traveler journeys through Southern Italy, Sicily and certain
parts of what was Ancient Greece, he will see broken arches, parts of
viaducts, and now and again a beautiful column pointing to the sky.
All about is the desert, or solitary pastures, and only this white
milestone marking the path of the centuries and telling in its own
silent, solemn and impressive way of a day that is dead.
In the Fifth Century a monk called Simeon the Syrian, and known to us
as Simeon Stylites, having taken the vow of chastity, poverty and
obedience, began to fear greatly lest he might not be true to his
pledge. And that he might live absolutely beyond reproach, always in
public view, free from temptation, and free from the tongue of
scandal, he decided to live in the world, and still not be of it. To
this end he climbed to the top of a marble column, sixty feet high,
and there on the capstone he began to live a life beyond reproach.
Simeon was then twenty-four years old.
The environment was circumscribed, but there were outlook, sunshine,
ventilation--three good things. But beyond these the place had certain
disadvantages. The capstone was a little less than three feet square,
so Simeon could not lie down. He slept sitting, with his head bowed
between his knees, and, indeed, in this posture he passed most of his
time. Any recklessness in movement, and he would have slipped from his
perilous position and been dashed to death upon the stones beneath.
As the sun arose he stood up, just for a few moments, and held out his
arms in greeting, blessing and in prayer. Three times during the day
did he thus stretch his cramped limbs, and pray with his face to the
East. At such times, those who stood near shared in his prayers, and
went away blessed and refreshed.
How did Simeon get to the top of the column?
Well, his companions at the monastery, a mile away, said he was
carried there in the night by a miraculous power; that he went to
sleep in his stone cell and awoke on the pillar. Other monks said that
Simeon had gone to pay his respects to a fair lady, and in wrath God
had caught him and placed him on high. The probabilities are, however,
Terese, as viewed by an unbeliever, that he shot a line over the
column with a bow and arrow and then drew up a rope ladder and
ascended with ease.
However, in the morning the simple people of the scattered village saw
the man on the column.
All day he stayed there.
And the next day he was still there.
The days passed, with the scorching heat of the midday sun, and the
cool winds of the night.
Still Simeon kept his place.
The rainy season came on. When the nights were cold and dark, Simeon
sat there with bowed head, and drew the folds of his single garment, a
black robe, over his face.
Another season passed; the sun again grew warm, then hot, and the
sandstorms raged and blew, when the people below almost lost sight of
the man on the column. Some prophesied he would be blown off, but the
morning light revealed his form, naked from the waist up, standing
with hands outstretched to greet the rising sun.
Once each day, as darkness gathered, a monk came with a basket
containing a bottle of goat's milk and a little loaf of black bread,
and Simeon dropped down a rope and drew up the basket.
Simeon never spoke, for words are folly, and to the calls of saint or
sinner he made no reply. He lived in a perpetual attitude of
adoration.
Did he suffer? During those first weeks he must have suffered terribly
and horribly. There was no respite nor rest from the hard surface of
the rock, and aching muscles could find no change from the cramped and
perilous position. If he fell, it was damnation for his soul--all were
agreed as to this.
But man's body and mind accommodate themselves to almost any
condition. One thing at least, Simeon was free from economic
responsibilities, free from social cares and intrusion. Bores with sad
stories of unappreciated lives and fond hopes unrealized, never broke
in upon his peace. He was not pressed for time. No frivolous dame of
tarnished fame sought to share with him his perilous perch. The people
on a slow schedule, ten minutes late, never irritated his temper. His
correspondence never got in a heap.
Simeon kept no track of the days, having no engagements to meet, nor
offices to perform, beyond the prayers at morn, midday and night.
Memory died in him, the hurts became callouses, the world-pain died
out of his heart, and to cling became a habit.
Language was lost in disuse.
The food he ate was minimum in quantity; sensation ceased, and the
dry, hot winds reduced bodily tissue to a dessicated something called
a saint--loved, feared and reverenced for his fortitude.
This pillar, which had once graced the portal of a pagan temple, again
became a place of pious pilgrimage, and people flocked to Simeon's
rock, so that they might be near when he stretched out his black, bony
hands to the East, and the spirit of Almighty God, for a space,
hovered close around.
So much attention did the abnegation of Simeon attract that various
other pillars, marking the ruins of art and greatness gone, in that
vicinity, were crowned with pious monks. The thought of these monks
was to show how Christianity had triumphed over heathenism. Imitators
were numerous. About then the Bishops in assembly asked, "Is Simeon
sincere?" To test the matter of Simeon's pride, he was ordered to come
down from his retreat.
As to his chastity, there was little doubt, his poverty was beyond
question, but how about obedience to his superiors?
The order was shouted up to him in a Bishop's voice--he must let down
his rope, draw up a ladder, and descend.
Straightway Simeon made preparation to obey. And then the Bishops
relented and cried, "We have changed our minds, and now order you to
remain!"
Simeon lifted his hands in adoration and thankfulness and renewed his
lease.
And so he lived on and on and on--he lived on the top of that pillar,
never once descending for thirty years.
All his former companions grew aweary, and one by one died, and the
monastery bells tolled their requiem as they were laid to rest. Did
Simeon hear the bells and say, "Soon it will be my turn"?
Probably not. His senses had flown, for what good were they! The young
monk who now at eventide brought the basket with the bottle of goat's
milk and the loaf of brown bread was born since Simeon had taken his
place on the pillar.
"He has always been there," the people said, and crossed themselves
hurriedly.
But one evening when the young monk came with his basket, no line was
dropped down from above. He waited and then called aloud, but all in
vain.
When sunrise came, there sat the monk, his face between his knees, the
folds of his black robe drawn over his head. But he did not rise and
lift his hands in prayer.
All day he sat there, motionless.
The people watched in whispered silence. Would he arise at sundown and
pray, and with outstretched hands bless the assembled pilgrims?
And as they watched, a vulture came sailing slowly through the blue
ether, and circled nearer and nearer; and off on the horizon was
another--and still another, circling nearer and ever nearer.
-------------------------------------
I would write across the sky in letters of light this
undisputed truth, proven by every annal of history,
that the only way to help yourself is through loyalty
to those who trust and employ you.
BATTLE OF THE LITTLE BIG HORN
It was in the Spring of Eighteen Hundred Seventy-six that the Sioux on
the Dakota Reservation became restless, and after various fruitless
efforts to restrain them, moved Westward in a body.
This periodic migration was a habit and a tradition of the tribe. For
hundreds of years they had visited the buffalo country on an annual
hunt.
Now the buffaloes were gone, save for a few scattered herds in the
mountains. The Indians did not fully realize this, although they
realized that as the Whites came in, the game went out. The Sioux were
hunters and horsemen by nature. They traveled and moved about with
great freedom. If restrained or interfered with they grew irritable
and then hostile.
Now they were full of fight. The Whites had ruined the hunting-grounds;
besides that, white soldiers had fought them if they moved to their
old haunts, sacred for their use and bequeathed to them by their
ancestors. In dead of Winter, when the snows lay deep and they were in
their teepees, crouching around the scanty fire, soldiers had charged
on horseback through the villages, shooting into the teepees, killing
women and children.
At the head of these soldiers was a white chief, whom they called
Yellow Hair. He was a smashing, dashing, fearless soldier who
understood the Indian ways and haunts, and then used this knowledge
for the undoing of the Red Men.
Yellow Hair wanted to keep them in one little place all the time, and
desired that they should raise corn like cowardly Crows, when what
they wanted was to be free and hunt!
They feared Yellow Hair--and hated him.
Custer was a man of intelligence--nervous, energetic, proud. His
honesty and sincerity were beyond dispute. He was a natural Indian
fighter. He could pull his belt one hole tighter and go three whole
days without food. He could ride like the wind, or crawl in the grass,
and knew how to strike, quickly and unexpectedly, as the first streak
of dawn came into the East. Like Napoleon, he knew the value of time,
and, in fact, he had somewhat of the dash and daring, not to mention
the vanity, of the Corsican. His men believed in him and loved him,
for he marched them to victory, and with odds of five to one had won
again and again.
-------------------------------------
But Custer had the defect of his qualities; and to use the Lincoln
phrase, sometimes took counsel of his ambition.
He had fought in the Civil War in places where no prisoners were
taken, and where there was no commissary. And this wild, free life had
bred in him a habit of unrest--a chafing at discipline and all rules of
modern warfare.
Results were the only things he cared for, and power was his Deity.
When the Indians grew restless in the Spring of Seventy-six, Custer
was called to Washington for consultation. President Grant was not
satisfied with our Indian policy--he thought that in some ways the
Whites were the real savages. The Indians he considered as children,
not as criminals.
Custer tried to tell him differently. Custer knew the bloodthirsty
character of the Sioux, their treachery and cunning--he showed scars by
way of proof!
The authorities at Washington needed Custer. However, his view of the
case did not mean theirs. Custer believed in the mailed hand, and if
given the power he declared he would settle the Indian Question in
America once and forever. His confidence and assumption and what
Senator Dawes called swagger were not to their liking. Anyway, Custer
was attracting altogether too much attention--the people followed him
on Pennsylvania Avenue whenever he appeared.
General Terry was chosen to head the expedition against the hostile
Sioux, and Custer was to go as second in command.
Terry was older than Custer, but Custer had seen more service on the
plains. Custer demurred--threatened to resign--and wrote a note to the
President asking for a personal interview and requesting a review of
the situation.
President Grant refused to see Custer, and reminded him that the first
duty of a soldier was obedience.
Custer left Washington, glum and sullen--grieved. But he was a soldier,
and so he reported at Fort Lincoln, as ordered, to serve under a man
who knew less about Indian fighting than did he.
The force of a thousand men embarked on six boats at Bismarck. There a
banquet was given in honor of Terry and Custer. "You will hear from us
by courier before July Fourth," said Custer.
He was still moody and depressed, but declared his willingness to do
his duty.
Terry did not like his attitude and told him so. Poor Custer was stung
by the reprimand.
He was only a boy, thirty-seven years old, to be sure, but with the
whimsical, daring, ambitious and jealous quality of the center-rush.
Custer at times had his eye on the White House--why not! Had not Grant
been a soldier?
Women worshiped Custer, and men who knew him, never doubted his
earnestness and honesty. He lacked humor.
He was both sincere and serious.
The expedition moved on up the tortuous Missouri, tying up at night to
avoid the treacherous sandbars that lay in wait.
They had reached the Yellowstone River, and were getting into the
Indian Country.
To lighten the boats, Terry divided his force into two parts. Custer
disembarked on the morning of the Twenty-fifth of June, with four
hundred forty-three men, besides a dozen who looked after the
pack-train.
Scouts reported that the hostile Sioux were camped on the Little Big
Horn, seventy-five miles across the country.
Terry gave Custer orders to march the seventy-five miles in
forty-eight hours, and attack the Indians at the head of their camp at
daylight on the morning of the Twenty-seventh. There was to be no
parley--panic was the thing desired, and when Custer had started the
savages on the run, Terry would attack them at the other end of their
village, and the two fleeing mobs of savages would be driven on each
other, and then they would cast down their arms and the trick would be
done.
Next, to throw a cordon of soldiers around the camp and hold it would
be easy.
-------------------------------------
Custer and his men rode away at about eight o'clock on the morning of
the Twenty-fifth. They were in high spirits, for the cramped quarters
on the transports made freedom doubly grateful.
They disappeared across the mesa and through the gray-brown hills, and
soon only a cloud of dust marked their passage.
After five miles had been turned off on a walk, Custer ordered a trot,
and then, where the ground was level, a canter.
On they went.
They pitched camp at four o'clock, having covered forty miles. The
horses were unsaddled and fed, and supper cooked and eaten.
But sleep was not to be--these men shall sleep no more!
The bugles sounded "Boots and Saddles." Before sunset they were again
on their way.
-------------------------------------
By three o'clock on the morning of the Twenty-sixth, they had covered
more than seventy miles.
They halted for coffee.
The night, waiting for the dawn, was doubly dark.
Fast-riding scouts had gone on ahead, and now reported the Indians
camped just over the ridge, four miles away.
Custer divided his force into two parts. The Indians were camped along
the river for three miles. There were about two thousand of them, and
the women and children were with them.
