Those of us who lived in Chicago during the summer of 1894 were
confronted by a drama which epitomized and, at the same time, challenged
the code of social ethics under which we live, for a quick series of
unusual events had dispelled the good nature which in happier times
envelopes the ugliness of the industrial situation. It sometimes seems
as if the shocking experiences of that summer, the barbaric instinct to
kill, roused on both sides, the sharp division into class lines, with
the resultant distrust and bitterness, can only be endured if we learn
from it all a great ethical lesson. To endure is all we can hope for. It
is impossible to justify such a course of rage and riot in a civilized
community to whom the methods of conciliation and control were open.
Every public-spirited citizen in Chicago during that summer felt the
stress and perplexity of the situation and asked himself, "How far am I
responsible for this social disorder? What can be done to prevent such
outrageous manifestations of ill-will?"
If the responsibility of tolerance lies with those of the widest
vision, it behooves us to consider this great social disaster, not alone
in is legal aspect nor in its sociological bearings, but from those deep
human motives, which, after all, determine events.
During the discussions which followed the Pullman strike, the
defenders of the situation were broadly divided between the people
pleading for individual benevolence and those insisting upon social
righteousness; between those who held that the philanthropy of the
president of the Pullman company had been most ungratefully received and
those who maintained that the situation was the inevitable outcome of
the social consciousness developing among working people.
In the midst of these discussions the writer found her mind
dwelling upon a comparison which modified and softened all her
judgments. Her attention was caught by the similarity of ingratitude
suffered by an indulgent employer and an indulgent parent. King Lear
came often to her mind. We have all shared the family relationship and
our code of ethics concerning it is somewhat settled. We also bear a
part in the industrial relationship, but our ethics concerning that are
still uncertain. A comparative study of these two relationships presents
an advantage, in that it enables us to consider the situation from the
known experience toward the unknown. The minds of all of us reach back
to our early struggles, as we emerged from the state of self-willed
childhood to a recognition of the family claim.
We have all had glimpses of what it might be to blaspheme against
family ties; to ignore the elemental claim they make upon us, but on the
whole we have recognized them, and it does not occur to us to throw them
over. The industrial claim is so difficult; the ties are so intangible
that we are constantly ignoring them and shirking the duties which they
impose. It will probably be easier to treat of the tragedy of the
Pullman strike as if it were already long past when we compare it to the
family tragedy of Lear which has already become historic to our minds
and which we discuss without personal feeling.
Historically considered, the relation of Lear to his children was
archaic and barbaric, holding in it merely the beginnings of a family
life, since developed. We may in later years learn to look back upon the
industrial relationships in which we are now placed as quite as
incomprehensible and selfish, quite as barbaric and undeveloped, as was
the family relationship between Lear and his daughters. We may then take
the relationship of this unusually generous employer at Pullman to his
own townful of employes as at least a fair one, because so exceptionally
liberal in many of its aspects. King Lear doubtless held the same notion
of a father's duty that was held by the other fathers of his time; but
he alone was a king and had kingdoms to bestow upon his children. He was
unique, therefore, in the magnitude of his indulgence, and in the
magnitude of the disaster which followed it. The sense of duty held by
the president of the Pullman company doubtless represents the ideal in
the minds of the best of the present employers as to their obligations
toward their employes, but be projected this ideal more magnificently
than the others. He alone gave his men so model a town, such perfect
surroundings. The magnitude of his indulgence and failure corresponded
and we are forced to challenge the ideal itself: the same deal which,
more or less clearly defined, is floating in the minds of all
philanthropic employers.
This older tragedy implied maladjustment between individuals; the
forces of the tragedy were personal and passionate. This modern tragedy
in its inception is a maladjustment between two large bodies of men, an
employing company and a mass of employes. It deals not with personal
relationships, but with industrial relationships.
Owing, however, to the unusual part played in it by the will of
one man, we find that it closely approaches Lear in motif. The relation
of the British King to his family is very like the relation of the
president of the Pullman company to his town; the denouement of a
daughter's break with her father suggests the break of the employes with
their benefactor. If we call one an example of the domestic tragedy, the
other of the industrial tragedy, it is possible to make them illuminate
each other.
It is easy to discover striking points of similarity in the
tragedies of the royal father and the philanthropic president of the
Pullman company. The like quality of ingratitude they both suffered is
at once apparent. It may be said that the ingratitude which Lear
received was poignant and bitter to him in proportion as he recalled the
extraordinary benefits he had heaped upon his daughters, and that he
found his fate harder to bear because he had so far exceeded the measure
of a father's duty, as he himself says. What, then, would be the
bitterness of a man who bad heaped extraordinary benefits upon those
toward whom be bad no duty recognized by common consent; who had not
only exceeded the righteousness of the employer, but who had worked out
original and striking methods for lavishing goodness and generosity?
More than that, the president had been almost persecuted for this
goodness by the more utilitarian members of his company and had at one
time imperilled his business reputation for the sake of the benefactions
to his town, and he had thus reached the height of sacrifice for it.
This model town embodied not only his hopes and ambitions, but stood for
the peculiar effort which a man makes for that which is misunderstood.
It is easy to see that although the heart of Lear was cut by
ingratitude and by misfortune, it was cut deepest of all by the public
pity of his people, in that they should remember him no longer as a king
and benefactor, but as a defeated man who had blundered through
oversoftness. So the heart of the Chicago man was cut by the
unparalleled publicity which brought him to the minds of thousands as a
type of oppression and injustice, and to many others as an example of
the evil of an irregulated sympathy for the "lower classes." He who had
been dined and feted throughout Europe as the creator of a model town,
as the friend and benefactor of workingmen, was now execrated by
workingmen throughout the entire country. He had not only been good to
those who were now basely ungrateful to him, but he felt himself
deserted by the admiration of his people.
In shops such as those at Pullman, indeed, in all manufacturing
affairs since the industrial revolution, industry is organized into a
vast social operation. The shops are managed, however, not for the
development of the workman thus socialized, but for the interests of the
company owning the capital. The divergence between the social form and
the individual aim becomes greater as the employes are more highly
socialized and dependent, just as the clash in a family is more vital in
proportion to the development and closeness of the family tie. The
president of the Pullman company went further than the usual employer
does. He socialized not only the factory but the form in which his
workmen were living. He built and, in a great measure, regulated an
entire town. This again might have worked out into a successful
associated effort, if he had had in view the sole good of the
inhabitants thus socialized, if he had called upon them for
self-expression and had made the town a growth and manifestation of
their wants and needs, But, unfortunately, the end to be obtained became
ultimately commercial and not social, having in view the payment to the
company of at least 4 per cent on the money invested, so that with this
rigid requirement there could be no adaptation of rent to wages, much
less to needs. The rents became statical and the wages competitive,
shifting inevitably with the demands of trade. The president assumed
that he himself knew the needs of his men, and so far from wishing them
to express their needs he denied to them the simple rights of trade
organization, which would have been, of course, the merest preliminary
to an attempt at associated expression. If we may take the dictatorial
relation of Lear to Cordelia as a typical and most dramatic example of
the distinctively family tragedy, one will asserting its authority
through all the entanglement of wounded affection, and insisting upon
its selfish ends at all costs, may we not consider the absolute
authority of this employer over his town as a typical and dramatic
example of the industrial tragedy? One will directing the energies of
many others, without regard to their desires, and having in view in the
last analysis only commercial results?
It shocks our ideal of family life that a man should fail to know
his daughter's heart because she awkwardly expressed her love, that he
should refuse to comfort and advise her through all difference of
opinion and clashing of will. That a man should be so absorbed in his
own indignation as to fail to apprehend his child's thought; that he
should lose his affection in his anger, is really no more unnatural than
that the man who spent a million of dollars on a swamp to make it
sanitary for his employes, should refuse to speak to them for ten
minutes, whether they were in the right or wrong; or that a man who had
given them his time and thought for twenty years should withdraw from
them his guidance when he believed them misled by ill-advisers and
wandering in a mental fog; or that he should grow hard and angry when
they needed tenderness and help.
Lear ignored the common ancestry of Cordelia and himself. He
forgot her royal inheritance of magnanimity, and also the power of
obstinacy which he shared with her. So long bad he thought of himself as
the noble and indulgent father that he had lost the faculty by which be
might perceive himself in the wrong. Even when his spirit was broken by
the storm he declared himself more sinned against than sinning. He could
believe any amount of kindness and goodness of himself, but could
imagine no fidelity on the part of Cordelia unless she gave him the sign
he demanded.
The president of the Pullman company doubtless began to build his
town from an honest desire to give his employes the best surroundings.
As it developed it became a source of pride and an exponent of power,
that he cared most for when it gave him a glow of benevolence.
Gradually, what the outside world thought of it became of importance to
him and he ceased to measure its usefulness by the standard of the men's
needs. The theater was complete in equipment and beautiful in design,
but too costly for a troupe who depended upon the patronage of
mechanics, as the church was too expensive to be rented continuously. We
can imagine the founder of the town slowly darkening his glints of
memory and forgetting the common stock of experience which he held with
his men. He cultivated the great and noble impulses of the benefactor,
until the power of attaining a simple human relationship with his
employes, that of frank equality with them, was gone from him. He, too,
lost the faculty of affectionate interpretation, and demanded a sign. He
and his employes had no mutual interest in a common cause.
Was not the grotesque situation of the royal father and the
philanthropic employer to perform so many good deeds that they lost the
power of recognizing good in beneficiaries? Were not both so absorbed in
carrying out a personal plan of improvement that they failed to catch
the great moral lesson which their times offered them? This is the
crucial point to the tragedies and may be further elucidated.
Lear had doubtless swung a bauble before Cordelia's baby eyes that
he might have the pleasure of seeing the little pink and tender hands
stretched for it. A few years later he had given jewels to the young
princess, and felt an exquisite pleasure when she stood before him,
delighted with her gaud and grateful to her father. He demanded the same
kind of response for his gift of the kingdom, but the gratitude must be
larger and more carefully expressed, as befitted such a gift. At the
opening of the drama he sat upon his throne ready for this enjoyment,
but instead of delight and gratitude he found the first dawn of
character. His daughter made the awkward attempt of an untrained soul to
be honest, to be scrupulous in the expressions of its feelings. It was
new to him that his child should be moved by a principle outside of
himself, which even his imagination could not follow; that she had
caught the notion of an existence so vast that her relationship as a
daughter was but part of it.
Perhaps her suitors, the King of France or the Duke of Burgundy,
had first hinted to the young Cordelia that there was a fuller life
beyond the seas. Certain it is that someone bad shaken her from the
quiet measure of her insular existence and that she had at last felt the
thrill of the world's life. She was transformed by a dignity which
recast her speech and made it self-contained, as is becoming a citizen
of the world. She found herself in the sweep of a notion of justice so
large that the immediate loss of a kingdom seemed of little consequence
to her. Even an act which might be construed as disrespect to her father
was justified in her eyes because she was vainly striving to fill out
this larger conception of duty.
The test which comes sooner or later to many parents had come to
Lear, to maintain the tenderness of the relation between father and
child, after that relation had become one between adults; to be
contented with the responses which this adult made to the family claim,
while, at the same time, she felt the tug upon her emotions and
faculties of the larger life, the life which surrounds and completes the
individual and family life, and which shares and widens her attention.
He was not sufficiently wise to see that only that child can fulfill the
family claim in its sweetness and strength who also fulfills the larger
claim, that the adjustment of the lesser and larger implies no conflict.
The mind of Lear was not big enough for this test. He failed to see
anything but the personal slight involved; the ingratitude alone reached
him. It was impossible for him to calmly watch his child developing
beyond the strength of his own mind and sympathy.
Without pressing the analogy too hard may we not compare the
indulgent relation of this employer to his town to the relation which
existed between Lear and Cordelia? He fostered his employes for many
years, gave them sanitary houses and beautiful parks, but in their
extreme need, when they were struggling with the most difficult question
which the times could present to them, when, if ever, they required the
assistance of a trained mind and a comprehensive outlook, he lost his
touch and had nothing wherewith to help them. He did not see the
situation. He had been ignorant of their gropings toward justice. His
conception of goodness for them bad been cleanliness, decency of living,
and above all, thrift and temperance. He bad provided them means for all
this; had gone further, and given them opportunities for enjoyment and
comradeship. But he suddenly found his town in the sweep of a world-wide
moral impulse. A movement had been going on about him and through the
souls of his workingmen of which he had been unconscious. He had only
heard of this movement by rumor. The men who consorted with him at his
club and in his business had spoken but little of it, and when they bad
discussed it bad contemptuously called it the "Labor Movement," headed
by deadbeats and agitators. Of the force and power of this movement, of
all the vitality within it, of that conception of duty which induces men
to go without food and to see their wives and children suffer for the
sake of securing better wages for fellow-workmen whom they have never
seen, this president had dreamed absolutely nothing. But his town had at
last become swept into this larger movement, so that the giving up of
comfortable homes, of beautiful surroundings, seemed as naught to the
men within its grasp.
Outside the ken of this philanthropist, the proletariat had
learned to say in many languages that "the injury of one is the concern
of all." Their watchwords were brotherhood, sacrifice, the subordination
of individual and trade interests to the good of the working class; and
their persistent strivings were toward the ultimate freedom of that
class from the conditions tinder which they now labor.
Compared to these watchwords the old ones which the philanthropic
employer had given his town were negative and inadequate.
When this movement finally swept in his own town, or, to speak
more fairly, when in their distress and perplexity his own employes
appealed to the organized manifestation of this movement, they were
quite sure that simply because they were workmen in distress they would
not be deserted by it. This loyalty on the part of a widely ramified and
well organized union toward the workmen in a "scab shop," who had
contributed nothing to its cause, was certainly a manifestation of moral
power.
That the movement was ill-directed, that it was ill-timed and
disastrous in results, that it stirred up and became confused in the
minds of the public with the elements of riot and bloodshed, can never
touch the fact that it started from an unselfish impulse.
In none of his utterances or correspondence did the president of
the company for an instant recognize this touch of nobility, although
one would imagine that he would gladly point out this bit of virtue, in
what he must have considered the moral ruin about him. He stood
throughout pleading for the individual virtues, those which had
distinguished the model workman of his youth, those which had enabled
him and so many of his contemporaries to rise in life, when "rising in
life" was urged upon every promising boy as the goal of his efforts. Of
the new code of ethics be had caught absolutely nothing. The morals he
had taught his men did not fail them in their hour of confusion. They
were self-controlled and destroyed no property. They were sober and
exhibited no drunkenness, even though obliged to hold their meetings in
the saloon hall of a neighboring town. They repaid their employer in
kind, but he bad given them no rule for the higher fellowship and life
of association into which they were plunged.
The virtues of one generation are not sufficient for the next, any
more than the accumulations of knowledge possessed by one age are
adequate to the needs of another.
Of the virtues received from our fathers we can afford to lose
none. We accept as a precious trust those principles and precepts which
the race has worked out for its highest safeguard and protection. But
merely to preserve those is not enough. A task is laid upon each
generation to enlarge their application, to ennoble their conception,
and, above all, to apply and adapt them to the peculiar problems
presented to it for solution.
The president of this company desired that his employes should
possess the individual and family virtues, but did nothing to cherish in
them those social virtues which his own age demanded. He rather
substituted for that sense of responsibility to the community, a feeling
of gratitude to himself, who had provided them with public buildings,
and had laid out for them a simulacrum of public life.
Is it strange that when the genuine feeling of the age struck his
town this belated and almost feudal virtue of personal gratitude fell
before it?
Day after day during that horrible suspense, when the wires
constantly reported the same message, "The president of the company
holds that there is nothing to arbitrate," one longed to find out what
was in the mind of this man, to unfold his ultimate motive. One
concludes that he must have been sustained by the consciousness of being
in the right. Only that could have held him against the great desire for
fair play which swept over the country. Only the training which an
arbitrary will receives by years of consulting first its own personal
and commercial ends could have made it strong enough to withstand the
demands for social adjustment. He felt himself right from the commercial
standpoint, and could not see the situation from the social standpoint.
For years he had gradually accustomed himself to the thought that his
motive was beyond reproach; that his attitude to his town was always
righteous and philanthropic. Habit held him persistent in this view of
the case through all the changing conditions.
The diffused and subtle notion of dignity held by the modern
philanthropist bears a curious analogy to the personal barbaric notion
of dignity held by Lear. The man who persistently paced the seashore,
while the interior of his country was racked with a strife which he
alone might have arbitrated, lived out within himself the tragedy of
King Lear. The shock of disaster upon egotism is apt to produce
self-pity. It is possible that his self-pity and loneliness may have
been so great and absorbing as to completely shut out from is min a
compunction of derelict duty. He may have been unconscious that men were
charging him with a shirking of the issue.
Lack of perception is the besetting danger of the egoist, from
whatever cause his egoism arises and envelopes him. But, doubtless,
philanthropists are more exposed to this danger than any other class of
people within the community. Partly because their efforts are
overestimated, as no standard of attainment has yet been established,
and partly because they are the exponents of a large amount of
altruistic feeling with which the community has become equipped and
which has not yet found adequate expression, they are therefore easily
idealized.
Long ago Hawthorne called our attention to the fact that
philanthropy ruins, or is fearfully apt to ruin, the heart, "the rich
juices of which God never meant should be pressed violently out, and
distilled into alcoholic liquor by an unnatural process; but it should
render life sweet, bland and gently beneficent."
One might add to this observation that the muscles of this same
heart may be stretched and strained until they lose the rhythm of the
common heartbeat of the rest of the world.
Modern philanthropists need to remind themselves of the old
definition of greatness: that it consists in the possession of the
largest share of the common human qualities and experiences, not in the
acquirements of peculiarities and excessive virtues. Popular opinion
calls him the greatest of Americans who gathered to himself the largest
amount of American experience, and who never forgot when he was in
Washington how the "crackers" in Kentucky and the pioneers of Illinois
thought and felt, striving to retain their thoughts and feelings, and to
embody only the mighty will of the "common people." The danger of
professionally attaining to the power of the righteous man, of yielding
to the ambition "for doing good," compared to which the ambitious for
political position, learning, or wealth are vulgar and commonplace,
ramifies throughout our modern life, and is a constant and settled
danger of philanthropy.
In so far as philanthropists are cut off from the influence of the
Zeit-Geist, from the code of ethics which rule the body of men, from the
great moral life springing from our common experiences, so long as they
are "good to people," rather than "with them," they are bound to
accomplish a large amount of harm. They are outside of the influence of
that great faith which perennially springs Lip in the hearts of the
people, and re-creates the world.
In spite of the danger of overloading the tragedies with moral
reflections, a point ought to be made on the other side. It is the
weakness in the relation of the employes to the employer, the fatal lack
of generosity in the attitude of workmen toward the company under whose
exactions they feel themselves wronged.
In reading the tragedy of King Lear, Cordelia does not escape our
censure. Her first words are cold, and we are shocked by her lack of
tenderness. Why should she ignore her father's need for indulgence, and
be so unwilling to give him what he so obviously craved? We see in the
old king "the overmastering desire of being beloved, which is selfish,
and yet characteristic of the selfishness of a loving and kindly nature
alone." His eagerness produces in us a strange pity for him, and we are
impatient that his youngest and best-beloved child cannot feel this,
even in the midst of her search for truth and her newly acquired sense
of a higher duty. It seems to us a narrow conception that would break
thus abruptly with the past, and would assume that her father had no
part in her new life. We want to remind her that "pity, memory and
faithfulness are natural ties," and surely as much to be prized as is
the development of her own soul. We do not admire the Cordelia "who
loves according to her bond" as we later admire he same Cordelia who
comes back from France that she may include in her happiness and freer
life the father whom she had deserted through her self-absorption. She
is aroused to her affection through her pity, but when the floodgates
are once open she acknowledges all. It sometimes seems as if only
hardship and sorrow could arouse our tenderness, whether in our personal
or social relations; that the king, the prosperous man, was the last to
receive the justice which can come only through affectionate
interpretation. We feel less pity for Lear on his throne than in the
storm, although he is the same man, bound up in the same
self-righteousness, and exhibiting the same lack of self-control.
As the vision of the life of Europe caught the sight and quickened
the pulses of Cordelia, so a vision of the wider life has caught the
sight of workingmen. After the vision has once been seen it is
impossible to do aught but to press toward its fulfillment. We have all
seen it. We are all practically agreed that the social passion of the
age is directed toward the emancipation of the wage-worker; that a great
accumulation of moral force is overmastering men and making for this
emancipation as in another time it has made for the emancipation of the
slave; that nothing will satisfy the aroused conscience of men short of
the complete participation of the working classes in the spiritual,
intellectual and material inheritance of the human race. But just as
Cordelia failed to include her father in the scope of her salvation and
selfishly took it for herself alone, so workingmen in the dawn of the
vision are inclined to claim it for themselves, putting out of their
thoughts the old relationships; and just as surely as Cordelia's
conscience developed in the new life and later drove her back to her
father, where she perished, drawn into the cruelty and wrath which had
now become objective and tragic, so the emancipation of working people
will have to be inclusive of the employer from the first or it will
encounter many failures, cruelties and reactions. It will result not in
the position of the repentant Cordelia but in that of King Lear's two
older daughters.
If the workingmen's narrow conception of emancipation was fully
acted upon, they would hold much the same relationship to their
expropriated employer that the two older daughters held to their
abdicated father. When the kingdom was given to them they received it as
altogether their own, and were dominated by a sense of possession; "it
is ours not yours" was never absent from their consciousness. When Lear
ruled the kingdom he had never been without this sense of possession,
although he expressed it in indulgence and condescending kindness. His
older daughters expressed it in cruelty, but the motive of father and
children was not unlike. They did not wish to be reminded by the state
and retinue of the old King that he had been the former possessor.
Finally, his mere presence alone reminded them too much of that and they
banished him from the palace. That a newly acquired sense of possession
should result in the barbaric, the incredible scenes of bitterness and
murder, which were King Lear's portion, is not without a reminder of the
barbaric scenes in our political and industrial relationships, when the
sense of possession, to obtain and to bold, is aroused on both sides.
The scenes in Paris during the political revolution or the more familiar
scenes at the mouths of the mines and the terminals of railways occur to
all of us.
The doctrine of emancipation preached to the wage-workers alone
runs an awful risk of being accepted for what it offers them, for the
sake of fleshpots, rather than for the human affection and social
justice which it involves. This doctrine must be strong enough in its
fusing power to touch those who think they lose, as well as those who
think they gain. Only thus can it become the doctrine of a universal
movement.
The new claim on the part of the toiling multitude, the new sense
of responsibility on the part of the well-to-do, arise in reality from
the same source. They are in fact the same "social compunction," and, in
spite of their widely varying manifestations, logically converge into
the same movement. Mazzini once preached, "the consent of men and your
own conscience are two wings given you whereby you may rise to God." It
is so easy for the good and powerful to think that they can rise by
following the dictates of conscience by pursuing their own ideals,
leaving those ideals unconnected with the consent of their fellow-men.
The president of the Pullman company thought out within his own mind a
beautiful town. He had power with which to build this town, but he did
not appeal to nor obtain the consent of the men who were living in it.
The most unambitious reform, recognizing the necessity for this consent,
makes for slow but sane and strenuous progress, while the most ambitious
of social plans and experiments, ignoring this, is prone to the failure
of the model town of Pullman.
The man who insists upon consent, who moves with the people, is
bound to consult the feasible right as well as the absolute right. He is
often obliged to attain only Mr. Lincoln's "best possible," and often
have the sickening sense of compromising with his best convictions. He
has to move along with those whom be rules toward a goal that neither he
nor they see very clearly till they come to it. He has to discover what
people really want, and then "provide the channels in which the growing
moral force of their lives shall flow." What he does attain, however, is
not the result of his individual striving, as a solitary mountain
climber beyond the sight of the valley multitude, but it is underpinned
and upheld by the sentiments and aspirations of many others. Progress
has been slower perpendicularly, but incomparably greater because
lateral.
He has not taught his contemporaries to climb mountains, but he
has persuaded the villagers to move up a few feet higher. It is doubtful
if personal ambition, whatever may have been its commercial results, has
ever been of any value as a motive power in social reform. But whatever
it may have done in the past, it is certainly too archaic to accomplish
anything now. Our thoughts, at least for this generation, cannot be too
much directed from mutual relationships and responsibilities. They will
be warped, unless we look all men in the face, as if a community of
interests lay between, unless we bold the mind open, to take strength
and cheer from a hundred connections.
To touch to vibrating response the noble fibre in each man, to
pull these many fibres, fragile, impalpable and constantly breaking, as
they are, into one impulse, to develop that mere impulse through its
feeble and tentative stages into action, is no easy task, but lateral
progress is impossible without it.
If only a few families of the English speaking race bad profited
by the dramatic failure of Lear, much heart-breaking and domestic
friction might have been spared. Is it too much to hope that some of us
will carefully consider this modern tragedy, if perchance it may contain
a warning for the troublous times in which we live? By considering the
dramatic failure of the liberal employer's plans for his employees we
may possibly be spared useless industrial tragedies in the uncertain
future which lies ahead of us.
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