CHAPTER XLIX THE ELBERT HUBBARD WORM The Egyptians had sacred beetles, and Capitalist Journalism has sacred insects of various unpleasant and poisonous species. There was one sacred worm which all Capitalist Journalism venerated, and the Walsh Commission broke into the temple where this worm was kept, and tore away the sacred veils, and dragged the wriggling carcass out into the light of day. This was Elbert Hubbard, alias “Fra Elbertus,” editor of the “Philistine,” “Roycroft,” and the “Fra,” founder of the “Roycroft Shops,” host of the “Roycroft Inn,” and patron saint of East Aurora, New York. That the “Fra” was one of the high gods of Capitalist Journalism you can surely not deny. He was the very personification of the thing it calls “Success”; his books were circulated by millions, his magazines by hundreds of thousands, and all the world of hustlers and money-makers read and gloried in him. He is gone now, but they still keep his image in their Pantheon, and the corporations water his grave by free distributions of “A Message to Garcia.” We are told to say nothing but good of the dead, but my concern in life is for the living, so I shall tell what I know about this sacred worm. I have mentioned in Chapter V my early experience with him. Prices were low in these days, and I am told that Hubbard got only five hundred dollars from the packers for his slashing of “The Jungle”: “Can it be possible that any one is deceived by this insane rant and drivel?” You may think that I cherish anger because of such violence to myself; you may not believe me, but I state the fact—I cherish anger because I tried to bring help to thirty thousand men, women and children living in hell, and this poisonous worm came crawling over their faces and ate out their eyes. And because again, and yet again, I saw this same thing happen! The wage-slaves of the Copper Trust went on strike, and this poisonous worm crawled over them and ate out their eyes. And then came the Colorado coal-strike—and the poisonous worm crawled on its belly to the office of the Rockefellers, looking for more eyes to eat. Thanks to Frank Walsh, we may watch him and learn how to be a worm. First, when an eye-eating worm approaches the great ones of the earth, it applies what it calls the “human touch”; it establishes itself upon terms of equality, it gives them a hearty hand-clasp, perhaps a slap on the back—if you can imagine such actions from a worm. Listen to “Fra Elbertus,” addressing young Rockefeller: I had a delightful game of golf with your father on Saturday. How fine and brown and well and strong he is. To which “Young John” responds with graceful cordiality: Father has spoken of your visit to Tarrytown the other day, and of the good game of golf which you had together. He is indeed in the best of health. These little amenities having been attended to, we proceed to the business in hand. Says the worm: