Newspaper Page Text
PAGE EIGHT
THE
Weekly Jeffersonian
PUBLISHED BY
THOS. E. WATSON and J, D. WATSON
Editors and Proprietors
Tvmplb Court Building, Atlanta, Ga.
SUBSCRIPTION PRICE: - - SI.OO PER TEAR
Advertising Rates Furnished on Application.
Entaxt<l at Punjitt. Atlanta, On., Jan nary it, iqtyj, ai itttnj tlau mail mattar
ATLANTA, GA., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7,1907
forfeit the Central's Charter.
Why wouldn’t it be a good thing for the
state to seize the Central Railroad, link it to
the Western and Atlantic, and thus have a
route to the sea?
Why should we sit still while Harriman,
or some other private citizen, takes possession
of our public roads?
The Central has forfeited its charter, over
and over again—why not seize it, for the use
of the public?
Let us pay what it is honestly worth, and
take it away from the monopolists.
Wall Street Heroes.
Editors and public men who know less about
national finance than the average school-boy
ought to know, are praising Rockefeller and
Morgan to the skies.
These two financiers poured their millions in
to Wall street, and checked the panic. There
efore, we must ,read extravagant eulogies of
Morgan and Rockefeller. ...
Such editorial writing is mere idiotic hog
wash.
No editor, with a thimble-full pf financial
information, would fall into such a ludicrous
blunder.
Suppose I go in with a lot of other men to
build a block of wooden buildings. Suppose
all these houses touch one another. Suppose
that they are, in the highest degree, inflamma
ble. Suppose that the materials of which every
house is built are so combustible that if one
of the houses “Catch afire.” the last dadblamed
one of them is bound to go. Suppose that there
is no insurance. Suppose that there is no
fire company.
All right—there’s your situation.
Suddenly the cry rings out, Fire! FIRE!’
I jump out of my chair, run to the door,
and see that the flames are bursting out of
one of those wooden houses, in that wooden
block of ours.
What is my first thought?
I must run, as fast as feet can fly, to help
put out that blaze, or the whole block will
be lost.
With enlightened selfishness, I strain every
muscle to put out the fire in my neighbor’s
house, to save my own.
That’s all there is to it.
Now, that is precisely what Morgan and
Rockefeller did. They rushed to the relief of
Wall street, to save themselves.
Well meaning, but ignorant, editors who
publish eulogies of Morgan and Rockefeller are
perhaps, too busy to study finance in the day
time; but they ought, by all meahs, to take
night-lessons, and learn something.
The Jeffersonian, during the last few years,
has spoken time and again about the rickety
condition which the voracity of the National
Bankers has brought about.
These insatiable pets have been allowed to
inflate credit money, out of all sane propor
tion to real money.
With a rapacity which is unprecedented,
these pampered pets have been allowed to
put out ten credit dollars, to every real dol-
Not content with compound interest on the
money they actually have, they have floated
WATSON’S WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN.
ten crdit representatives of every actual dol
lar.
They did this to get interest on money which
has no existence. They have been drawing
compound interest on twice as much money as
exists in the entire United States.
Now, as long as everybody is full of confi
dence, and full of satisfaction at being remorse
lessly plundered by the National banks, all is
well. Even slaves have been known to be hap
py. Prisoners have been known to become
fond of the jail and the jailer. Men have even
gone to the gallows because they confessed
to crimes which —as afterwards demonstrated
—they did not commit.
Nothing is stranger than human nature.
And few things in this world are stranger than
the uncomplaining submission of the Ameri
can press and people to the organized and le
galized piracy of the national banks.
So—as we were saying—as long as the vic
tims were contented, all was well; but the
moment confidence fled, and the people want
ed money, there was h—ll to pay.
For this reason, simply: when ten credit
dollars clamor for redemption in actual dol
lars, at the same place and time, one actual
dollar cannot multiply itself by ten.
Result— PANIC.
Now, the Jeffersonian pointed this out, in
the New York “Watson’s,” two years ago.
Such observers as the editors of The Investiga
tor, the Missouri World, and other publicists
who understand finance, did the same thing.
Mr. Albert Griffin, of Topeka, Kansas, pub
lished a most valuable little book, in which he
presented a startling exposure of the rotten
condition of our present system.
But nobody paid any attention.
Cassandras are unpopular; let ■ the town
fall, rather than listen to the prophets of evil.
So, the mad inflation of credit money went
on, until the intoxicated revelers in High Fi
nance had increased the inflation of 1896 by
fourteen thousand millions of dollars.
All drawing compound interest, you see.
Where on earth is the money to come from
to redeem those credit dollars?
It does not exist.
Therefore, what? The moment the call for
actual money is heard, there is a stampede.
In this wild stampede, all banks are apt to
be trodden under foot.
In this mad panic, all values are in danger
of being mashed flat.
In this blind rush of terrified men, the pil
lars of the temple itself may be dragged out
of place.
Therefore, the Government had to gallop to
the relief of Wall street.
Therefore, Morgan and Rockefeller had to
step into the breach.
But isn’t it a shameful spectacle?
Hundreds of millions of dollars—taxed out
of the pockets of the Common people—have
to be given over to a few governmental favor
ites to save the country from disaster, brought
on by the boundless rapacity of those pam
pered pets.
What is the remedy?
Put into operation the sovereign preroga
tive of the Government to create real money,
in a sufficient quantity To meet the legitimate
demands. Sweep away these billions of cred
it dollars, which suck the blood out of the
people, and constitute an awful menace to the
country.
Go back to the money of the Constitution.
Go back to the system of Washington, Jef
ferson, Monroe, Jackson and Lincoln.
Drive the National banks off the ground of
governmental prerogative.
Compel them to limit their operations to
legitimate banking—loans, discount, and ex
change.
Keep the money of the people in the Nation
al Treasury. It has no business being mixed
with bank funds, and used in sustaining a
system of remorseless exploitation.
The money of the people should not be used
against the people themselves.
And when the Government takes your mon
ey out of the Treasury, to sustain this mon
strous credit-dollar system, which enables the
National bankers to collect interest on ten
times more money than they actually have, the
Government becomes a party to the crime.
In such a case, the slave is made to mend
his own chain.
It It ft
fifteen Cents Cotton.
The farmer who sells his cotton at 11 cents
evidently does not want more.
If he wanted more, he wouldn’t sell.
Almost anybody knows that the seller nev
er gets his price, unless he stands out for it.
If he surrenders the situation to the buyer,
the buyer will not make the price to suit the
seller. He makes it to suit the buyer.
This looks simple, but it goes to the bottom
of the case.
If you want your price for cotton, you must
quit selling.
ft ft ft
Where's That Spinner?
When Harvie Jordan proclaimed his demand
for 15 cents cotton, we began to get uneasy.
We were afraid that beautiful man was up to
his old tricks, again. We felt it in our bones
that the market was going to bust.
And she busted.
Whether Harvie cashed in, as heretofore, has
not transpired.
Uncle Sol Beeswax dropped in on us, to
day, and inquired for the present whereabouts
of those liberal minded Spinners who were go
ing to co-operate with the Growers, in getting
better prices.
Said Uncle Sol:
“Ain’t these here fellows that you call Spin
ners, the same chaps that buy the cotton, at
last ?”
We answered that those were the fellows.
“Well,” continued Uncle Col, in that contra
ry way of his, “if these here Spinners are in
favor of better prices, why don’t they prove it
by paying more for cotton?”
We gave it up.
The old man wants to know what has be
come of Harvie’s Spinners.
Does anybody know ?
ft It ft
Coky Coler.
Beautiful beyond description are the adver
tisements of Coky Coler.
Language assumes its utmost grace in the
feeble effort to set forth the virtues of Coky
Coler. After reading one of these charming
ads. we almost feel like expressing surprise
that Christ—at the marriage feast—created
so plebeian a tipple as wine.
Coky Coler, apparently, would have been the
choicer beverage.
Uncle Sam, some time ago, barred out the
fascinating C. —C. from the army posts. But
Uncle Sam has changed his mind. The ad
vertising department of Cokey Coler has not
been slow to take notice of this fact, and the
blare of bugles makes the welkin ring.
The soldier boys will hereafter get their
Cokey Coler.
HOORAY!
The advertising department of the delicious,
refreshing, invigorating, and so forth and so on
—world without end—seems to be awfully
glad, that Uncle Sam changed that mind of
hit. *
Oh, what a queer mind Uncle Sam hat
got.
If you were to talk with a relative of ourt,
who goes by the name of Solomon Beeswax,
he would tell you things about your Uncle
Sam that would make you suspect that your