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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