The three volumes of Debs's correspondence contain more than 1,500 of the 10,000 extant letters to and from Debs during his controversial lifetime. J. Roberts Constantine spent more than a dozen years compiling, editing, and annotating this collection. Reading Debs's correspondence with the leaders and foot soldiers of the major social movements of his time helps trace the progress of such struggles as woman suffrage, prison reform, abolition of child labor, early attacks on Jim Crow laws, and opposition to war.
A collection of speeches, pamphlets and writings from Eugene V Debs, from 1888 to 1925. Beginning his career as an organizer for the American Railway Union, Debs ran for President on the Socialist Party ticket five times, polling up to 6 percent of the total vote in 1912. Jailed in 1919 for an antiwar speech in Ohio, Debs ran for President from his jail cell in 1920, polling almost a million votes, 3.4 percent of the total votes cast.
This massive six volume set gathers together the most important spoken and written words of Debs for the first time, allowing a deeper understanding of radical political opposition in America during the first quarter of the twentieth century.
Debs (1855-1926) was a trade unionist, magazine editor, and public orator widely regarded as one of the most important figures in the history of American socialism. This series provides activists and scholars with a definitive trove of his best work that remains readable, informative, and inspiring.
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It was on a cold morning late in November last, just after the national election, and I was walking briskly toward my office. A stiff wind was blowing and a drizzling rain was falling. The threads in one of the ribs of my umbrella snapped asunder and the cover flew upward, as it has a way of doing, and I was about to lower my disabled shower-stick when I ran slapdash into an old itinerant umbrella mender with his outfit slung across his back and shuffling along in the opposite direction. He had noticed the ill-behavior of my umbrella. It snapped from its bearing even as he had his eyes upon it. Perhaps it understood. Anyway he had not a cent in his pocket and he had not yet breakfasted that cold and wet November morning. He was about 65. His clothes had evidently weathered many a storm and besides being worn and shabby were too light for that season. Overcoat he had none. Nor gloves, nor overshoes. Mine embarrassed me. His hat had been brushed to a standstill. His shoes were making their last stand and a protruding toe, red with the cold, seemed to have been shoved out as a signal of distress. The outfit of the old fellow, carried on his back, was sorry enough to fit his general makeup, and if he had offered himself for sale just as he stood, including his earthly belongings and his immortal soul, he would have found no bidder nor brought a cent. The face of the old umbrella mender lighted up with a kindly smile as he commented on the strange conduct of my umbrella in slipping a cog just as he happened to come along. I asked him by what evil magic he did the trick and he laughed in a half-hearted way just to be polite, but it was plain that he had long since forgotten how to laugh.
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