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Ida M. Tarbell. All in the Day's Work: An Autobiography
All in the Day's Work: An Autobiography
Table of Contents
ILLUSTRATIONS
1. MY START IN LIFE
2. I DECIDE TO BE A BIOLOGIST
3. A COEDUCATIONAL COLLEGE OF THE EIGHTIES
4. A START AND A RETREAT
5. A FRESH START—A SECOND RETREAT
6. I FALL IN LOVE
7. A FIRST BOOK—ON NOTHING CERTAIN A YEAR
8. THE NAPOLEON MOVEMENT OF THE NINETIES
9. GOOD-BYE TO FRANCE
10. REDISCOVERING MY COUNTRY
11. A CAPTAIN OF INDUSTRY SEEKS MY ACQUAINTANCE
12. MUCKRAKER OR HISTORIAN?
13. OFF WITH THE OLD—ON WITH THE NEW
14. THE GOLDEN RULE IN INDUSTRY
15. A NEW PROFESSION
16. WOMEN AND WAR
17. AFTER THE ARMISTICE
18. GAMBLING WITH SECURITY
19. LOOKING OVER THE COUNTRY
20. NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN
INDEX
Отрывок из книги
Ida M. Tarbell
Published by Good Press, 2021
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But there were other correcting forces at work on me. The men who formed the vigilante committee to make Rouseville difficult for commercialized vice (my father one of them) set themselves early to establishing civilizing agencies—first a church.
It was decided by the men and women who were to build and support this church that it should be of the denomination of which there were the largest number in the community. The Methodists had the numbers, and so my father and mother who were Presbyterians became and remained Methodists. Their support was active. We did not merely go to church; we stayed to class meeting; we went to Sunday school, where both father and mother had classes; we went to Wednesday night—or was it Thursday night?—prayer meeting. And when there was a revival we went every night. In my tenth or eleventh year I “went forward” not from a sense of guilt but because everybody else was doing it. My sense of sin came after it was all over and I was tucked away in bed at night. I had been keenly conscious as I knelt at the Mourners’ bench that the long crimson ribbons which hung from my hat must look beautiful on my cream-colored coat. The realization of that hypocrisy cut me to the heart. I knew myself a sinner then, and the relief I sought in prayer was genuine. I never confessed. It wasn’t the kind of sin other converts talked about. But it aroused self-observation; I learned that often when I was saying the polite or proper thing I was thinking quite differently. For a long time it made me secretly unhappy thinking that in me alone ran an underground river of thought. Later I began to suspect that other people were like this, that always there flowed a stream of unspoken thought under the spoken thought. It made me wary of strangers.
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