learn this. When the building and loan societies sprang up among workingmen, rooms for committees and fire-proof safes were a new social necessity. The saloonkeeper with an eye for business knew just what to do. Other social forces slept. Now comes the shock of a harsh awakening. Appraising commitees naturally got together at the saloon where the books were kept. Very naturally, there were drinks three or four times round. In that stage of semi-intoxicating exhilaration the committees overrated the value of property. With time came the financial crash. The workingmen lost their homes, ulteriorly, because it never occurred to any other social organization except the saloon to provide the necessary social and security equipment with which to transact the occasional business of the building and loan societies.

"Do you know," said a stranger in Chicago, "where I go when I get down to the last nickel?" "No." "Do you see that fine saloon? I go in there, and for five cents I get all I want to eat. No questions are asked." With that last nickel he isn't a pauper yet, and he accumulates nerve-force to hit the world's center rush-line another twenty-four hours. I've tried the same experiment for the same reason. Where else can a man go with his last nickel and get food and drink and fellowship without inquisition?

Driven by municipal neglect into a saloon at Twentieth Street and Market, Philadelphia, at the noon hour, for five cents I had all the privileges of a "saloon social settlement," and in addition a glass of milk, a large plate of very nutritious soup, and free access to a basket of bread piled high. The room was crowded with workingmen eating and drinking, not carousing. The humanitarian privileges of this and all saloon social settlements I have found invariably free, to rich and poor. The workingman will not be a parasite while he has a nickel to his name.

I remember, one raw winter day, we—a gang of half a hundred or more nondescript nobodies were digging a gas ditch past two of the city's churches. The ministers paused and watched us, conscious, I'm sure, of the gulf fixed that separates man (the priest) from man (the unknown ditch-digger). At noon, cold and wet, many of the men ate their heavy

With

dinner on the steps of the church. others I went uptown. The familiar sign-" Nice hot lunch, free all day," had a most alluring effect to the man with the spade, chilled to the bone. If only some one had thought to have had ready on the steps, or inside, in the church kitchen, steaming hot coffee-"like mother used to make "-at cost-but that's another question.

I became acquainted with a colored family in distress in Philadelphia. The man was in jail for attempting to murder his family. The wife's story of why and how was suggestive. Her husband was a hack and express driver. His hours were long, his income uncertain. Some weeks he made only two or three dollars, and this, she said, nearly all went for "drinks and snacks." Those three words tell the story of many a domestic shipwreck. Compelled to water his horses in front of saloons, expected to find in the saloon the necessities of the animal man, finding there the most food for his scant, irregular income, he became drunk and murderous. Snacks and drink did it. In most cities a watering-trough is the infallible sign of whisky. In Philadelphia there are practically no municipal or philanthropic provisions for watering horses. What the thoughtful saloon-keeper will do and the thoughtless philanthropist and municipality may fail to do in the horseless age that's coming is foreshadowed by the universal bicycle-racks and air on top for flat tires, at road-houses.

One night in a Philadelphia church I asked the congregation where, as a teamster, I could go the next day and water my horse, except at the saloon. The absurdity of the situation provoked a spontaneous subscription for a church watering-trough. Why not? The saloonkeeper knows that whosoever giveth to one of the least of these drivers' horses a bucket of water shall receive his reward behind the bar.

The petition of the City Vigilance Committee to the Legislature and Governor of the State of New York, "To construct public water-closets and urinals in all the squares and parks, and in the tenementhouse districts at every fourth street," and the bill of 1895 making it mandatory for cities and incorporated villages to provide two urinals and one public closet

for each thirty thousand inhabitants, failed to pass. These the saloons did not fail to provide oftener than every fourth

street.

Many workingmen are homeless. To these the average American Sunday and holiday is something awful to contemplate. The last two Sundays and Christmas of the old century my boy and I will never forget. We were in Baltimorea charming place for society folk and negroes, a place to be shunned by a white man seeking common labor and caring to be sober on Sunday. I made a determined search for an attractive place, not for club members only, but for plain men. I failed. I questioned policemen and philanthropists without avail. I finally found a religious reading-room, stripped, for sacredness' sake, of all magazines and papers like the "Youth's Companion." I had just found an article by Dr. Gladden that I wanted to read, when I was called on to chose between going into a religious meeting or going out on the street. I chose the street. It was a relief when sleep came in that little 4 × 7 room of the lodging-house, bringing surcease from the sorrow of being a mere speck, a nobody, in a modern Christian city on Sunday. Christmas, the Tuesday following, was worse than Sunday. The saloons were bright with holly and cedar, ringing with music and laughter. Is any one surprised to know that the saloons were crowded with workingmen, sailors, oystermen, factorymen, rough fellows, quite naturally, with a fair share, but no monopoly, of total depravity? Out on the hills there were feasting and music and laughter and reunions. My horror of the city workingman's Sunday has been intensified by later experience in the tenement-house life of Greater New York.

My fifteen-year-old boy says, "I can stand anything but Sunday; that is something fierce."

An increasingly large per cent. of workingmen live in tenement-houses. Gardens, flowers, pets, are impossible. Home is merely so much scant floor-space in disorganized, unsocial human stables, often shambles. That men made in the image of God should crawl out of these prison cells and flee to the mountains, the seashore, and the shade of the forest, is natural and noble. The chance comes

to workingmen only on Sundays and holidays. What happens? Going out of New York almost daily for months to or in search of work, I have been amazed to see the magnitude of the preparations of the saloon-keeper, and of nobody else, to meet the summer rush of workingmen away from the city furnaces. Not only at democratic Coney Island, but all along the trolley lines, wherever the five and ten cent fare reaches, there in nature's cool and cozy nooks the saloon-keeper was making ready for music, games, and comradeship. His bank account grows as much by satisfying the best social instincts as by gratifying the baser appetites of men.

People who essay temperance work for workingmen fail amazingly to grasp the simple fact that the workingman is a man, not a puppy to be petted, nor a bad child to be spanked or managed. Nothing can be done for workingmen. The attempt is and of right ought to be a failure. There is nothing but what can be done with a workingman, or any other man, if love incarnate is the propelling power and common sense guides the helm. The would-be reformer who has not the knack of being a comrade had better saw wood and say nothing."

His failure, which he ascribes to the total depravity and base ingratitude of men, is merely a case of that incapacity so tersely stated by the philosopher: "Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and have not love, I am nothing." ing." To explain is not to defend. It is a pitiless but indisputable fact that the saloons have caught the meaning and adapted to business purposes the social philosophy of Christ that whosoever gives a cup of cold water to the thirsty, comradeship to the lonely, food to the hungry, shall not lose his reward. Society receives the reward of its "inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these," in empty pews, in desecrated Sabbaths, in growing infidelity, in hopeless municipal misrule, in drunkards' graves. It is easy to proscribe, easy to prohibit, but to provide there's the rub. Who, co-operating wisely with the workingman, will provide for the workingmen, and all men, those social and physical necessities now found practically only in the saloon? Primarily a place to dispense alcoholic drinks, the saloon has become the great

Diagnosis is of more importance than

A

FTER everything is said of the beautiful Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo, the most wonderful sight there is the people. Every section of our own country is represented, while the foreigners, especially the SpanishAmericans and Cubans, are constantly in evidence. The tongue of every civilized nation is heard, while the accent of every section of our own country shows how far-reaching is the interest of our people in this Exposition, the patriotic impulse of which is fully appreciated before the most careless of visitors has spent a day on the grounds. The early morning is most interesting. The crowds from the night trains come directly to the grounds, usually laden with hand-baggage and boxes, and in large parties. Tags on bags and boxes prove that every State each day sends its full quota of visitors.

That economy must control the expenditures of the majority is fearlessly, openly declared to any observer. Every moment one's country grows dearer, one's respect grows stronger for our magnificent people, as he watches this army of workers moving from building to building, from statue to statue, from garden to garden-here a party of teachers, there a group of mechanics, there a party of farmers and their wives and children. All are alert, all students, all learners. Every minute is an opportunity to see, to learn, to enjoy. How bravely and gayly the crowds enter the gates in the morning! The exhaustion of a night's travel-not always in a Pullman, as the toilets made under difficulties testify-has disappeared. There is no consciousness of bundles or wraps or baggage. The moment has come for which sacrifices have been made, which has been anticipated for months. The Pan-American Exposition lies before them in all its beauty.

Consultations are the order, once inside the gates. Which direction will most

quickly meet the anticipations? which repay most quickly the sacrifices that made this moment possible?

Whatever may be said of previous Expositions, this is the Exposition of the people. Here and there are evidences of wealth; but the mass of the visitors to the Pan-American are the people who work with hands and head to earn their daily bread. The shoulders rounded over the desk, the laboratory, the book, the plow, are all there, telling their stories. of service, giving the history of their owner's contribution to this epitome of American civilization. As noon approaches the feet move more slowly, lines appear in faces which in the morning were wreathed in smiles, the searching, questioning expression of the morning is giving way to bewilderment. So much has been seen; and the consciousness of how much more remains to be seen has sapped mental and physical strength, and every bench, every nook where a seat is possible, is taken. The first day there is a struggle to overcome the diffidence of eating in so public a place. This disappears rapidly, for mother-love yields before the importunity of a hungry child. Boxes are opened, and the family group, or the group of friends, are soon chatting, comparing notes, making comments, arranging for the afternoon. Here is a group of three women-tall, angular, severe. One wonders if anything but glue could make every hair, every line of the dress, from the hat down, assume and keep such absolutely rigid lines. There is a remoteness from the crowd about them that is not the remoteness of mere strangeness, but that which comes from lives lived apart from life. They look as though one more step were impossible. Each carries a box neatly wrapped and tied. They sit down in the shade of the beautiful electric building. Even to sit down in the shade is so grateful that they look

at one another in enthusiastic silence. The crowds pass and repass. Soon every seat near them is taken. All about people are eating, children are being fed, the popcorn boy is shouting his wares. The three saints from the unknown land of Quiet look at each other, at the untied boxes in their laps, at the unconcerned lunchers all about them. There is no use; they never can eat so publicly. The tallest, the thinnest, the most rigid of the three speaks. One flash of unspoken admiration from either side into her face; the three rise, turn the bench around, and, facing the building, with their backs to this stream of life, they eat their lunches, happily forgetful of the public.

Were there ever so many husbands and wives with gray hair gathered together before ! Was there ever seen before such constant evidence of deep-abiding love, strengthened by the years of life spent together, as is seen every day as one wanders through these buildings and grounds! Here, in the shadow of the pylons, on the bridge facing the electric tower, sits a man whose form is old but whose heart is young. In his lap is the head of his wife, covered thinly with gray hair twisted into a tight knot. Two gaitered feet are stretched out on the bench. Hands knotted and brown, sharp shoulders covered by the loosely fitting dress, tell the story of a lifetime of hard work, as the attitude tells of perfect love. She is sound asleep, though it would only be dinner-time at home. That husband and guardian knows full well how unconventional this is, but his expression is trying to tell you that there is nothing unusual in this afternoon nap in the sight of a passing public; his expression would shield her from even the mental comment of the observers. Later in the day they were seen in the Midway. The wife's eyes were bright, her cheeks pink as a girl's. Whatever pleasure came to that husband came through the pleasure of his wife. Nor was he alone in this attitude of mind. It was seen constantly. The family as it is seen at this Exposition is the finest product American civilization has to show.

No exhibit commands more appreciative attention than that of the United States Government. The most ardent advocate of economy in the expenditures of public money would have to admit that

the money spent by the National Government in the Pan-American Exposition was money well invested. The exhibit is thoroughly intelligent, well placed and discriminated. Every department of the Government is expressed logically; even the scientific display is kept within the reach of the mind of the average layman. Whether it is an exhibition of the hospital corps, or the gun practice with the great guns, or the display of pure foods, or photographs of agricultural or horticultural specimens in health and disease, the result is in the highest degree educational. The calling into service of the stereopticon, the cinematograph, the phonograph, in the exhibit of the Department of National Education, is a source not only of keen pleasure but of educational value. The little room at all hours visited was crowded. The impulse given to industrial and manual training through the exhibits in the buildings of the Government and the States and in those devoted to the Latin-American exhibits will bear immediate fruit. A woman stood with some friends and her own two half-grown children before the exhibit from the schools of Chili. "My lands! look at that! Our children could not do that. I'm just ashamed of our school when I see what other places have done. We've got to wake up."

The interest in Cuba and its people is manifested by the crowded rooms filled with slowly moving people every hour the building is open, and no part of the exhibit arouses more interest than that of the schools, which is comprehensive and well arranged to tell its own story. Both Cuba and the Philippines are centers of vital interest and careful examination. However disastrous and shocking war and its consequent horrors are to our people, one inevitable result follows-a broadening of knowledge, of sympathy, of interests in and for other peoples. The exhibits from these two territories express the character and aim of their peoples; they were a revelation to our people, and will compel closer attention to the methods evolved at Washington for colonial government. The Pan-American has done more to hasten the day when war will have become one of the crudities of undeveloped civilization than all the declarations of principles and vituperations

that have made and divided political parties, putting off the day of universal peace. Peace hath her victories No less renowned than war, and the Pan-American is one.

On the human side of the Pan-American Exposition the State buildings are, on the whole, the most interesting centers. In these buildings people gather with a sense of ownership. You can distinguish the aliens by the way they enter one of these buildings. The early morning is the most interesting time. The travelers by the night trains have arrived. Parcels and lunch-boxes are checked, toilets made, and then people register. These registers are in three columns, "Name," "Birthplace," "Present Address." As the home visitor turns these pages after registering, there are exclamations of delight, invariably, " Why, So-and-so is here. I haven't seen him since I went to school." "There! I am so glad, So-and-so was here last week, and he or she lives at I'll write at once." Each State building provides post-office facilities, and the broken threads of friendship are soon knitted together. Then the unexpected meetings! Scarcely a quarter of an hour passes that does not reveal old friends in unexpected meetings. Sometimes two will watch each other for several minutes, and one then decides to ask, "Are you not So-and-so?" usually followed by quick grasping of hands. The sights and sounds of the moment are forgotten, and the two, or groups to which the two belong, are living over again the days of childhood and youth.

In one of the State buildings every evening a special effort is made to draw together the people of the State who are visiting the Exposition; this is due to the efforts of one of the State Senators present who is deeply interested in the Exposition. Hurried invitations were sent out one noon to a barn dance to be given in the State building that evening. Gray hair, age, and care forgotten, neighbors and friends long sundered, young men and maidens, sons and daughters of these friends, were introduced, and the barn dance under electric lights was a success. The building is admirably designed for purposes of entertaining. A large room with smaller rooms adjoining, broad balconies and veranda, provided for quiet conversations as well as dancing.

The spirit of homogeneity developed is perhaps best in evidence in the programme of one evening entertainment at the building of one of the Western States. A resident of a Southern State gave two dialect stories and a negro sermon, the daughter of one of the Commissioners for Honduras a piano solo, as did also a señorita from Porto Rico. A flute solo was given by a resident of San Domingo, in addition to music and an address by residents of the State. One afternoon the people in this part of the Exposition grounds gathered till verandas, rooms, and the grounds about were crowded with people listening to a lady singing. She had sat down at the piano to gratify a friend who had not heard her sing in many years. They were almost alone in the room when she began. The hush that fell on the crowds on the piazzas of the buildings near by, the silently gathering crowds who stood in the room and outside until the singing ceased, after the singer had responded to many encores, the keen enjoyment cordially expressed to the singer, made an impromptu musicale attended by friends.

Here,

The Midway is interesting always, but especially so in the evening. Its incongruity is perhaps its chief charm. amid surroundings that suggest everything but America, wander people of every age and condition of life. Darling old ladies whose lives are devoted to the church and its missions saunter from show to show, not missing an audible or visible evidence of the foreign lives imitated so well here. Sitting in the restaurant of one of the foreign villages on the upper floor just as the sun was sinking, the ear and heart were stirred by the sweet silver tones of a cornet. "Abide with Me" floated out on the evening air. The Midway was crowded. The hideous "barkers" had ceased for a moment. The crowds stood still. The accompaniment was softly and sweetly played by a string orchestra. "Rock of Ages" followed. The player was a woman in the dress of a Japanese in the balcony of that village. One seemed a part of a dream. Below, Turk and Caucasian, Indian, African, Eskimo, and imitators of all, could be seen. As the sunset gun was fired from Fort Niagara "America was played, and the hum of thousands of voices, modulated so well that the silver notes of the cornet