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a man of various knowledge and plenty of experience in the " big West," on his way to Hawaii to investigate beet sugar conditions there. There is indeed enough of individuality in the people one meets in the West, but it is not exactly the kind we read about in the stories. The West has been "fenced in," and its population has to a certain extent become conventionalized.


One wishes that the railroad folders and the smaller guide-books would tell the truth about Western scenery. The Spectator met one enthusiastic but taciturn man who said that when he got home and was asked what he had seen, his reply would be, " I can't describe it. Take these guide-books and multiply them by two, and you'll see what I've seen." The Spectator, on the contrary, would divide the guide-books by ten or a dozen in order to make their descriptions trustworthy. Take the Yellowstone National Park, for instance. The traveler is advised in the folders to wear heavy wraps; whereas the Spectator found the one indispensable garment to be a linen duster. The lurid descriptions of the Grand Canon prepare one to look for colors of paint-box hues and brilliancy; whereas the coloring, beautiful as it is, is soft and blended rather than brilliant and bizarre. Another thing that the guide-books fail to mention is the fact that the points of interest in the Park—and absorbingly interesting they certainly are—are centered around a few favored localities, and that one has to travel magnificent distances from day to day to get to these. ®

"Are you going for pleasure, or are you going to carry a camera?" was the question a friend addressed to the Spectator just before he started on his journey. The antithesis is one that all cameracarriers will appreciate. The Spectator has made many a vow that he will never carry a camera again, but he forgets; and occasionally his forgetfulness enables him to bring back pictures that are worth while—at least so his more indulgent friends think. But the pictures that are brought are nothing to those that are left behind. That one of the " Castle " geyser, for instance. The soldiers said that this remarkable geyser was just about to play,

while the Spectator was going on his way to others that were sure to play. The Spectator stopped, rigged up his camera, and waited an hour for that exasperating, hissing, boiling spring to spout. It simply would not, while the sun was going down and all the other geysers in the Park seemed to be active. The Spectator believes that the Castle genie purposely held the escape valve tightly closed because a camera was pointed at it. Even the satanic guardians of the Park seem to have become sensitive about having their abodes photographed. ® From the " devil's frying-pans," " devil's elbows," and "hell's half-acre" of the Yellowstone it seems an easy jump to Salt Lake City and Mormonism. The remark would doubtless be resented by a very intelligent young man whom the Spectator chanced to meet at Saltair, on the Great Salt Lake. He was the son of an ex-President of the Church, and was well primed, as most Mormons are, for the defense of his faith. He admitted that the doctrine and practice of "plural wives" had injured the Church, but claimed that polygamy was now a thing of the past. "The Mormons are a Godfearing, law-abiding people," he said, '■ and they propose to obey the law of the land." He enlarged upon the kindliness and affection that had existed in polygamous households, and pointed out to the Spectator with special pride a fine-looking man, one of the three chief councilors, whose polygamous household had been a model of kindly virtues, without jealousy or envy on the part of any of the seraglio. The Spectator was somewhat skeptical, and said he couldn't imagine a woman so saintly or so spiritless that she would show no feeling if one of the other wives received from her husband a present of a new silk dress while she didn't get one. "Well," was the sagacious reply, given with a smile, "they didn't manage things that way. When a new dress vas given to one, it was quadrupled, or sextupled, or whatever it might be, and given to all." Verily, those old Mormons were wise in their day and generation! And then, too, the canny Book of Mormon probably stipulated that one new dress a year was enough for any woman, let alone a fractional wife 1

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JUDGE Braken ridge crossed the Alleghany Mountains in 1781 to settle in Pittsburg, Pa. He wrote in the Pittsburg "Gazette" a description of the town,

"'If town it might be call'd, that town was none. Distinguished by house or street—'

but, in fact, a few old buildings under the walls of the garrison which stood at the junction of the two rivers." Judge Brakenridge describes the Alleghany: "You will see, on a spring evening, the banks of the river lined with men fishing at intervals from one another. This, with the stream gently gliding, the woods at a distance green, and the shadows lengthening towards the town, forms a delightful scene." Vivid descriptions follow of the orchards and woods on its banks. Of Herr's Island, about a mile above the junction of the two rivers in the Alleghany, the Judge writes: "When the poet comes, with his enchanting song, to pour his magic numbers on this scene, this little island may aspire to live with those in the /Egean Sea, where the song of Homer drew the image of delight." Over this- scene of sylvan and rustic beauty the magic of the nineteenth century has wrought her marvelous change. Chimneys, retorts, furnaces, foundries, replace the woods; the whir and throb of machinery have silenced the songs of birds. Not the prospect of ease and rest,

but that of work which means independence and mastery, wins to-day the emigrant from the East and from the West. He comes from field and farm and from college halls, for in this city, where capital and labor have struggled till the masters of both have made it their own, brawn arid brain have a fair field. Pittsburg is the apotheosis of American civilization. To-day it stands at the threshold of a future so great as to silence the prophets, who see only an ever-widening horizon, and are unable to grasp the vision of what lies within.

To those who think of Pittsburg as hidden by smoke and grime, and peopled by men who, in their hours of labor, seem a part of the place the orthodox try to avoid, the city is a constant surprise and revelation. Miles of its streets are lined with beautiful houses standing in the midst of well-kept lawns. The streets wind at the foot of the hills or climb the sides at curves of the easiest ascent. Blocks of houses standing on streets running at right angles are almost unknown. Here and there in the old sections of the city rows of houses are seen for a block or so, but they are not uniform, being broken in length and front. Houses of three, four, and five rooms are in clusters everywhere on the ledges above the vorks, far beyond their smoke and grime, in valleys over which trestle or bridge carries the trolleys to, around, and beyond


mountains that hide the smoke and the flashing torch of the greatest industry the world has ever known. These houses represent the workingmen of every grade. Sometimes dilapidated, reached by rickety stairs that nothing but hourly familiarity enables one to use without fear and trembling, hanging on banks which they threaten to bring down by their own weight, standing on terraced hillsides surrounded by tidy grassplots, sheltered by trees and brightened by flower borders and mounds, these homes of the workingman win the attention of the stranger. Everywhere the pretentious house of the prosperous man, as well as the mansion of wealth and culture, shares the attention; even if they would not, the wealthy people of Pittsburg are forced to know the sections where the working people live. These people are scattered in every part of a city where works and homes have grown together. In the early days they were forced to live close together. To-day the trolley lines have annihilated distance, and labor andcapital both find the magnificent suburbs the places for home centers. New centers of industry are developing, and will, in the near future, be a part of this wonderful city.

In spite of the vast differences in wealth, Pittsburg reveals the spirit of democracy in its best sense. Doubtless this is due to the homogeneity of interest. No matter how wide the difference between capital and labor in Pittsburg, it is superficial. Fundamentally their interests are identical. The stability of the great iron and steel industries, on which depend the development and the supremacy of Pittsburg, is of vital importance to both.

Two other distinctive characteristics differentiate Pittsburg from other cities: It is an American city—its signs impress this on a stranger—and it is a city of young men, young families. Houses of every grade show some provision for outdoor life for children. The street is not the playground, except in the older sections. Trees are preserved even where poverty has her tightest grip. A gay plant or two and a tree, if there is earth enough in which to place them, relieve poverty of barrenness. It is this preservation of nature that redeems the poorest sections, where the streets are unpaved and gullied, where houses stand at every angle, from

the hopeless bareness of a New York tenement-house block.

A ride in the trolleys on Sunday through the streets along the rivers, where the great iron and steel works are on one side and the houses of the workingmen on the other, is a series of surprises. Windows with white curtains are open, showing interiors well furnished. The sounds of piano and organ are common; tidy but plainly dressed people are in evidence on every side; except in a few cases, children are plainly dressed, and the consciousness is borne into one that clothes are not the end and aim of the poor man's family in Pittsburg. This fact is emphasized on the week days, when the tidily dressed woman is met everywhere with a marketbasket. In and out of stores and cars she wends her way, often with a baby or a young child on one arm. She takes home what she buys; she does her marketing in the morning. These two facts always mark the home-making of the woman who " looketh well to the ways of her household;" the woman whose "children rise up and call her blessed;" the woman whose "husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil."

There are sections of the city and through its suburbs where foreigners have brought conditions that inevitably result in degradation. These are race quite as much as local conditions; they are found in every city to which these races emigrate for their period of money-making before they return to their native lands or start on their commercial career in this country. They are staying, not settling. Here scores of men, in houses barely fit to house the commonest cattle, colonize. Two or three women do the cooking for the colony. Now and then a family is found among them, the women and children moving the heart to pity. In Pittsburg these colonies are sometimes in hollows away from every civilizing influence. One shivers at the thought of the life lived there. Where the interest is commercial, trade the race characteristic, the congestion is in the center of the busiest locality and produces the same problem that such characteristics produce in other cities. Life is hard, the condition far from elevating, but the environment pays some regard to law and order; life is not lived

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