intentioned men; they mean right; their inactivity springs from ignorance. They know nothing of that lower world where the millions struggle, suffer and die; they talk and write and preach and wonder why the millions refuse to listen; they wonder at the growth of scepticism, of socialism, of anarchy. And now I will tell you a story of four leaders, who have discovered why all their efforts, all their writings, all their preachings heretofore had been "wasted on the desert air," who have discovered how densely ignorant they were of the daily life of the millions. It happened out in Kalamazoo. In that town there was an institution known as "The Emerson Club," the president of the "Kalamazoo Wire Co." was a member. I had been with the company five years, had made a good record. The president, Oscar Warner, was of a philosophic mind; at intervals we would have a talk in the office on abstruse questions, finally he proposed I should join the Emerson Club. I did so and there became acquainted with the Honorable Frederick Judson, M. C., a legal light and a statesman; with the Reverend Hiram Peters, D. D., pastor of the Church of St. Jude, on Dollar avenue, and with Cyrus Baxter, A. M., editor of the Kalamzoo Clarion. We five had many talks on many subjects. Finally the social problem came up and I heard the usual "rot" from all four of them. Oscar Warner of the Wire Trust denounced the working class for their unreasonable demands; Judson, the statesman, declared the whole trouble was due to agitators, principally foreigners; Baxter, the editor, said everything was all right, that every man who was industrious, saved his money, was not extravagant, would be comfortable, in fact he thought the people were too well off; the Kev. Dr. Peters, with a free mansion, two thousand dollars per year and the incidentals of fees, said he feared the people were drifting away from the Church, that really there were but few men attending his church and practically none of the working class. And when, I, losing patience, talked straight from the shoulder, the reverend gentleman said, "Really, I fear you are too radical." "Radical?" said I, "Where do we get that word? Does it not spring from the latin "radix" meaning a root? Hence radicalism is going to the root of a question in plain United States, telling the truth." "Yes, of course," said the Rev. Peters, "But I fear you will become unpopular." "I did not know I was popular," said I, "and I wish to say I don't care a tinker's damn whether I am popular or

am on my death bed, when my feet grow cold, when my eyes grow dim, when I am going down the valley alone, do you think it will worry me as to whether I was popular or not? And when the funeral is over and I am under six feet of mud and you and my legal friend, Judson; and my business friend, Warner; and my editorial friend, Baxter, have all returned to your mansions, your dollars and your clubs, will it worry me then whether I was popular or not? No, my friends, I tell you all calmly, dispassionately as a friend, all four of you are densely ignorant of the condition, the daily life or rather the daily hell of the millions, you are densely ignorant of the mental attitude of the million, you have no idea how they see you. If you did, you would then know why all your talk and writings and preaching fall flat. You remember Robbie Burns said,

"Oh wad some power The gift wad gie us To see oursels

As ithers see us."

Gentlemen, there is a splendid mirror yonder on the walls of the club room, I ask each of you to arise, go and gaze into the glass and tell me what you see." Each in their turn, the manufacturer, the lawyer, the editor and the preacher arose and gazed into the mirror. As they returned I asked, "What did you see in the glass?" "I saw myself," was the reply of each. "Gentlemen," said I, "You have seen yourselves in the mirror, now I challenge the four of you, cast aside your fine clothes, let your beards go unshorn for one week, put on a suit of cheap clothing, go out into the world, the labor world, the world of the millions, place five dollars in your pockets, take a train to Chicago, look for work, 'put yourself in his place,' the place of the common man, spend two weeks as 'one of the disinherited' and then return to Kalamazoo and tell me your experience. You will have seen yourselves and your class, 'as in a looking glass' and I will guarantee you will have learned more in two weeks than you ever learned in college or university, but if you come to want, when you have reached your last half dollar, telegraph me and I will forward relief by wire." After some debate my proposition as accepted, and the next week, on a cold January day, my four friends left town about daylight. They started for Chicago via the Michigan Central, they were a sight for fair, they had kept their promise, none of them had shaved for a full week, their faces were covered with scraggy beards, they wore heavy brogans on their feet, cheap looking woolen suits, woolen shirts and

in a bundle they each had a suit of overalls. They had just five dollars in their pockets, each of them. I bought their tickets to Chicago, the train started and as my four friends standing on the platform waved their hands to me, it was difficult to believe that the rough looking quartette were Oscar Warner, president of the Kalamazoo Wire Co., Hon Frederick Judson, statesman and lawyer, Cyrus Baxter, A. M., the eminent editor and the Rev. Hiram Peters, D. D., the fashionable rector. The train passed from view and as I walked back to my hotel, I said to myself, "Before they get back to Kalamazoo they will have seen themselves as in a looking glass."

CHAPTER 2.

The Experience of Oscar Warner,
Manufacturer.

It was the 11th day of January when my four highly educated friends left Kalamazoo. On

the morning of January 21st, just ten days after their departure, I received a telegram from Chicago, it read as follows:

John M. Dinsmore, Kalamazoo, Mich.
Hotel Royal.

Forward fifty dollars by wire at once, we are poorer, but wiser.

Oscar Warner, Chicago, Ill. Gilhooley's Hotel, 1313 S. Clark St.

On

Of course I wired the money at once. the morning of January 22d, I was at breakfast in the Hotel Royal, the head waiter informed me I was wanted at the phone, I was soon in the phone booth, placed the receiver to my ear and uttered the conventional "Hello." "Hello," said a hoarse voice, "Is that you Dinsmore?" "Yes," said I rather crisp, I thought it was a fellow drummer who was prone to tarry late with the wine. "Know who is here?" came the hoarse voice again. "No," said I in the same icicle voice. "Well, its yours truly, Oscar Warner, president of the Kalamazoo Wire Co., vice president of the Emerson Club, and I think up to recent date a d-n fool. We are all back, sneaked into town on the midnight, we will meet you in our private room at the Emerson Club at four p. m. today. It will require all day for us to get the dirt off of us and to gather nerve enough to meet you at 4 p. m. Be there." "I'll be there my boy," said I.

Four p. m. arrived, I entered the Emerson Club building and passed up to our private room, I opened the door and there sat my four friends, Oscar Warner, the wire king, Judson, the statesman; Baxter, the journalist and Peters, D. D., and a more crestfallen

group I never laid eyes on. I stood and gazed at them saying not a word, they too remained silent. They were in their customary garb, clean shaved, and with the appearance of men on "Easy Street." The silence grew awkward; at length Oscar Warner spoke, saying, 'Why don't you laugh at us Dinsmore?" "No, gentlemen," said I, "It is too serious a subject to jest over. "Right you are Dinsmore," said the Rev. Peters, D. D. "I never knew before what a serious thing life is, may the Lord forgive me for the years and talents I have wasted." "You told the truth, Dinsmore," said Congressman Judson; "As for me I have indeed seen myself 'as in a looking glass'". "As for me," said Baxter, the journalist, "I strike my breast and cry 'Peccavi'"! "Well, gentlemen," said I, "An honest confession is good for the soul, I feel sure from what I have heard you have all profited by your experiences, and therefore I hope that God's poorthe millions-those submerged brethren of ours, will profit by the knowledge you all have acquired. The real source of all the trouble is ignorance and passion on both sides; you men and your class-the rich-first despise and then hate the poor, and the poor, as a class, first envy and then hate the rich, and so the classes drift farther apart, forgetting the fact that all are brethren, that all are children of the Almighty Father, that all 'are but travelers here on earth, mere tenants on this foot stool of the omnipotent,' that all are journeying towards death, the grave, judgment, and eternity, forgetting that

"Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draft of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud.

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud."

"And so I ask each of you to tell me fairly and frankly of your experiences during the past ten days, let me have the truth, nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.'"

"Well," said Oscar Warner, "As possibly the chief sinner I shall act as spokeman up to the point where our individual experiences began and then each shall tell his personal story. We arrived in Chicago late in the afternoon, too late, of course, to look for work. We had, as you know, just five dollars in our pockets, each of us; we had fourteen days to live on that amount plus what we should earn, therefore we looked for cheap quarters. We entered Gilhooley's Hotel and discovered the rate for board and lodging were by the day onc dollar, or five dollars per week. We decided to take

day rates, as we knew not what tomorrow would bring forth. We 'doubled up' as to rooms, Judson and I occupying one room, Dr. Peters and Baxter bunked together. Oh, the horrors of that night! Shall I ever forget it? The coarse food, the unclean quarters, the noise and confusion, the dejected, hopeless looking men. The only place wherein there seemed to be happiness-or was it simply mental paralysis-was the bar room. In that fetid atmosphere, reeking with the odors of cheap whiskey and vile cigars and still viler pipes, men seemed to forget the hell in which they were located. I think I have learned one of the great causes, if not the chief cause of intemperance among the poor: It is their utter misery, the awful hopelessness of their condition, added to the natural depressing effects produced by bad food, lack of comfort and bad ventilation. I am convinced that if I were forced to live in such conditions for thirty days I would certainly yield to the allurement of the bar room. I remember that I had an insane desire to go into the bar room that night and drink to the point of insensibility, thus to forget the present and hope to wake up and find that my experience was but a dream. We passed the night somehow and finally the day dawned. We had breakfast and then we started out to get a job, agreeing to meet at the hotel at twelve o'clock noon and report progress.

"We did meet at noon and none of us had secured a job, our wealth had been reduced one dollar each, we now had four dollars. After dinner we continued our search for work, the evening found us at the hotel comparing notes and still no job. Three days thus passed. Our stock of wealth was now two dollars per man; we grew desperate. The fourth day I started out determined to land somewhere. I was down on the lake front where I met a rough looking fellow at the Van Buren Street station of the Illinois Central railway. He said I might get a job out at the Pullman Car Works. I boarded a local passenger train just pulling out, paid my fare and landed in the town of Pullman. I did get a job as a laborer in the great car works at one dollar and twenty cents per day, seven dollars and twenty cents per week. I secured board in a flat down near Lake Calumet, board, room and washing costing me five dollars and fifty cents per week. My tobacco, smoking and chewing, my shave and newspapers cost me fifty cents, a total cost for bare existence of six dollars, leaving me one dollar and twenty cents for clothing, insurance, literature, church

work and possible sickness. I asked myself during those awful days, 'Suppose I had Mrs. Warner and my five children in Pullman to provide for, what would become of them?'

"My work as a laborer made me subject to the bull-driving tactics of a human brute, a big, coarse Hollander, he was the gang boss. At times I felt like murdering that Hollander, but I was restrained by the fact-that was very evident to me-that the Hollander was in mortal terror of losing his job, that he was driven by a foreman, that the foreman was in great fear of losing his job and that he was driven by the superintendent, and that the superintendent was afraid he might lose his job, and that he was driven by the general manager of the Pullman company; and then came the soul-sickening thought that made me blush with shame, that I knew the general manager was driven by the Board of Directors of the Pullman Palace Car Co. and that I, Oscar Warner, president of the wire trust, was a director in the Pullman Palace Car Co. and therefore I and my associates were the real heartless bull drivers who were making life a living hell to the five thousand men in the Pullman works and embittering the existence of twenty thousand men, women and children who depended on those works for their daily bread. Verily 'the iron entered my soul' when I realized the truth. I had written a postal to Judson directed care of Gilhooley's hotel, Clark street, telling him of my job; that I would try and stand the strain for our agreed time if possible, but that I doubted my ability to do so; for him to write me how they were making out. Judson sent a postal to me saying briefly, 'We are working and alive, that's about all.'"

Oscar Warner paused, lighted a cigar, drummed on the mahogany table with his fingers for a moment and then continued, "Dinsmore, I marvel at the patience of the multitude. By the beard of Mahommed, I believe I would become an anarchist inside of three months, go insane, or die, if I was forced to continue living in that industrial hell, conducted by the company in which I am a director. I worked there seven days, I was not a human being. a man; during those seven days, I was simply a cog in the money-making machine known as the 'Pullman Palace Car Co.' I was conscious that I was of no more value, not one-half the importance to that damnable corporation as were the cart horses. Nay! I noted the cart horses were not overworked, for they represented dollars to the Company, but whether I or anv one of the five thousand free-born Americans, civilized Christians, educated

Caucasians, dropped dead from fatigue, none cared. Not the company officials, my representatives, for men were begging for a job at the gate every dav; not my fellow workmen for each poor devil had been so driven, hounded, worked, scared, bulldozed, that human sympathy had been driven from his heart. I talked to some of them and found a spirit of hopelessness, a spirit of bitterness, against the something, or somebody, that was making life a hell to them. In horror, I asked myself, 'What if this smouldering hate should spring forth some day?' I shuddered as I considered the possibilities. At last my strength gave out-for seven days I had toiled and gone to my cheerless room in the tenement, worn in body and sick at heart. I went to bed early hoping to gather strength; I would awake in the morning with a confused sense that it was all a dream; but as I arose from the miserable bed, my aching bones, sore joints, and bruised flesh told me it was a stern reality, and so after seven days I quit, and came into Chicago to Gilhooley's Hotel. The net result of my ten days toil and worry, was this: I had five dollars when I arrived in Chicago, I had suffered a physical and mental martyrdom for ten days and I now had two dollars and fortyseven cents. I arrived in the hotel at 3:30 p. m. and awaited the arrival of Judson, Peters and Baxter. I am free to say I have seen myself and my class ‘as in a looking glass.' I am conscious that there is a great fundamental wrong in our social and industrial system, and I am also conscious that I have been neglectful of my duties as a man, an American, and a Christian during my past life, else I would have been aware of the awful condition of the submerged millions, and I assure you that for the future, I shall do my duty-and it is a duty from the standpoint of morality and patriotism-to discover the basic cause of the suffering, misery and unrest among our fellow men."

We had all listened in silence to the remarks of Oscar Warner. After a short pause I said, "Mr. Judson, you are a lawyer, a member of Congress, I would now ask of you to give your experience during the past ten days."

CHAPTER 3

The Experience of Hon. Frederick Judson, Lawyer and Statesman.

"I shall do so." said Judson. "On the fourth day at the Hotel Gilhooley in Chicago, when we had arrived at the two-dollar basis, and had determined to separate, and if possible land somewhere, I started out with a heavy heart.

I tried several places and was refused work. At last I came to a woolen mill, I heard the roar of the machinery, I looked in the window. It seemed warm in there, and even that was an attraction to me just then, for to tell the truth, the biting, freezing winds had chilled me to the bone. I entered the office, and right here I wish to say that never before had I felt a sense of inferiority to any man, and, do you know, I blush to say that I felt a cringing, menial spirit creeping over me. I tried to arouse myself, I asked myself, 'What is the matter with me? Am I not Frederick Judson, a free-born Caucasian?' Ah, gentlemen, I discovered why so many of the poor are cringers, hypocritical fawners. I saw very clearly that Frederick Judson the freeman, and Frederick Judson who must beg the privilege to toil, were two different beings. I aproached the superintendent, and asked for work, telling him I must get work or starve. The superintendent looked at me in a cold, haughty manner and asked, ‘Are you a weaver or spinner?' 'No,' I replied, 'I am not accustomed to mill work.' 'Well,' said the superintendent, as he turned cooly to his newspaper, 'We have nothing for you to do.' The office was warm, through the windows I could see the frozen snow, I could see the skeleton trees swaying in the winter's gale. I thought of the coming night, of my fast disappearing dollars, that two more days and I would be homeless and starving. My pride took wings and I fairly begged for work at anything, at any wage. The superintendent, a coarse ignoramus, turned and began to lecture me, saying, 'You are like the rest of them, when you are working you squander your wages in rum, I suppose. I can give you a job as a laborer in the mill at six dollars per week; want it?' By Heavens, his insolence and injustice aroused me for an instant. I felt like throwing off the mask and giving that parvenue a lesson, but I swallowed my pride and anger and said, 'Yes, sir.' Turning to a youth in the office the superintendent said, 'Jinks, take him into Wilson,' and again turned to his newspaper. The youth led me into the mill, and addressing Wilson, the foreman of the spinning room, saving, 'New hand Mr. Wilson,' walked off and left me.

"Wilson was a gruff Englishman from the mill districts of Lancashire. He turned to me, saying, 'See them there baskets, take them, gather up all the waste as vou see under them spinning frames, fill the baskets and carry them out to the waste house and, see 'ere, you wants to be spry if you wants to keep yer job.' I began my job, it reminded me of a pack mule or

dray horse. As it neared dark, I began to wonder where I would sleep, I knew I must get a boarding house near the mill, for I was at least five miles from Gilhooley's Hotel. I spoke to one of the men in the waste house, he told me he lived close by, that I could board at his home at four dollars per week, and so I went home with Flanigan. Poor devil, he lived in a small street, in a small house, three stories; there were just three rooms, the ground floor was the living room, shed, kitchen, dining room, library and parlor. The room was twelve by fourteen, the second and third stories were the same. Flanigan, his wife and five children lived in that house, they took the children in their room on the second floor and I occupied the third floor, that was my home. The floor was bare, walls were white washed, and a cheap bed and one chair comprised the furniture in the room. There was no bath room, our ablutions all being performed in the one living room at the 'sink.' For that miserable pile of bricks in a narrow, dirty street, Flanigan paid fifteen dollars per month. Flanigan received thirty dollars per month, Flanigan must feed and clothe his family of seven on fifteen dollars per month and also educate his progeny. No wonder Flanigan wanted a boarder! I spent seven days in that woolen mill, I saw men and women passing their lives there as hopeless as a man chained to a rock. I saw little children as low as nine years of age, boys and girls, being murdered, physically, mentally and morally, and then to me there came with crushing force, the thought that I had stood in the House of Representatives at Washington and urged the passage of a bill levying a tax of from fifty to ninety per cent on woolen goods for the alleged purpose of protection to the woolen industry, in order that our manufacturers could pay 'living American wages.' Yes, I remembered that and here before my eyes I saw men, women and children-and I was one of themhandled as so much crude matter. Verily, I saw myself 'as in a looking glass.' I join with Warner in saying there is a fearful wrong somewhere, and I, as he, have totall failed in my duty to God, my fellowmen and my country."

CHAPTER FOUR.

The Experience of Cyrus Baxter A. M., Journalist and Politician.

As Judson finished speaking, I gazed at Baxter, the journalist. "I fully agree with the conclusions of Warner and Judson," said Baxter; "And now for my experiences. I had just fifty cents left in my pocket when I at

length secured work. I was refused work in nine places, finally getting a job in a pipe foundry, one of those places where those gas and water pipes are made that we see being laid in our city streets. I never knew where or how they were made until that day and I want to say if there is a place on earth that reminds me of hell, as far as imagination pictures it, it is a pipe foundry in action. Heat that would roast the devil; smoke as thick as a London fog; dirt and smut that transforms the men into Ethiopians; and danger everywhere. Men battered, burned, bruised, killed! What of it? Who cares? I thought I would die the first day in that industrial Hades. In my judgment, a man should get at least ten dollars per hour in such a hell. I would not work there permanently for one thousand dollars per dav: in fact six months in a pipe foundry would put me in the graveyard, and if I had to follow that calling the quicker I arrived in the graveyard the better satisfied I would be. We did not work by the hour or day, we did task work. Talk about the 'galley slaves,' d―n it, their life was a perennial picnic compared to a laborer in a pipe foundry. We went to work at five a. m. We had a task -a large quantity of massive iron pipe to mould. By the great horned spoon, the men looked like imps pursued by the devil as they worked, nay, flew, jumped like madmen at their task, and what do you suppose we got for that war dance daily in that earthly hell? Eight dollars and forty cents per week, and the sword that cut me deeply was the knowl. edge that all that work was munic pai work, paid for by all the people of the cities. And the two edged sword that cut me was the knowledge that I had written hundreds of ponderous editorials demanding a 'protective tariff' for the iron business,' that everything depended on the iron business,' that we must always consider the 'business interests.' It dawned upon me as I stood trembling with the horrible fatigue, the sickening heat, the blinding dust, that the millionaire 'iron masters' did not care a "tinker's damn,' as my friend Dinsmore says, for me or mine or those unfortunate men who were permanently condemned to that living death. I asked myself what 'interests' had Carnegie or any of the rest of the 'masters, save their personal interests? Bah! I did learn, Dinsmore, in that hard school, more sound sense than ever I learned in college or university, and one lesson I learned clear that the average American workman is a chump! Yes, there is a fundamental wrong. Show me what it is and how to remedy it and the 'Kalamazoo Clarion' will support it. Verily, I saw myself 'as in a looking glass.''

(To be continued next month)