T

HE first Democratic Congress in twenty years has just ended its first official year. When it came into being in April, 1911, a friendly commentator emphasized the program of economy to which

the party had dedicated itself, and praised its first official act:

"Probably every Democrat in Congress was under pressure, from party workers to whom he is under obligations, for some of these jobs. . . There is, therefore, all the more reason for thoughtful persons, who understand and appreciate economy in government, to give sympathy and practical support to the party that has accomplished it. . . . These voluntary sacrifices of power and patronage are creditable in the highest degree. . . . The new party has put in motion machinery which, it is confidently believed, will save the Government one hundred and fifty million dollars a year. . . ."

It is unfortunate that a Congress which started out with such expectations ends its term with an expenditure which totals within a few negligible millions of the biggest sum ever spent by the unforgivably extravagant Republican Congresses of recent years. There is real humiliation for the Democrats in their repudiation of the promise of economy with which they made their successful campaign two years ago. The Democratic leaders are not to blame. Underwood, Fitzgerald, all the members of the Ways and Means Committee contested every inch of the program of extravagance; Clark was for free spending, because that meant patronage and favors in aid of his campaign for the Presidential nomination. The rank and file of the party were for pork because they thought it would make their seats secure; they were too shortsighted to know that a record for economy and tariff revision would be their best title to an enduring grip on the support of the people. Economy is the thing the Democrats could have achieved in spite of the White House and the Republican Senate; in the tariff and in progressive legislation their efforts were made vain by Taft's vetoes. The passage of the Sherwood pension grab by the Democrats was unforgivable; the motive of most of them was the belief that it would help carry the old soldier States--Ohio, Indiana, and the Middle West-for the Democrats this fall. Back of the blame on individual Congressmen for extravagance is the blame on the voters, who judge a member by the "pork" he gets for his district.

THEIR BEST ARGUMENT

THE

HE Democrats can safely base their request for a return to power on their tariff record. They passed six tariff reduction measures, and repassed two of them by the necessary two-thirds majority over the President's veto. Leader Underwood estimated that these laws would have saved the people of the country $650,000,000 in taxes. The Democratic program of labor legislation. is also impressive. It includes the Children's Bureau Bill, the creation of an Industrial Commission, the Phosphorus Match Bill, and measures safeguarding life at sea.

The Records of Congressmen

ALL the members of the Lower House of con

gress (three hundred and ninety-one) will end their terms next 4th of March. 1913. Those

of the whole number) will come before their vari ous communities at the election on the 5th of next November; in addition, many will come up for renomination at primaries during the next few weeks.

The records of these Congressmen will be vital political subjects in their communities at the primaries during the present weeks, and until the election in November.

The record of any one of these Congressmen will be furnished by COLLIER'S to all who apply. These records show how each Congressman voted on

The various schedules of the Payne-Aldrich Tariff Bill (if he was a member at that session).

The various tariff roll calls during the present session (thirteen in all). Reciprocity.

The Sherwood Pension Bill. Various labor bills, etc. Write to COLLIER'S WASHINGTON BUREAU, 901 Munsey Building, Washington, D. C. This Please enclose twenty cents in stamps. nominal charge is made to ensure that only those will apply who have a real interest in securing these records.

All these went automatically to their appropriate committees. Out of the committees, 1,237 have been reported to the House and 1,062 to the Senate; among those reported out of committees, less than one in ten has come before either House for action.

TH

THE NEW JERSEY SENATORSHIP WO Democrats have been discussed for the United States Senatorship from New Jersey. One is ex-Senator James Smith, Jr., of Newark; the other is ex-Congressman William Hughes of Paterson. If Wilson should be President, he would find Smith in the Senate plotting powerfully against him and his policies; Hughes, if he were in the Senate, would be one of Wilson's most powerful aides. Smith was in the Senate once before, in 1893. He was a traitor then to Cleveland as he is a traitor now to Wilson. Cleveland, in his famous letter, referred to three Senators-Gorman of Maryland, Brice of Ohio, and Smith (this same Smith) of New Jersey in these words:

"The deadly blight of treason has blasted the councils of the brave in their hour of might. . . . The livery of Democratic tariff reform has been stolen and worn in the service of Republican protection . . . party perfidy and dishonor. ..."

If the Democrats want to guarantee a short life to their present period of hope, let them send men like Smith to the Senate.

F

"DOING THINGS"

ROM Huntington, W. Va., Mr. W. H. Thompson writes to say that Congressman James A. Hughes, who represents twelve West Virginia counties. is campaigning for reelection on a platform headed:

"The Man Who Has Done Things."

During the second and third sessions of the Sixty-first Congress and the first session of the Sixty-second Congress there were twentysix important roll calls. Hughes of West

about 200.

ANOTHER ABSENTEE

IN THE first session of the Sixty-second Congress, which lasted five months, from April, 1911, until August, 1911, there were thirty-seven roll calls. On these the "batting average," so to speak, of Mr. Richmond Pearson Hobson of Alabama is represented. by the following figures:

Number responded to by Mr. Hobson...... 10 Number not responded to by Mr. Hobson.. 27 Among the subjects upon which Mr. Hobson failed to vote were the resolution for the direct election of United States Senators, conference report on the bill revising Schedule K, motion to pass the bill reducing woolen duties over the President's veto, motion to pass the bill reducing the tariff on agricultural implements over the President's veto, conference report on the bill providing publicity for campaign funds. From June 21 until August 21, 1911, a period of two months, Mr. Hobson was recorded as not voting on any roll call. During the present session of Congress Mr. Hobson's record has not perceptibly improved.

PENSIONS AND PORK

W. RUCKER of the Second Missouri

W. District is one of the members who

rely on patronage and pork. He has been opposed this campaign by a candidate who

says:

"Voters, do you want a pension agent in Congress? Or, do you want a Congressman who will work for good roads, economy, lower tariff, equal rights, and special privilege to none?”

Congressman Rucker's opponent has made. a tabulation showing that out of 519 bills introduced by him, 410 were private pension bills. That a record as a pension getter has become a reproach illustrates the change in standards. The Republicans were passing pension grabs during all the years when it was good politics; the Democrats have passed an exceptionally big one at the very time when it has become extremely poor politics.

то

CANDIDATES FOR CONGRESS

MANY candidates for Congress ask

COLLIER'S to provide them with the records of their opponents now in Congress. COLLIER'S can only give these candidates the same record of roll calls which it furnishes to the general public. And while the ayes and noes of any member constitute the fundamental part of his official record, and are enough to enable any voter to pass on his member's claim to reelection, yet an opposition candidate needs more amplified material to make a campaign. Any candidate who will use COLLIER'S record of roll calls as an index, can, by spending a day with the bound volumes of the Congressional Record (they are to be found in almost every library), provide himself with an adequate summary of his opponent's speeches and other activities.

A

WAY down in southwestern Mexico, in the State of Jalisco, just where the temperate plateau drops down to the hot country and the sea, the volcano of Colima lifts its smoking head for thirteen thousand feet against the peaceful tropical blue.

To the northeast are cornfields and cattle and the shallow lakes of the broad valley, stretching up to Guadalajara. Zapotlan-a little chilly in the rainy season-is on this side of the volcano at an altitude of about five thousand feet. From there the plateau falls quickly, and to the southwest of the volcano, coffee plantations and pale green fields of sugar-cane drop down the sixty miles to the Pacific. And on that side, about thirty miles away and only fifteen hundred feet above the ocean, lies the dreamy little city of Colima-always warm-with its palms and white and sky-blue walls, its Burma-like maidens, and vague, sweet scent of limes. You need not go east of Suez to get to Mandalay.

From Zapotlan the volcano is almost hidden by the taller peak of the Nevado-"the snowy one"-and only shows its sulphurous head, but from Colima it rises almost a perfect cone. It is always smoking-of all the Mexican volcanoes it is the only really active one-and every few years a great inky pillar pours up, spreads out far aloft into a huge black umbrella, and miles awayas far upcountry as Zapotlan, for for instance the rain of sand is sometimes so thick that people can scarcely be distinguished fifty yards. away. There are records of eruptions as far back as 1804; the great one of 1869 opened up a "parasitic cone" halfway down the northeastern slope and spread out a field of lava below it, and those of 1885 and 1903 blanketed the northwestern slope with lava floes, one on top of the other. It is a little more than a year ago now-just as the Diaz régime was tottering-that the whole Mexican plateau was shaken by an earthquake. A barracks collapsed in the capital itself and there was more or less disturbance all the way down to Zapotlan-three hundred miles distant in an air line-where several churches and a great many houses were shaken down and about seventy-five people killed.

The old mozo, who turned back at the lava floe

In the dispatches sent up to the American newspapers the volcano of Colima was generally blamed for this. The fleeing villagers were dutifully mentioned, and there were fanciful descriptions of lava filling railroad tunnels fifteen and twenty miles away. It made peculiarly interesting reading-sitting comfortably at one's breakfast in New York-for only a few weeks before, while trying to climb Colima, another man and I had stood close up under the volcano in a sort of blind alley of rock, a precipice behind and in front that ghostly, smoking pyramid. It was not an easy place to get out of, and work enough we had getting out, and one couldn't but picture how lively things might have become had the old furnace chosen to blow off that morning.

When I was again in Mexico, in October, and Mr. Madero's unopposed election seemed to leave a day or two clear from which to erase from one's 'scutcheon the

ignominy of that previous attempt, I hurried down to Zapotlan, and although the rains persisted and a heavy cloud cap hung over the crater, and every now and again trailed its misty skirts down into the timber, got mules and a mozo and started out to see what had happened. The country immediately roundabout, gashed into steep barrancas or cañons, is impossible to cross in anything like a straight line, and the lazy and quite wonderful little railroad that winds down between the two towns burrows through some thirty tunnels, bridges as high as a skyscraper from the river, and through a cañon, across the upper rim of which streams from the zone of pines pour down, sometimes for hundreds of feet, into the warmer tropic sunshine.

THE APPROACH TO THE VOLCANO

THE easiest way to approach the volcano is from Zapotlan, but even from there you must ride uphill for twenty miles and cross the shoulder of the higher Nevado before descending on foot into the shut-in valley from which the final ascent is made. Were there guides, or anyone to give a stranger directions, and water on the cone side of the Nevado, the climb would still be comparatively simple, but there are no guides, and in Zapotlan, even to-day, people will tell you that no one ever climbed the volcano and that it can't be climbed. Absurd as this is, mountains are not to be trifled with, especially those with no water in them, and I wouldn't advise anyone to start out as we had started that first time-like a couple of city men hopping on a suburban train for a few holes of golf. We had assumed that the shoulder of which Terry speaks, in his excellent guidebook, ran across like a bridge from the Nevado to the cone. And when we got to the top of the pass, with the dark timber below us and below that-thousands of feet down and stretching out as far as the eye could carry into the horizon, the checkerboard country-there in front of us lay the great, rusty, smoldering heap of the volcano, and between, a valley, three or four thousand feet deep and several miles across.

There was snow on the shady northern slope up which we had just crawled (it was in February), and except for a few tortillas and a bit of chocolate, our food and water were back on the edge of the timber with the mozo and the horses. Eleven or twelve thousand feet and early morning make anything possible, however, and so down we went, like a couple of grasshoppers, hoping to do it all in a day, and ending in the afternoon-after one of those debates which are not mentioned afterward in the best exploring circles-by choosing the worst of all possible short cuts out.

As the sun went down we were dragging through a labyrinthine tangle of lava rock, gnawing cactus leaves in the approved Jack London fashion, and not actually sure that we should ever get out. We slept that night on the sand of a dry watercourse, near a mountain brook, which we reached after dark, and next morning got down to a haciendaone of the fine oldfashioned kind, with the house, stores, sugar mill, and church all built round a great cobblestoned court with a fountain in the center -and limped into Colima the next night on a couple of borrowed mules, just as the poor old mozo, having howled into the wilderness for twenty-four hours in vain, was hurrying back to Zapotlan tremblingly

To the Top

An Ascent of an Active Mexican Volcano

of Which Little is Known

to report to the jefe politico that the two gringos had been eaten up by tigers.

This view of the Nevado-"the snowy

It was shortly after this that Diaz fell and the earthquake came and that same poor old mozo was one of its victims-and it was four months later, after Mr. Madero had come into power, that I went down into Jalisco to try the volcano a second time. The rains still hung on, with tantalizing intervals of sunshine, but one doesn't get down into Jalisco every day, and, knowing the trail now. the gamble seemed quite worth taking.

one

is taken at about 10,000

feet. The

pass over into the valley from which the volcano is reached is just to the right of the middle of the photograph

And all might have gone well, in spite of the rain, had it not been for two rebellious mozos and a stretch of lava rock, possibly a mile wide, heaped up in chunks, some as big as one's head and some as big as houses, and foreshortened in the thin air down to about as disconcerting and literally hellish stuff to get over as one could strike at the end of a hard day.

This is the floe of 1869. It resembles an enlarged reproduction, in rock, of the broken polar ice fields, and it was after crossing this that our February expedition fell down. Knowing what it was like, I set about getting over it as soon as possible, assuming that the mozos would follow. The two men had shivered out the night before at the ten-thousand-foot level with nothing but their thin ponchos to cover them; they had been going steadily for eight hours, and when they saw their gringo companion streaking across that lava field they evidently decided-good-natured and dependable as Mexicans of this class are when you stay by them and do not force the pace-that it was high time to use a firm hand.

When I got across the floe and looked round for them they had all our food and water-they were nowhere in sight. After yelling and waving for half an hour, I finally picked out their white pajama-like drawers and steeple hats against the green timber of the Nevado foothills. Aware of their strategic position, they had climbed a little way up the slope we had just descended, built a fire and sat down to abide the issue. They wouldn't answer; there was nothing to vent one's fury on but the unresponsive rock, and although I attempted a dash to the summit, a perpendicular wall, fog, and finally rain drove me back.

IT

BACK TO PALMS AND THE PLAZA BAND

T WAS the day, I afterward learned, of the October hurricane that swept the whole west coast. Within a few minutes after rejoining the ingenuous Mexicans, who averred that they had heard nothing and had lost me in the fog, we were beating back up the long slope of the Nevado against an icy rain that swept up from the valley, across the ridge and down the other side in a sheet as solid almost, it seemed, as a waterfall. The mozos, soaked as they were, rolled their white drawers up around their thighs and were light-footed, at least. I was dragging along a ridiculous full-length mackintosh, heavy boots, and soggy khaki, and, before we crawled over the pass that night, found our shivering horses and started down into the timber; it seemed as if our very bones had turned to ice.

We got back to Zapotlan the next afternoon-it seemed useless to try the volcano in such weather -and that night (a change quite typically Mexican) I was sipping

The herdsman's
house at

La Joyaabout 10,000 feet. The fire is

built inside and the smoke gets out

where it can

lemonade under the portals of the plaza at Colima, with the band playing "The Dollar Princess" in the plaza in front of us, the pretty señoritas, bareheaded and in summer dresses, circling round in one direction, and the dapper young rancheros in their tight-fitting, dove-colored breeches and short, silvertrimmed jackets, and an occasional young gringo clerk in white linen, walking the other way.

Fountains splashed drowsily in the quiet inner patios, the cathedral bells clanged every quarter hour-("Do you mean to say," demanded the British Consul, "that that wretched noise pleases God or man?" "Quien sabe?" smiled the Mexican. "Anyway, it drives away the devil!")-and all about us

The volcano of Co

lima from the
Nevado. The

dark rock
on the right
hand half of
the cone was all
thrown out
during the erup-
tions of
1885 and 1903

hovered the warmth and velvety softness of the tropic night.

On the edge of it, over the roofs to the northward, glimmered that ghostly, cloud-capped head, under which one could fancy the wind still wailing down from the peaks and rain thrashing across cold rockswhile the band played, the crowd drifted round happily and the warm air carried, every now and again, the vague perfume of limes.

At intervals during the next two days I climbed to the flat roof of the little hotel, and looked through the blazing sunshine-over intervening fields and foothills-up to that aloof and still alluring pyramid with its faint, insinuating scarf of smoke.

Every afternoon there was a quick, warm tropical shower, soon over, and although the cloud cap hung about the cone with exasperating persistence, it disappeared every now and then, and one could not but feel in the disarming warmth that the rainy season was over and to-morrow would be clear.

MULES, MOZOS, AND CATHEDRAL BELLS

"WO idle days in such a climate, after hard but healthy

Two

work in the higher altitudes, make one quite new again. And so, on the third morning, as we rolled away from Colima in the warm darkness in which trains romantically insist on leaving that enchanting town-and, presently, the far-off cone caught the first of the sunlight -I decided, in spite of the cloud bank hanging over the timber and the gloomy prophecies of the man across the aisle, to get off at Zapotlan and try again.

Again the little shock-haired Indian boy in the doorway of the Hotel Anguiano had a chance to chirp his hopeful "Shine-shoe?" and my obese friend, the mule owner, to rent two of his animals at a price for which his neighbors doubtless might have bought them. Old friends we embraced, and, after compliments and diplomatic exchanges, agreed on two mules and a mozoyoung this time--who should, absolutely and without fail, go clear to the top ("Al cima!!!"-done with clenched fists and glaring eyes on both sides), although neither of us had the remotest notion that he would. Zapotlan is not particularly lively in the rainy season. It is a chilly, raw little place, peopled mostly by Indians in red American bankets, which unfortunately they prefer to homemade serapes. Clouds drift low through its

prietor's wife shuffling past in a mother hubbard, her uncombed hair hanging down her back.

And the bells. . . Ding-dong! Ding-dong! This for several minutes, then a quick staccato Jingle-jinglejingle!!! ending with a huge BONG!!! Then altogether, very fast, Ding-jingle-jangle-dong... BONG! The guileless Indians ring them-you can see them pushing the bells and swinging the great tongues by hand in the open belfry in fine old medieval style-as if they felt that on the noise they made depended their chance of

A part of the lava floe of 1869, which must be crossed to reach the foot of the cone

Climbing upstairs I was

cordially greeted by two Americans a tall, slen

der young man with rather romantically curling hair, and an older one with a white string tie and the voice and manner of an evangelist. The tact with which they maintained their enthusiasm, even after I had assured them I was not a patient, was charming, and we were soon puffing cigars like old friends.

They were, it appeared, a pair of those itinerant dentists not uncommon in less-frequented parts of Latin

America. It was their custom to come into a provincial town like this, where there were no dentists, or, at least, no American ones, hang out their sign, clean up all the work in the neighborhood, and then pack up and move on to the next place. The younger man had his wife with him-a plucky little woman from Chicago-pretty and capable, and game through and through. This quaint trio-there was a three months' old baby, too-had worked its way down through the queer little tropical coast towns-by railroad where there was one, on mule back where there wasn't. The little wife could cook anything; when her husband decided to go with us on this third attempt, she fitted him out as if he were going to the Pole, and if it hadn't been for the baby she would have insisted on going herself.

THE

THE START IN THE TROPICAL MORNING

'HE dentist had a good American horse of his own, and at daylight next morning, he on this lofty charger, the mozo and I on our melancholy ponies, were jogging down the cobblestoned street just as smoke began to curl up here and there from the low, tiled roofs, and the sharp peak of the Nevado, not unlike the Matterhorn from this side, caught the light of the approaching sun.

There was in the air a softness and velvety hush, a freshness of earth newly drenched with rain; a suggestion, even at this altitude, of those exquisite tropical mornings, fragrant, humid, cool, folding about one a sense of tranquillity and well-being, rather than the urge of our mornings in the north. Farmer folk on burro back jogged by on their early way to market with a drowsy "Adios!" as they passed, and but for that we might have been moving at the bottom of some silent opalescent sea.

Ahead, for eight or ten miles, the valley floor spread out its pastures and cornfields, climbing gradually up into the foothills. Above the corn was the dark green timber; across and above that, like cotton pinned there, floated a long layer of cloud, and above that the grim, gaunt Nevado, lit presently by the uninterrupted sun. It really looked as if we should have clear weather, and with the good humor inspired by this, our morning coffee and the adventure ahead, we pushed on toward the foothills.

Two hours of the journey is up the easy slope which the cornfields follow into the timber; the rest, slow climbing up a zigzag trail used by the burro trains which bring ice down from the Nevado. There is a little ice house just below the pass, at an altitude of about eleven thousand feet, where the ice collected in winter keeps easily all the year round. The thrifty icemen dig square holes two or three feet deep, into which the packed snow gradually turns into a granular ice which they find profitable to carry on burro back all the way to Zapotlan.

Up through the corn we rode, past immense fields where the peons of the Hacienda of Huescalapa were doing the fall plowing-a score of them in a line, with oxen and old-fashioned wooden plows, eating slowly across the red earth and singing a wild, windy song as they walked. Our mozo hailed them, and for a moment they exchanged greetings and facetious insults in a windy singsong, with the next to the last syllable longdrawn out. Through unfamiliar semitropical timber, then the zone of pines, and then, where the great pines give way to smaller conifers and the long grasses of the cold upper levels, down into a deep walled-in pocket -the Joya (jewel), at the bottom of which was a brook and the thatched hut of a mountaineer dairyman.

THE RANCH IN THE CLOUDS

66

"I

AM just out of State's prison!"

Dr. Goodell was in the midst of a revival service when a man stood up in the aisle and shouted these words at him in a voice that was harsh with excitement. The preacher paused in his discourse. The audience sat breathless and transfixed. Every glance was turned upon the man in the aisle. His head was bent forward. The muscles of his face were set. The beam of his eye rested steadily upon the face of the minister. After a moment that was tense almost to painfulness, he repeated his statement and amplified it. "I am just out of State's prison. I was guilty of all that was charged and of things which were never found out. You have been saying things here which are tremendously true or terribly false. You have been talking about some One who could save people from their sins. You said it made no difference how wicked a man had been if he repented; that his sins would be blotted out. You said he would know he was forgiven and the sense of condemnation and guilt would be gone. Now, if you are saying what you do not know to be true, you ought to be ashamed. If you are holding out to a man like me a hope when there is no hope, you ought to stop it."

AT

A LIFE OR DEATH BARGAIN

T THIS point, without appearing to cease speaking, the man's voice seemed to die out of him and he stood silent, but with the intensity of his pose unrelieved -and his hungry eyes searching the face of the preacher. The sincerity of the man obviously entitled him to every consideration. There was tragedy in the lines of his face and in the tones of his voice. He took some steps nearer, to bring himself directly in front of the chancel, and, stretching out his hand in a gesture of appeal, said: "I want to know, sir, whether you believe that this religion you are preaching can save a man like me. You said that Jesus saved a thief on the cross. Do you believe that Jesus can save a thief now?" The man's chin quivered and his eyes swam as again the voice died out of him. The entire audience was moved by the force of his appeal. Dr. Goodell confesses that he felt it to his heels, but he felt also his faith rise within him at the challenge. He reached across the chancel rail and took the appealing, outstretched hand in his, saying, in a voice for all to hear:

"My brother, I have honestly declared a message in which I believe. I cannot afford to preach a Gospel that is not true, and I will not. I am ready to make this contract with you. If you will meet the conditions which are laid down in the Bible, by which a man may come to God, and you do not find salvation, I will never again go into this pulpit to preach!"

Something like a sigh swept over the audience as they

realized the significance of the issues thus joined. As for the two men, they knelt together at the altar. There was an earnest exposition of the way of life by the doctor with the open Bible before him, with eager, earnest listening by the man. Thereafter the minister prayer fervently, and the seeker himself uttered a few broken sentences. There were other incidents of the revival service that night, but nothing comparable in importance to this one, and the congregation was dismissed in suppressed excitement. The service of the following night had been announced, but with the stipulation that Dr. Goodell would not preach except upon the condition which all now understood.

AS

"WILL IT WORK?"

S THE congregation passed out and left the doctor alone, and finally the man who had challenged his Gospel so strangely was also gone, Dr. Goodell began to feel a sinking at the heart. He realized that he had risked all the future of his ministry upon the chance issue of affairs in the soul of a highly emotional creature who had strayed into his meeting. Yet he reasoned with himself that he had done right and only what an honest preacher could do. He believed that redemption began here and now. If this man-if any honest seeker couldn't get it, then either there was no such thing or else he, the preacher, did not know how to proclaim it, and might therefore as well cease to preach as to continue.

However, Dr. Goodell did not sleep much that night, and the next day was a restless one for him. Some of his parishioners thought he had been too rash and came to tell him so, but he withstood their urgings. Night came, and the hour for service. Dr. Goodell was at the church, but did not enter the pulpit. Instead he sat just inside the chancel rail with his eyes upon the door. Would the man come? Would he come a conqueror or a miserable failure, confessing defeat? The time to preach at length arrived, but the man did not. Dr. Goodell announced another hymn, and the congregation stood and sang:

"There is a fountain filled with blood," etc.

As the last note died hasty steps were heard in the vestibule, then the doors swung and a man-the manwith hair disheveled and his features dripping perspiration, rushed down the aisle.

"The car broke down," he exclaimed, breathlessly, but-" and his voice rose in hoarse notes of triumph"you can go ahead and preach!"

Dr. Goodell's life has been full of crises like this. He is always willing to test the power of his ministry afresh by that one authoritative standard of this pragmatic day: "Will it work?" In his youthful days, he, a shrewd Massachusetts Yankee boy, halted between business and the ministry. He resolved to try out his preaching, saying: "If God wants me in this work he will prove it by giving me visible results."

In other words, he asked of his Gospel, as the convict later asked of it: "Will it work?"

It did work; and young Goodell entered upon his first pastorate, which was somewhere in or around Boston. Still the young preacher put his ministry on probation. Again the results came. The church grew beyond all precedent. But three years was the ecclesiastical limit of a Methodist pastorate in those days, and Goodell was soon tested in another field. The results came as before. There was no question about it. The earnest young minister was a marvelous man winner. A third church in Boston in time became the gainer by his services, and then Providence, Rhode Island, had him for three successive pastorates of three years each, and his churches in succession grew amazingly.

Now Brooklyn, New York, which sooner or later is apt to claim a segment of the life of most great Ameri

can preachers, eventually got Dr. Goodell. He went to Hanson Place Methodist Church; and when, after a seven years' pastorate-the three-year limit of his Boston and Providence days now being abolishedhe left Hanson Place it was the largest church in Methodism. The challenge of soul saving was still upon his banner.

But from Brooklyn he removed to New York, that New York which is the reputed "graveyard of ministers." The new pastorate was Calvary Church in Harlem. Harlem, according to popular notion, is not exactly the place to find church life taking root like a banyan tree. Even his brother ministers warned him now. He must not break his heart with too great expectationsexpectations which were inevitably doomed to fail. But Charles L. Goodell ascended the pulpit of Calvary Methodist Episcopal Church as unfalteringly as he had grasped the ex-convict by the hand. To all and sundry he served notice. He was a winner of men to Jesus Christ. By his success in that he had tested every year of his ministry. Only thus did he know that his call to preach was divine. He would not lower his standard now. His voice rang out the challenge:

"God is the same in New York as in every other city in the world. . . . Before there shall be a failure in Calvary Church there will be a funeral in Calvary's parsonage. . . . I will die in the streets before there shall be a failure of God's great work in New York City."

But there was no failure. On the first Sunday in February, 1905, which was the first day upon which he extended the general invitation of the Gospel after a period of evangelistic preaching, there were three hundred and sixty-four applicants for membership, which, so far as Dr. Goodell knows, is the largest number of persons ever received at one time into the fellowship of one Protestant congregation.

YET

ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN

ET Dr. Goodell's evangelistic methods are simple. There is no taint of professionalism about them. They are accompanied by no fanfare of cornets. There is no throbbing of the deep bass drum. There is no importation of professional exhorters or multiplication of evangelistic stage personages and stage properties, with a chorus of singers and talkers and workers who are uncannily skilled in pandering to the psychology of the crowd. Instead, Dr. Goodell simply devotes one month of every pastoral year, the month of January, usually, to evangelistic preaching, every single night, of the Gospel as he understands it. The service may be relieved now and then or embellished by the preaching of a neighboring pastor, but for the most part the doctor is his own evangelist, and his own missionary as well, for he spends the day before the night of the evangelistic sermon in going among the people and personally persuading them to the better life. Nor is he any respecter of persons at such times. His friends tell of an occasion when a self-made merchant and manufacturer, whose final triumph had come in the erection of a great business block, which was filled, floor on floor to the very top, with goods of his own production, which were there assembled for sale, had personally conducted Dr. Goodell through the entire establishment, and as he went, told the story of his business life. The minister heard him through with sympathy, even entered into his enthusiasms over each victory, and, when the narrator had finished, as they stood at the top of the store, on the very pinnacle of his achievements, as it were, asked him:

"How about God? And your duty to him? God, who gave you all this prosperity?"

Nor did the matter end with what might baldly sound like an impertinent question. As the minister asked it. the question was not impertinent; and there, amid the heterogeny of a merchandise emporium, the owner of it all placed his hand in the minister's and pledged him

self to walk toward heaven.

With the same simple tact and loving persistence Dr

Goodell could talk to a seamstress in a Harlem tenement, and generally he got the same result. During that first January of the New York pastorate, the minister writes that he "climbed so many stairs that if they had been placed end on end he must have been well up toward the moon. Yet that superimposed height would have been less lofty than the exaltation of spirit which he felt when the campaign was over, and he had proved to his own satisfaction that God was the same in Harlem as in Brooklyn or Boston."

Dr. Goodell has been nine years in Calvary Church

now.

Its membership has increased from fifteen hundred to over thirty-two hundred, and it has long since displaced Hanson Place as the largest church in Methodism. The influence of Calvary's pastor is widespread. He is the acknowledged authority on pastoral evangelism, not only in the Methodist Church but throughout the Protestant Church in America.

"Dr. Goodell," said a Methodist bishop, "is worth a hundred thousand converts a year to Methodism."

The occasion of this remark is worth recording, for it marks another crisis in the life of this minister. It was when one of the great churches of Brooklyn of another denomination sought to call him out of the ranks of Methodism to become its pastor. The eminent laymen of the pastor-seeking church provided an elaborate banquet. When the flow of soul was at its highest they made known to the entirely unsuspecting Methodist divine that he was their chief guest and that they were gathered about him in shameless confession of having broken the Tenth Commandment: "Thou shalt covet." They admitted that they coveted the pastor of Calvary Church in New York for their church in Brooklyn; they wanted a spiritual leader, a congregation builder, a man's man; and they wanted-in short-Dr. Goodell.

not

The doctor was keenly sensible of the compliment paid him. He expressed his deep appreciation -and pleaded for time to consider, and the privilege of consulting an intimate friend. Both were granted, though not without misgivings, by the covetous Brooklyners. The friend with whom Dr. Goodell wished to consult was the late John S. Huyler, millionaire candy manufacturer, and a man who for the last twenty years before his death had given away on an average a thousand dollars a day. He was a man of good heart toward other men. His consideration extended all ways. Small details did not escape him. When it stormed he would look out of the window of his comfortable home and say: "It's a bad night for the boys on the street." When he thought of his woman employees standing much of the

Episcopal Church. His father and mother were in the watch party. They were kneeling and praying as he entered-praying for him, the rich young man who had great possessions, he doubted not-and he knelt and prayed among them.

A FRIEND IN NEED

JOHN S. HUYLER and Charles L. Goodell met each other in the prime of life. They became bosom friends. To the minister the merchant went to consult about his most cherished plans of benevolence. Never once did he find in the advice of the minister one trace of bias or selfseeking. He learned to lean upon him as upon a human rock. When Dr. Goodell thought of accepting this call

the largest congregations that assemble on Manhattan Island. His church is at the corner of 129th Street and Seventh Avenue. The auditorium is a plain oblong, with the pulpit at one side and the seats placed so near together to increase capacity that one must assume the form of a boomerang to make one's way to the center of a pew. The church is a plain structure, plainly furnished, and the preacher is a plain man. His personality is singularly unobtrusive at the first. There were two ministers in the pulpit, and I found it difficult to decide which was Dr. Goodell, and was almost at the conclusion that neither was he. True, there was a forceful-looking person in the pulpit chair nearest me, with short bristling pompadour and a pugnacious chin. I

time in their occupations in his factories and stores, he thought also of their tired feet, of swelling joints and burning soles, of aching callosities and throbbing bunions; and at the holiday season, when hours were longer, he provided free the services of a chiropodist for every woman of them. Huyler's life history in itself had been peculiar. Much money had made him a Christian, which, if we may believe Jesus and the evidence of our own eyes, is quite the opposite of what much money does for most men. Huyler's father and mother were loyal Methodists; but he, rich, young, convivially disposed, was setting his face toward the primrose path.

to Brooklyn, he considered the possible effect upon the friendship of himself and Huyler, a friendship the intimacies and frequencies of which could then no longer be continued, and he deemed the disposition of his friend, John S. Huyler, a thing of vast importance to the cause of Christianity and of philanthropy. It was with him, therefore, that he wished to consult before giving a final decision. He laid it before him in detail, and said:

"Shall I take it, John?"

THE SPELL OF TRUTH

knew that the call which had come to his friend was probably a greater opportunity than he would ever have in his own communion, such an opportunity as seldom comes to any man, and then surely but once in a lifetime. He did not want to give Goodell up; but, on the contrary, he did not want to be selfish; so he settled himself in his chair and tried to consider the wider interests of the Kingdom, after which he gripped the hand of the minister silently for a moment, and then said: "Go-if your conscience wills it."

The last hours of the year 1886 he had planned to watch AND Huyler sat a long time sunk in his chair. He out with boon companions in hilarious roistering. As he was leaving the office that afternoon on his way home to dinner at the family board in Harlem the bookkeeper handed him a check, saying that it represented his profits on the year's business. So great was his preoccupation with plans for a wild night that he thrust the check into his pocket without looking at it. After dinner as he started downtown again, he thought of the check, drew it out, and unfolded it under a lamp-post to read it. As he scanned it, his face paled. It was for a sum so large that it staggered him. That check pressed upon him an imponderating sense of the responsibilities which the New Year was bringing, a year which he had intended to welcome with wassail. He folded the slip of paper and replaced it in his pocket, but with more care. Thereafter, instead of going downtown, he turned his footsteps toward a different kind of watch meeting. It was held in a hall by a group of men and women who constituted the nucleus of what is now Calvary Methodist

But the minister himself was reflecting deeply, and consulting the wisdom of a still closer if less tangible friend, and in the end he found his conscience did not will it. He turned from the brilliant prospect, from service on a pinnacle in a famous pulpit with a great salary, and went back to ringing doorbells and climbing to the fifth floors of walk-up houses in Harlem.

Not the least notable of the qualities of Dr. Goodell is his preaching power. He speaks twice on Sundays to

looked him over carefully. His was not the face of a pulpit orator. The features were those of an executive mind. Patience and power were strangely mingled in them. But the spirit of the fighter bristled out of him. He was the sort of person you would have liked to have for a Subway or an "L" guard on Sunday night when the hoodlums started "rough-housing" among the returning pleasure-seekers; for he would have quelled such incipient riots single-handed. Later it developed that this was Dr. Goodell.

When he arose to speak, if a Hibernicism be permissible, his rarely unassertive manner asserted itself. The man's voice and bearing were simple. He made but the slightest use of personality. There was no suggestion of magnetism. He made

no quick movements. There was not one crackling, vibrant note in his tones. He seemed to be afraid of attracting attention to his presence there upon the platform. Only he kept on talking, and one must admit that his sentences began to be pungent. "The Practice of Religion" was his subject. He began soon to be saying: "Religion is the relation of the soul to God, and the practice of it is the practice of the presence of God. . . . God's regiment is not a camp fire or a ritual or a creed, but a good life growing into a good character. Theology is only a way of thinking; religion is a way of living."

...

Still, the man was disappointing. He plodded forward almost monotonously with his entirely uninflected discourse. There was no possibility of making an interesting personality story for COLLIER'S readers out of such a preacher. I had been misled in coming to hear him. Away down in my heart a very unworshipful sentiment framed itself, a sentiment which if vocalized would have sounded like that word of Ashdod: "Stung!" Yes, I was stung. I looked round upon the audience in a kind of sympathy. They were stung, too, poor people, and there were so very, very many of them; rank after rank of seats all full; the spaces back under the gallery full also; and the gallery, pitching upward on three sides of the auditorium, was banked high with pews that were filled, the women's hats blooming like some new hanging gardens. But reflecting that these people had been coming here like this Sunday after Sunday for nine years, it seemed patent that they could not have been deceived by a false lure. Then I fell to considering faces. Every eye was on the preacher. The hearers were in a waiting mood. They sat like candidates submitting to the attempted bewitchments of a mesmerist. They were going to give his spell a fair chance to "take" if it would. I turned to the companion at my side, who was also hearing Dr. Goodell for the first time, and found another pair of eyes that were fixed and motionless. The spell was taking in that quarter also.

As for the preacher, he had actually moved around on to the other side of the pulpit, and. was stretching out his hand in a gesture. His eye had lightened, his voice had become animated; the flow of personality was apparent. For a moment these details were noted, and then I, too, ceased to see, and listened only. Once, by a violent wrench of the will, an eye was cast back over the auditorium. The people might have been figures of wax. They were listening, listening, listening! with all the souls of them listening! That is the word, listening: not to an orator, not to phrases; not stirred by illustrations, though there were illustrations; not moved by sweeps of passion, though there was passion; not bound by a spell, though there was a spell; but listeningnot to a sermon but to truth, not to homiletic forms