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"These lessons are so clear and concise and at the same time so entertaining that it would be impossible not to receive a great deal of good from this Course. In fact, I look forward to each week's lesson with much interest," says B. F. CORDAY, President Corday & Gross Company, Cleveland, Ohio.

This Course will Awaken and Develop Latent Powers and Ambitions. It not only gives one that command of words and knowledge of men and things which tends to leadership, but it will shape your life mentally and physically by a thousand influences. It will inspire and develop latent qualities of concentration, will power, personal magnetism, and build up a personality which will command recognition and advancement.

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NAME.

LOCAL ADDRESS.

Street and No., or R.F.D. POST-OFFICE

STATE...

DATE

T

WO years' absence on a desert ranch

own town.

had made me a tenderfoot in my When I went away I took the barn dance with me, and many a merry galump we had in overshoes on the dry snow that winter. I return to find people in the grip of a curious dancing obsession-they leave dinner tables while the coffee is being served to show the exact tempo of some syncopated step with an outlandish name. "The Blue Danube" is a thing of the past. They smile at me as behind the times when I ask where all

Fourteen responsive raggers come on immediately and begin to trot like turkeys or crawl like crabs.

The clock strikes one.

Come on an' hear Bing! Bang!

Come... Slowly the swinging door glides forward and a helmet, an official helmet, hard and undeniable, gradually insinuates itself. Under the helmet is apparent an official eye-baleful, but not too baleful-radiating a glare.

BRUPT cessation of Alexander's in

in my town. Finally two able-bodied and experienced protectors take me in charge and I am led forth to see:

We are on the edge of Chinatown and there is mud between the cobbles and mud tracks on the pavements. I get a vision over my shoulder of feeble lights, narrow stairways, dark alleys, and men-silent men in a drab stream, oozing ceaselessly out of somewhere.

We go down-my two male guardians and I-into a café under the pavement. The stairs are mud-stained and the red carpet that meets them is wine-splashed and dirty. As we enter I stagger back a bit from the smoke and fetid air. The place is crowded with people drinking at tables and watching a sort of pen in the center where more people are jammed, not drinking, but gliding and wriggling. When they stop gliding and wriggling and go back to smoking and drinking, some glitter-eyed siren steps into the pen and enumerates, in song, with hard-mouthed archness, the things she likes to do with Billy, or else, prefixing a sort of moaning bellow, assures you "A-a-all that she wants is Love."

I

NEED not have had the fur collar of my coat as discreetly about my faceold friends nodded a greeting: evidently I was doing the "proper" improper thing. Dancers that cling, jaunty joggers like monkeys in a grotesque humor, walkabouts that wiggle languidly, those that lcer, that roll their eyes, that shut their eyes, that talk, that do not talk, that kiss under the shadow of a huge hat brimround and round they rag, pressed together in a close mass: flushed faces, painted faces, gray-green faces, faces scarred and pitted, fresh girl faces. . . Men look about and over at the raggers and, shaking their heads, exclaim solemnly at intervals:

"This is certainly a gay town!" The cuckoo clock is on the verge of one at a little waterside resort. A piano, a mandolin and a drum, apparently oblivious of cuckoo clocks, invite with fervor

Come on an' hear... Bing! Bang!
Come on an' hear
Bing! Bang!
Alexander's Rag Time Ba-a-a-and.

gers fade away with faint snickers. The helmet fades away.

Two minutes of silence, accentuated by the faint ticking of the cuckoo clock. The piano, the mandolin, the drum-gently at first and then with renewed vigor:

Come on an' hear... Soft-softCome on an' hear... Bing! Bang! Fourteen raggers respond for fifteen minutes. Slowly, again, the swinging door glides forward and a helmet, a glare, insinuate themselves.

Again, abrupt cessation of Alexander, the Turkeys, the Crabs, the Bunnies.

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on an' hear"-over and over at quarterhour intervals. Is a law a law or isn't it? Are we indeed but children again in a little old spinster's ill-disciplined school? So much for the edge of things. Out on the muddy cobbles again, to the depths of the Barbary Coast. Here, too, the narrow street is filled with men. I seem to be the only woman on it. A great negro, in spats and checkered suit and flashing diamonds, stands at one entrance and attempts to decoy. Names of the dance halls, exotic or patriotic-"The Lotus," "Our Navy"-in screaming electrics, make the street a blaze of light; but, nevertheless, there is a sense of secrecy in the very air that yields to no blazing light.

WE go downstairs and through a dingy

passage where stand the same indistinguishable men. They seem to be driven on like sheep and to be waiting like sheep, Within the swinging doors in a large circle couples are dancing. There are sailors and many more men that I cannot assign to any place but here and with this night; there are girls fearfully and unbelievably coated with paint, with bare shoulders and short skirts. Some of the couples are snapping out and clinging in the "Texas Tommy,'

Two veiled women with their escorts sit in a corner and watch and draw back just a bit more emphatically than seems necessary to let a painted girl lead her partner to a table.

Nobody seems to talk. Nobody seems to smile. They just rag and drink and rag

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Grace Morrissey.

Copy

right 1911.

and drink again. If a girl catches my eye she stares through it immovably.

There come to me oddly, as I watch them sitting close and silent, or ragging close and hot, those clear, cool lines of Yeats, those lines of the Lake Isle:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there and a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace thereWe go out-and before me, at the narrow street's darkened end, I see for the first time a great wall of rough boards, painted black, and on it in ghastly white letters, that somehow flash out more vividly than all the electric signs, are the words: "THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH."

And we pass by before an open door and catch a glimpse of a dim hall and bare benches and two blue-coated figures, who are exhorting to prayer an old, old man and a negro boy with a crutch. . . .

AGAIN we go along a dingy passage

way in which are more dingy men. Among them are hatless women with a strange air of being at home, in neat shirt waists and skirts. Except for their excessive ruddiness of hue, they look like high-school students or shop girls. There are raised boxes on one side of

from some man there comes a giggle. I am held trancelike, there with themall of us, slummers, miserable dancing creatures-girls, men-it seems one hopeless, helpless misery. I cannot look at even those watching faces now. I turn in my chair and search behind me for some place where I can look-but there, too, behind me, is only the glint of eyes all turned upon the writhing thing on the stage. And then I see something else.

I

SEE a blue-gowned figure in a blue poke bonnet. It moves about quietly, assuredly, with a gentle perseverance. It gets no attention now, but it moves about quietly, awaiting its chance-and, suddenly I am no longer just a sensitized plate. I catch a vivid glimpse of meaning in all this vile disorder. I see the stage, the men, the girls, the slummers, and standing against us all I see that Salvation Army woman, and I feel, with a rush of blood to my face, the shame of the Onlooker. The Onlooker, conscious of his own superiority, who gazes in aloof curiosity on the degradation of his brother, blood of our common blood, for an idle evening's sensation.

I catch a vivid glimpse of devotion to some cause for all humanity, of a life that gives up its own for all-indeed, I use cant phrases to express it, but I caught it then. It came to me more vivid than music or flaming words-from that bluegowned, quiet-moving figure.

And I wanted in that moment with all

the hall, and, opposite, a raised platform for tables. At one end is a stage, and at the other a railing where men crowd to buy a partner. In the center they dance, and when they are through dancing they go to the boxes and tables and drink; and within that same charmed circle is a peculiar arrangement of green benches running the length of the room, not unlike the pews of a church, with shelves for glasses on the back of each. Each seat holds four or five, and they are filled inostly with men-those strange, unplaceable men, all different, all alike, lined up, profile-wise, staring at the stage.

There something is happening. The hall is partly, darkened. The stage is dark. On it there is incense burning; two braziers flare up grotesquely, and a Chinaman at one end pounds a drumlike thing into a rhythm that grows creepy and gets curiously on the nerves. Something springs out of the darkness of the stage into the shadowy light-something very horrible. It begins to dance-if you can call the thing a dance. A few girls sit among the men, some with their arms over the men's shoulders, before them the sticky shelves and glasses. They sit expressionless, silent, but their watching eyes gleam. Occasionally

my might to leap up and cry out to them that it wasn't true, that it wasn't the way, that it was, indeed, all the horror their souls must know it to be.

"If we're not going to help them," I cried, "for God's sake" (and I meant it), "let's get out."

Protected, bound to my fate and nature as they to theirs! You may question the immediate good that Salvation woman does. That is nothing. What is something is this-she is a believer. She sits on no fence of doubt. She is down there among them holding out to them her belief in better things. What more can the greatest do? What in this wild, wide world is there to do but to have a belief and express it, by art, by act.

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#

Collier's Congressional Record

Munsey Building,
Washington, D.C.

R

WHY WOODROW WILSON?

OOSEVELT is the Republican most likely to be nominated; next to him comes HUGHES; the weakness of the President has almost ended his chance. Now what can the Democrats say to such an outlook? They must oppose the immense popularity and campaigning ability of the best President since the war, called back by the people because of his thirty years of successful progressive leadership; or they must oppose a man of distinguished character, powerful mind, and reassuring record, who will unite the hostile factions of his party. Under what leadership can they make headway against such opponents?

If they try HARMON or UNDERWOOD they will break their party all to pieces in the West, and very possibly force BRYAN to bolt.

If they nominate CLARK, the personal popularity with which he begins, backed by nothing else, will be battered to pieces in four months of bombardment.

If BRYAN, after supporting both CLARK and WILSON, should fall heir to their delegates and be nominated himself, it would be the old story. of the lack of confidence in the East, to which free silver has apparently made him the everlasting heir.

No one of these men could take his share of the independent vote away from ROOSEVELT or HUGHES, and the independent vote is tremendously large these days. The Democrats are "up against it" anyway, in the exceptional running strength of two of the Republican possibilities. Their rational course is to name the man who would take a large slice of the independent vote; would be backed by perhaps a majority of the great magazines and great independent dailies: would appeal to the young men; would take many thousands of the La Follette type of Republican radicals. WILSON has said of himself that he wishes to bring about radical changes by conservative means, and he described himself truly. Were it not for the bitter opposition of the machines, the money power, and WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST, WILSON Would be nominated; and much more than any other Democrat, he would cause the Republicans to sit up nights and think.

SPE

SOUTHERN REPUBLICANS

PEAKING AT WORCESTER, Colonel ROOSEVELT made a statement, not quoted in most of the papers, which has a bearing on one of the jobs this Weekly has undertaken for the political campaign. Here is part of it:

Mr. TAFT says that the influence of the Federal officeholders in the Chicago Convention this year will be less effective for any one candidate than ever before in the history of the party. This is not only an untruth but it is an absurd untruth. Never in thirty years' close observation have I seen such scandalous abuse of the patronage as this year. Moreover, it is out of the question that Mr. TAFT can really be ignorant of what is being done under him. All he has to do is to look at the series of articles running in COLLIER'S WEEKLY, which describe in detail the way that Federal patronage is being used in the Southern States. Facsimiles of the letters sent to the officeholders by Mr. TAFT's managers are reproduced; the names of officeholder after officeholder among the delegates are given; other criminal records of many of the delegates are given.

Our hope, of course, in replacing vague talk about corruption by patronage by documentary proof is to help put an end to the system. Fortunately a start has been made toward building up a real Republican party in Southern States, in place of the little gang of officeholders who are justly looked upon by the Southern whites as an echo of Reconstruction evils. There are already signs of improvement. North Carolina already has a Republican party in the proper sense; so has Tennessee; and Virginia has made an excellent beginning. It is time the South ceased to be held back by a political situation which is the outgrowth of Northern errors in solving the difficulties which followed the war. A party of mere officeholders should be changed into a real party or put out of existence. Another article in the series will be published next week.

CLUBS AND T. R.

HERBERT CROLY, in his interesting life of MARK HANNA, just

published, quotes a correspondent who wrote to Senator HANNA in 1903, about the Union League Club of New York:

I was astounded to see in that club-presumably as representative a body of Republicans as there is in the country-conservative, thoughtful men-that there was not one out of that whole membership whom I met-not one-who believed that THEODORE ROOSEVELT should be nominated or, if he were nominated, that he could be elected.

The clubs think of the Colonel in 1912 what they thought in 1903, have always thought, and will continue to think, as long as RoOSEVELT is ROOSEVELT and society is what it is. A New Yorker talking to five acquaintances in some corner of a fashionable club frequently imagines he is addressing a typical American mob.

No

.DEPEW ON THIRD TERMS

TO FIGURE in public life represents conservatism more acutely than the former president of the New York Central, ex-Senator CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW. Says he:

Has the third term ever got beyond the bogy of GRANT? Is it real? He refers to the talk of "emperor, czar, and all that sort of nonsense," and adds:

WASHINGTON Could have been elected four times had he wished, or oftener, but he declined because he wanted to retire to his farm and spend his days in peace. The people have never been given a chance to vote on the question. If they were I am satisfied they would upset the precedent which has been established. The opinion of the Senator is from an interview in the St. Paul "Dispatch" for Thursday, June 6, 1901, and relates to WILLIAM MCKINLEY. New York papers, which are now afraid of CÆSAR, NAPOLEON, and other enterprising foreigners, were eagerly arguing in favor of third terms when GROVER CLEVELAND'S return to office was in question.

TRUSTING THE PUBLIC

OUR VERY OBSERVANT fellow laborer, EDWARD BOK, has a

galaxy of flowers so brilliant that people come to see from many miles around. They run alongside his hedge, outside his grounds, with nothing to separate them from the immediately adjoining highway. One might expect them to be plucked and trampled always. The only comment is a modest sign, which reads: "These flowers are under the protection of the public." The public accepts the trust, and not a flower is injured. Is it not a symbol of many things? Is it not a lesson, in little, for those who are afraid the masses are unworthy of confidence, and only the few can rise?

POPE ON SMILES

N THE PROLOGUE to the "Satires," ALEXANDER POPE wrote a couplet which puts, with that poet's usual deftness, some frequent limitations of what is called good nature:

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,

As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.

Size is not especially betokened by persistent complacency, especially in statesmen. WASHINGTON was solemn, almost without relief; LINCOLN'S tragic nature was merely illumined by his jocosity; CROMWELL, CHATHAM, WILLIAM of Orange, MAZZINI-most of the greatest builders-have been grave.

WHERE CREDIT IS DUE

OUR ESTIMATE of the "Christian Science Monitor" of Boston

has been asked again lately, as it has been frequently before. Our business is to read many newspapers and sometimes to try to encourage the best. Judged from an entirely news standpoint, regardless of doctrine-judged from the just, intelligent, impartial, and well-balanced presentation of the worth-while facts-this daily stands in the very front rank of American journalism. For the benefit of the few readers of these lines who will astutely surmise that we are trying to please the Christian Scientists, we will observe that our hostility to the League for Medical Freedom, which we expect to reiterate on all appropriate occasions, will continue to make a hundred Christian Scientists enemies where a word of justice to their triumph in journalism could make one friend.

E

TERMINOLOGY

XPERTS DISAGREE, inevitably and hor tly, about some cases near the border lines. In the pure-food troversy we have been asked to supplement, with our own editorial opinion, the conflicting views given by different writers in our columns about glucose and corn sirup; and we are entirely willing to do so. Pure-food explanation is now, has been, and will continue to be a large part of our work; and we always prefer, when it is possible, the positive to the destructive side. We believe, then, that public prejudice against the word glucose is intense and unreasonable, probably because it sounds like glue; that glucose is harmless; that corn sirup is a justifiable designation for the product in dispute, since it has long borne the name, is made from corn starch, and does not pretend to be what it is not, there being in the market no other sirup made from corn.