dealing with disagreements between employers and employed, industrial warfare takes the place of industrial democracy, and instead of clear, strong statements of claims advanced and arguments adduced, we have minute accounts of what the reporters suppose to be picturesque or sensational incidents. John Mitchell almost alone among labor leaders has begun his contests with employers by clear and intelligible declarations of his side of the case, free from perfervid rhetoric and rhodomontade. One great step toward making the public judges and not partisans in labor troubles will be taken when the representatives of both sides learn the wisdom of less heat and more light. In short, trial by newspaper discussion may lead, through popular indignation, to a cessation of intolerable conditions such as have lately prevailed in New York, but it cannot be regarded as a judicial and well-balanced method of deciding controverted questions.

Such a method there should be, and ultimately there will be. The only way to get rid of the strike is to put something better in its place. Those who think the labor question can be settled by crying out for the destruction of the labor unions are no wiser than those who say they would like to see the race problem solved by sending the negroes back to Africa. The privilege of collective bargaining will never be relinquished by workingmen wherever they have gained it, and collective bargaining is the soul of unionism. It appeals to most minds as essentially fair because, when individual employer and individual employee bargain about wages or hours or treatment, there is no equality of coercive or persuasive power; the individual laborer may be discharged without the slightest inconvenience to the employer, although that laborer may be absolutely in the right; only when the employees act as a unit can they meet their employer on even ground. The union is to stay, then, but not necessarily as it is now, unincorporated, irresponsible to judicial proceeding, impossible to constrain or direct by State or Nation. The real problem is to provide a recognized and authoritative system of dealing rea

sonably and effectively with labor disputes, a court or conciliation council or other fair-minded place of appeal which not only may but must precede an appeal to the war tactics of the strike-a sort of Hague Tribunal for industry. When the questions involve employees of the government of city, State, or Nation, or those of public utility corporations, such as railways, telegraphs, or mines, the law might well absolutely forbid strikes of the employees as a body and without notice as unendurable and a crime against the people at large. Other countries have already moved in this direction. We may not be ready for such radical labor legislation as New Zealand's compulsory arbitration law, under which in labor disputes the employer has to obey the decision of a governmental board of arbitration under penalty of a heavy fine, the employee under penalty of losing his license to engage in his trade. But we might at least seriously consider the bill passed not long ago in Canada, and largely due to the Deputy Minister of Labor, Mr. W. L. Mackenzie, and reported at the time in The Outlook. This plan we find succinctly described as follows in the current issue of The World To-Day:

The act provides that no strike or lockout can be declared in any mining industry or public service utility prior to or pending investigation by a Board of Conciliation, on penalty of a fine of from $10 to $50 a day for employees and $50 to $1,000 for employers. At the request of either party to a dispute the Minister of Labor appoints a Board composed of one member chosen by each side and a third coöpted or named by the Minpowers, and issue a report. Their finding, ister. They will investigate, with full court however and here the measure differs from New Zealand's law-is not binding on either party; they are at liberty to reject it, and, if enforce their demands. It is felt, however, they desire, to declare a strike or lockout to that in ninety-nine out of one hundred cases the cooling of passion by the compulsory delay and the force of intelligently directed public opinion will lead to the acceptance of the award.

It is too soon to say that this experiment, or that of New Zealand, is a solution of a great problem; but it is not unreasonable to believe that in some such plan will be found the opening of a path leading away from senseless labr r-fights

toward the practical application of the idea that industrialism is business and

not war.

Faith and Fear

It is very difficult to reconcile with honest faith the timidity with which men hold the most fundamental truths. If they held these truths as a matter of conviction and experience rather than as intellectual opinions, they would not be afraid; because truth is in its nature impregnable. No man can really believe in a truth without being sure of its ultimate triumph. It is not strange that men are timid when they do not hold truth in its integrity; for believing in a truth is a much more difficult matter than many people comprehend. It is easy to have an opinion. It is not easy to male that opinion so much a part of one's character and life that it passes over into a deep and unshakable belief. The prayer, "Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!" expresses a well nigh universal experience and state of mind. A man from Mars, accepting the body of truth in the Old and New Testaments, would imagine that a Church which used such a Bible as its text-book would be absolutely without fear; that it would welcome the most penetrating play of the searchlight on its foundations; that it would welcome all human inquiry, and even human curiosity, being sure that the more carefully its claims were examined, the more painstakingly its truth studied, the nearer and the more certain would be its triumph.

But men in middle life still recall vividly the days when to announce one's faith in evolution was very like announcing one's self an infidel; and the name of Darwin, instead of being honored as a synonym for intellectual integrity, scientific enthusiasm, and an influence on modern thought more deep and penetrating, probably, than that which was exercised by any other man of the nineteenth century, was a term of opprobrium. Within the brief lifetime of a generation, Darwin's view of the process of nature, as a whole, has come to be so generally accepted and so widely under

stood that an eminent Christian teacher has said of it that it came to light just in time to save many of the best men and women from despair.

The adherents of Christian Science can make no more effective appeal than the declaration that their belief casts out fear and delivers those who accept it from the bondage to this ancient foe of the human race. Fear has no place in the life of any man or woman who believes either in God or in immortality. It is a survival of a semi-barbarous age, a specter that lingers, like the superstitions which children still cherish, from the times when men divided the world between God and the devil, with much the larger part to the devil. The Church has absolutely nothing to fear concerning the truth in its keeping; it has everything to gain by holding its doors wide open and inviting the whole world to come in and study and scrutinize and turn on the searchlight. Its timidity has cost it many a victory; its cowardice has lost it many a friend. It ought to welcome every honest inquiry and keep its doors open to every form of sincere investigation; but it ought also to show a certain kind of indifference to the possible results of inquiry and investigation; the indifference with which a man, fundamentally sure of the foundations on which he has built, would allow the most skeptical, critical, and cynical to examine those foundations at leisure. The body of truth which the Church holds is not a treasure which can be stolen. On the contrary, the more widely it is diffused, and the farther it is carried, the better, not only for those who take it, but for the Church itself. Like the miracle of the loaves, the treasure of truth multiplies as it is dispersed. The Church has as little to fear from the enemy who comes upon it unawares with the hope of carrying off its treasures as from the man who would steal a Bible for the sake of discovering whether it had any value for him. The Church is not a fortress in which a few of the elect find refuge in the midst of a hostile world, and to whom are committed certain treasures of such value that they must be securely guarded from the gaze of the covetous, and protected from all possible

assaults. The Church is rather a storehouse of the bread of life, ready to share with every man who asks and to feed every starving child of the multitude. Its doors ought always to be wide open; its treasures ought always to be in full view; for its central purpose is not to keep things to itself, but to scatter them broadcast through the whole world. Faith and fear involve a contradiction in terms. No man can really be dominated by both; for real faith, as contrasted with intellectual opinion, like love, "casteth out fear."

The Spectator

The Spectator finds, as he journeys through the country, that he, in common with other tourists, is seeking always for the novel and uncommon things sights with which he is unfamiliar, occupations previously unknown, and products of the soil heretofore untasted. The Spectator, therefore, being no exception to the common run of men, has been eager during a residence on the Pacific Coast to taste his first California fruit picked from the tree, to visit places of which he has read glowing descriptions, and, in fact, to pursue the novelty of every kind and nature when, perchance, it is brought to his attention. Of this zest for new things the Spectator has never been ashamed, believing that so long as life can offer him objects of interest he will ever be young in the pursuit of them.

Some things, however, cease to be novelties after the first glance, and at once sink to the level of the commonplace; others, like a door opening wider and wider, disclose sights growing more wonderful and varied the longer they are looked upon. The Spectator would call the glass-bottom boats at Catalina Island a novelty of the latter class, feeling sure that the mysteries of the sea as revealed to him in the Bay of Avalon would never become commonplace. There is seen plant life of every description, from the heavy kelp with its numberless air-pods to delicate ferns of infinite variety; fishes of bright red and sapphire blue give

color to these fairy-like haunts of the mermaid; and, indeed, it was an easy thing for the Spectator to believe that he was looking down into grottoes and caves peopled by another race of beings. But most wonderful of all was the jellyfish-an ethereal-looking substance of salmon-pink, with head that expanded and closed like an umbrella as the creature breathed, and with s‘reamers of the same jelly-like substance floating behind as it passed under the boat. What mattered it if the abalone shells had been previously dropped there to add beauty to the submarine setting? The boy who dived for them could bring up the very one desired by the occupant of the boat, thus increasing the wish to possess it. The Spectator knew that the real home of the abalone was on the rocks close by, and as all things else were native to the watery soil, he was willing to be duped to that slight degree and pay his "two bits" for a shell.

With this novel experience still fresh in the Spectator's mind, he learned that an artist in a neighboring city was giving exhibitions of sketches actually made under the water. The Spectator was incredulous, hardly believing such a thing possible, but if those moment ry pictures revealed through the glass-lttom boat could be perpetuated on anvas, he surely would make the effort to see them. Following the impulse to seek out all things that are novel, the Spectator found himself in the bungalow studio of the artist, looking at sketches of wonderful interest and beauty and listening to the artist's methods of working under the water. He told the Spectator that as a boy he was fond of swimming and diving, remaining below for a longer time than his companions, his artistic temperament all the time taking note of effects produced under water, until he found himself wishing that he might reproduce some of the pictures seen by him. It was at the island of Tahiti, when a young man, that the thought first came to him and he claims the idea as an original one-that he could prepare a canvas in such a manner as to permit of his sketching with oil crayons under

the water. He made no secret of the process, saying that a piece of canvas was thoroughly soaked in cocoanut oil, and then fastened to a square of glass with strips of surgeons' plaster. With watch in hand, the artist said to the Spectator, "Now imagine that the canvas is ready and I am going down for three-quarters of a minute, for that was as long as I could at first remain below. Let us see how much can be done in that short space of time. Now I am down thirty feet on the bottom of the sea; I look about and select my subject from among the many scenes of beauty presented; I fasten my canvas to a rock, and-time is up and I must go to the surface for air; but the next time I do the work that tells, and by taking several such trips my sketch is made." From this primitive method he advanced to the diver's suit, and then could work for an hour or more at a time. In looking at these sketches the Spectator was amazed to see rocks and cliffs seemingly as high as those in the Yosemite Valley, but the artist explained that this apparent height in a depth of only thirty feet is due to the magnifying power of the water. Coral reefs like mountains, wooded glens of tropical growth, arroyos and foothills-all were presented in a fashion to charm the eye of the Spectator. The work begun at Tahiti has been continued on the Pacific Coast, the San Francisco disaster checking the artist's career for a time, as valuable sketches and pictures were then destroyed. There was a suggestion of Robert Louis Stevenson about the man, the Spectator thought-his stories of life on a tropical island; his interesting recital of tales weird and ghost-like, in addition to his descriptions of picturesque scenes beneath the water.

In connection with these submarine subjects, the Spectator would mention another novelty in this line, though seen on dry land. In the wonderful electrical parade of Fiesta Week at Los Angeles, each float in the procession represented in some suggestive way a jewel or semiprecious stone. There was a wide range, from the diamond to the moonstone; but somewhere in between the coral had

its place. A coral reef was represented, in whose recesses gauzy sea-nymphs were almost hidden, while suspended above, as if floating in the water, was an immense white fish, whose undulating motions from head to tail, with the capacious mouth opening at intervals, gave an impression of reality, while its brilliant illumination gave evidence that the Jonah it had swallowed was in the form of electric bulbs. Every fin and scale showed with marvelous distinctness.

The Spectator by this time began to feel the dampening effects of so many water novelties, and changed the current of his thoughts by visiting a pigeon ranch-a novelty to him, inasmuch as he could hardly imagine one hundred thousand pigeons being held in one place without cage, bar, or bolt. On the edge of the Los Angeles River-that stream of sand rather than of water-he found this pigeon city, and gained a new insight, not only in "the flocking together of birds of one feather," but also in the culture of squabs, for the ultimate object of the proprietor is not to raise fancy breeds, but to cater to the pampered appetite of man. He stated a fact to the Spectator, which the latter had no desire to dispute, that “ common sense is a mighty good thing to have," and, possessing that, he had learned more by observation than any book could tell him. He had found that if pigeons had all they wanted to eat, conditions of environment such as they desired, and were not frightened by stray dogs or cats, they would never leave their home. He chuckled as he said, "See that little house across the river? That was built by a man to tempt my birds over there, but not one has gone." Three tons of wheat spread upon the ground each day offers an open-air, "all hours restaurant, and the birds appreciate their boarding-place. No halters or bridles, no fencing in, no cages or coops except the nests they make for themselves, no limitations of any kind or description, yet not a bird leaves the place except for a temporary flight. Freedom is theirs in every sense, yet the home instinct prevails and keeps their number intact.

Ο

UR many-sided President has a side to his nature of which the public has heard but little, and which, in view of his recent criticism of what he calls the nature fakers, is of especial interest and importance. I refer to his keenness and enthusiasm as a student of animal life, and his extraordinary powers of observation. The charge recently made against him that he is only a sportsman and has only a sportsman's interest in nature is very wide of the mark. Why, I cannot now recall that I have ever met a man with a keener and more comprehensive interest in the wild life about us-an interest that is at once scientific and thoroughly human. And by human I do not mean anything akin to the sentimentalism that sicklies o'er so much of our more recent natural history writing, and that inspires the founding of hospitals for sick cats; but I mean his robust, manly love for all openair life, and his sympathetic insight into it. When I first read his "Wilderness Hunter," many years ago, I was impressed by his rare combination of the sportsman and the naturalist. When I accompanied him on his trip to the Yellowstone Park in April, 1903, I got a fresh impression of the extent of his natural history knowledge and of his trained. powers of observation. Nothing escaped him, from bears to mice, from wild geese to chickadees, from elk to red squirrels; he took it all in, and he took it in as only an alert, vigorous mind can take it in. On that occasion I was able to help him identify only one new bird. All the other birds he recognized as quickly as I did. One day, on his return from a long tramp alone into the wilderness, he told me of a bird he had seen and heard that was new to him. From his description I concluded it was Townsend's Solitaire-a bird I was myself curious to hear. The next day, as we rode on

horseback through the country the President had tramped over, he paused at a certain point amid some scattered pine and low bushes above a gorge of the Yellowstone, and said, "It was right here that I heard the strange bird-and there it is now." And I caught the song as he spoke. We followed it up, and soon saw and identified the solitaire, a bird in size and color suggesting the catbird, but a much finer songster.

During a recent half-day spent with the President at Sagamore Hill I got a still more vivid impression of his keenness and quickness in all natural history matters. The one passion of his life seemed natural history, and the new warbler that had appeared in his woods-new in the breeding season on Long Islandseemed an event that threw the affairs of state and of the Presidential succession quite into the background. Indeed, he fairly bubbled over with delight at the thought of his new birds and at the prospect of showing them to his visitors. He said to my friend who accompanied me, John Lewis Childs, of Floral Park, a former State Senator, that he could not talk politics then, he wanted to talk and to hunt birds. And it was not long before he was as hot on the trail of that new warbler as he had recently been on the trail of some of the great trusts. Fancy a President of the United States stalking rapidly across bushy fields to the woods eager as a boy and filled with the one idea of showing to his visitors the black-throated green warbler! We were presently in the edge of the woods and standing under a locust-tree, where the President had several times seen and heard his rare visitant. "That's his note now," he said, and we all three recognized it at the same instant. It came from across a little valley fifty yards farther in the woods. We were soon standing under the tree in which the