I shall never forget my first visit to Seattle several years ago. I came from Tacoma by boat. As we rounded the point in the bay the magic city burst into view. It seemed like the work of genii, this mighty commercial gateway to the land of the Alaskan,--a wonderful, beautiful city, solidly, grandly built and in so short a time. It is a miracle of American industry and enterprise. Its citizens have force and power and determined character. Yet here in this beautiful spot, I found, as in other cities, the starving, homeless, and destitute. "Will you give me enough to get something to eat?" asked an eighteen-year-old young man as he stopped me on one of the principal, prosperous streets of Seattle. He was such an object of pity that I hesitated and regarded him closely before I replied. So soiled and wretched was he that I stood apart lest he might touch me. Not alone did his clothing speak of his misery, but his face seemed burned with sin and neglect. "Go to the Charity Society," I said. "Will they help me?" he eagerly asked. I looked at a clock nearby and saw that it was then fifteen minutes after five. "It will be useless for you to go there now as they close at five, but," I said, "although I'm about broke, too, I will buy you a beer." His lip trembled and tears actually filled his eyes as he said, "I can find a lot of fellows who will buy me a beer, but I can't find anyone who will buy me something to eat." The next day I looked for work and to see what privileges were accorded for the out-of-work, destitute man in Seattle. First, after a jungle hunt, I found the Charity Society. After waiting a half-hour far up in a very high building in a dark room with a lot of rubbish, I was seen and put through a humiliating lot of questions. I was not asked if I were sick, or hungry, or whether I had comfortable clothing or needed medicine. I was asked if I were a church member, if I supported my wife, and many other such questions. Then I was offered a ticket for two twenty-cent meals at a restaurant and a bed at a Mission Lodging House. I took the names and addresses of these places and making some trivial excuse for not taking the tickets (although I could have given hundreds of them away that night) I left. I found the restaurant in a slum, and while I stood in its doorway I counted eight saloons. The lodging house I found in the heart of the worst tenderloin ever created. The sleeping quarters were in a basement. Its immediate surroundings were Chinese and Japanese who come to this country bringing all of their own vices and who then promptly adopt all of ours. Three doors from the entrance to the lodgings is a brothel of the lowest character. It harbors seventy-five scarlet women of the worst type, and it is only one of the many near at hand. These places, which, with all the other corrupting influences for sin, make up Seattle's worst hell, cannot be described. Yet it is here that the heads of the