in their hearts, don't believe it; they never will, Johneen. You'll be gettin' down to work as soon as you can, and I'll do what I can for you-but don't be forgettin' all the Latin I have paid for. And, my boy, don't tell her when I'm around, for the love of heaven!" The table was spread in the kitchen, and John, as a future ecclesiastic, asked to say grace. This had hitherto been his father's prerogative, but Sullivan endured his declension philosophically.

After the lemon meringue pie-Catherine's Sunday chef d'œuvre-had been consumed in silence, except for John's occasional discourse, which his mother listened to with delight, Sullivan went out ostentatiously. The silence of the warm Sunday afternoon settled on the house. Mother and son went into the parlor, gay with green and red plush and elaborate lace curtains. They had still much to say. Sullivan was far away from her to-day-of the past-almost a necessary evil. The mother and son each sat at a lace-draped window looking on the street. John wanted to talk of Rose, but it became more and more difficult, and more and more he felt as if he were a liar.

Two girlish figures passed by just as the Vesper bells began to ring. They were in white, with red parasols, and one wore a hat with crimson flowers.

"Rose!" he said, forgetting. "Rose?" said his mother wonderingly. "Ah, yes, mother."

There was something in his voice that enlightened her.

"Go to your-Rose!" she said bitterly. "Go! Turn your back on God, as your father has done!"

He did not move; her voice cut his heart; it seemed as if she were no longer his mother. She left him.

"Tim, O Tim-O Tim!" she wailed, when Sullivan came home in the twilight. "He's gone to see her! I've only you-only you in the world-you're the best man that the Lord ever made!"

"Nonsense, nonsense, my colleen," returned Sullivan cheerfully. "Not the best. So he's told you that he wants to marry Miss Rosey? It's all right. Mike Brosnahan, to make amends for no matter what, is going to set Johneen up in business with his son-and, in time, acushla, you'll have a grandson.”

Catherine became cold at once.

"Don't talk that way! What will be the good of a grandson that'll be the child of another woman?"

And she wept until she could weep no

more.

T

HE glory of Glasgow's government is not an American myth. It is a concrete reality, even to the ha'penny man on the tram. "We have the best city in the kingdom, probably in the world, sir," a casual neighbor on top of one of Glasgow's tram-cars said to me. That sounded like Pittsburg, like Chicago, or like the boastfulness of the American Far West. But it wasn't the same thing. "You seem to be proud of your city," I suggested invitingly. "Of course I am, my friend responded. "Glasgow sells me gas at two shillings a thousand, it gives me telephone service at little more than half what

VOL. XLII

it used to cost from a private company; it sells me water and electricity, and does a lot of other things. As for the Glasgow trams, they beat the world." "And the tax rate?" I inquired. "Is very low," was the reply.

We passed a bowling-green, smooth as a billiard-table. "The city has just opened those greens," said my informant, and pointing to a group of workingmen, he added: "Any one of those men could tell you the things I am telling you; they know all about our tram system; they have a fair idea of what the system earns, and what it costs to carry them. They'll tell you whether the profits should be used to reduce fares or to

pay off the tramway debt. They regard the trams, the gas, the water, the electricity, as their business. A councilman has got to attend to the business of those men. If he doesn't, they 'heckle' the life out of him." That's what the man on the street says about his Glasgow. That's what the poor unfortunate, living in a two-room tenement says. That's what the merchant, the manufacturer, the big business man says. They talk Glasgow all the time. Edinburgh says this is vulgar. Edinburgh says it is undignified. At all events, it's the Glaswegian way. Even at the club I found it. I was introduced to a knot of sandy-haired business men. They were deep in talk. I heard the phrases business men conjure with in America. I heard of tramways, of gas, of electricity, and of telephones. And especially of some big corporation in which they all seemed to be interested. One of the men was a ship-owner, another was a large merchant, another an editor-all were men of eminence.

The talk turned to parks, to housing schemes, to symphony concerts, to a Whistler portrait in a local art gallery. The corporation so absorbing to them all turned out to be the corporation of Glasgow, the biggest corporation in Scotland. The tramways, the gas, the electricity, the symphony concerts, the Whistler purchase-all were parts of this Glasgow. These men were discussing economies not parties; policies, not politics-and they did it as if it were their own business.

I went out to the sewage disposal works at Dalmuir. An old employee took me in tow. He explained how the sewage was collected; how it was separated by chemical treatment, how the water was purified before being poured into the River Clyde. It was so pure, he said, that it was fit to drink. He offered me a glassful, but I told him I wasn't feeling thirsty just at that moment. So he drank it himself. He told me how much the city received from the sale of the sludge as fertilizer. He explained the process as a gardener might describe the cultivation of some rare flower he had given his life to producing. The man had been in the city employ a long time. There was little dignity, and less pay, about his position. But he was a citizen of no mean city, and he was proud of his job. He was loath to let me leave him and his cesspool. It was all so

important to him, he felt it must be equally important to the rest of the world.

Enthusiasm and interest, devotion and pride these are the characteristics of Glasgow citizenship. I have talked with the heads of the city departments, with a score of town councillors, with police and fire officials, with clerks, bath-house custodians, and conductors on the tram-cars-with all sorts of men, Tories and Liberals, Radicals and Socialists, from the Lord Provost down to the cab-driver. And this is the only citizenship I have been able to find.

Graft? Yes, I found some talk of graft. The Glaswegian doesn't call it that. He doesn't know the word. But here and there a man would shake his head and say: "The council isn't what it used to be." "It rather amazes me," said a newspaper editor, "to read what you Americans are always saying about us. Of course though, I am a pessimist, but I cannot help feeling that the outlook here isn't very good. The make-up of the council is changing. No, I have no personal knowledge of corruption, but there are men who have. I'll give you a note to a former councilman," mentioning a prominent business man; "he knows all about the way things are going down in the council chamber."

It was true, then, this that I had so often heard in America-that no city could go in for such extensive business as Glasgow had undertaken without corruption; that public ownership was bound to demoralize a city. And here it was. Had even Glasgow nothing to teach America? For that was what I was looking for, lessons in city administration.

I called on one of Glasgow's most distinguished citizens. He had been in the council fifteen years, and had but recently retired. He, too, was inclined to send me away with the indefinite remark that the council was not what it once was; that there were two or three aldermen who had no visible means of support; mere adventurers, he called them, who were making use of their positions in questionable ways.

"Let me see," I inquired, remembering Chicago, Philadelphia, and St. Louis. "You have no street-railway, gas, or electricity franchises to give away; no contracts to light the streets, for you do all these things yourselves. You have abolished the contractor, and do all of your own work. You

have no franchises, grants, or privileges, have you?"

"Oh, nothing of that kind, if that's what you mean by graft," he promptly replied.

This was mystifying. Here was corruption, but corruption without cause, for there was no one to tempt the official. And men do not bribe themselves. When pressed to be more definite, he said: "Well, there's Bailee so and so," mentioning a member of the council. "He was sitting in license court some years ago, and one evening he found on his desk an envelope containing fifty pounds. It was from a public-house keeper (saloon-keeper) who wanted a license." "That was bad," I suggested. "Was the magistrate prosecuted?" "Of course not," came the indignant protest. "He didn't keep the money. He made the matter known at once, and the applicant was arrested. And, of course, he didn't get his license."

I professed the proper amount of horror, and asked, "Any other instances of graft?" "Well, that was a number of years ago. There was another case of the same kind, but it wasn't so bad as that, and we couldn't prove anything. But," he continued, "the trade is very active in politics. The liquor interests are said to have backed one or two men for the council, men who have no business or profession, and who simply live by their wits."

Undoubtedly "the trade" is active in politics. The council names fourteen of its members as magistrates in the police court. They determine what licenses shall be granted, and what refused. There is evidence that the trade has organized for protection. It is certain that it aided in defeating Sir Samuel Chisholm, one of the most distinguished councilman the city ever had. He had made himself obnoxious by a crusade against the traffic. Sir Samuel is a prominent wholesale merchant. After having been in the town council for half a generation, he became Lord Provost, the highest distinction in the community. As Lord Provost, he urged the clearing of some disreputable slums and the erection of model dwelling-houses for the poor. This would have involved an increase in the tax-rate. The more parsimonious among the taxpayers combined with the trade and put up a clever young man (an evangelistic street speaker) and returned him to the council

against Sir Samuel. They now speak of their representative as an "adventurer," a socialist. Yet they concede that he never neglects his duties, and is a dangerous antagonist. And all admit his cleverness and power

That's as far as graft goes in Glasgow. The city is not menaced by any special privileges. It is a government of the taxpayers, for the taxpayers, by the taxpayers. For only taxpayers vote. I never knew a city that hated taxes as much as does Glasgow, and talked so everlastingly about the rates. Any measure involving taxation, even for the relief of the poor, and the poor of Glasgow are terribly poor, indeed, has to pass a jealous scrutiny. Away back in the sixties, the ratepayers defeated Lord-Provost Blackie, who had promoted the splendid clearance schemes for the destruction of the city's worst slums. Glasgow is a taxpayers' administration. I fancy it was these same taxpayers who took over the various undertakings of which the city is so proud. With Scotch thrift, they hated to see the profits go into private pockets.

But I was not through with graft. Ihad read in the London Times that the increasing army of municipal employees was a menace to British institutions. I knew something of the spoils system in America; knew that most people who feared municipal ownership, feared it because of this fact. And here in Glasgow there are 15,000 men in the city's employ. One-tenth of all the voters are on the pay-rolls. Here was the only possible source of corruption. For nobody even suggested that the city had been sold out to the trade or that the so-called "adventurers" in the council had ever sacrificed the city for their own advantage. I had been told by a prominent citizen that the employees in the gas department had once organized and threatened to put the city in darkness if their wages were not raised. Here was something real, something I could verify. This was something ominous, for all of our cities are adding to their activities. and taking on new burdens which involve an increasing number of employees. I went to Mr. James Dalrymple, the manager of the tramways, which the Glasgow people say are the best in the world. The department employs 4,400 men. I asked Mr. Dalrymple if his men were in politics; if their unions had ever endeavored to in

fluence the council, or had tried to coerce the city. "Never within my knowledge," he said. "The city is the best union they can have, for the city pays good wages, better than the private company did. The city gives the men a nine-hour day; it provides them with free uniforms; they have five days' holiday a year on pay, and get sick benefits when off duty. They do not need any union, although the city would not mind it if they did organize. There were one or two instances of protest over piece-work, but we told the men they could work as they pleased. There has never been a strike, and never since the department was opened in 1894, have they attempted to influence the election of a councilman."

But the trouble had been in the gas department. So I went to the gas manager. I asked him about the strike, asked him what had happened when the men threatened to close the works and blackmail the city into submission. The strike turned out to have been the reverse of serious. Some years before an effort had been made to organize the workers into a union. A handful of men left work without giving notice, as they are required to do by law. They were promptly discharged, and later prosecuted for leaving the works. There had been no danger that the plant would close down. This was the extent of this incident. It was as far as any of the 15,000 employees have ever gone in controlling the council. From time to time I heard references to this danger from others, but of councilmanic influence or attempted coercion I never heard of a single serious instance in all England. Nor has the spoils system a place here. They do not know what the spoils system means, although England has no civil service laws. Each man runs his department as he would a business. He picks out the best man he can find; the city pays good wages and the employee remains as long as his service is satisfactory.

This ended my pursuit of graft. I did ask the Lord Provost, who has been in the council for twenty years, about it. "There is none," he said. "Any man who gave color to the suspicion that he was dishonest, that he was interested in a city contract, that he even sought to make a place for a relative or a friend, would be treated as a pariah. He would be ostracised both in the council and out of it."

THE LORD PROVOST

The Lord Provost is the head of the city. He is as like our mayor as anything they have, and as near a boss as anything I found

only he is neither. He has no offices to fill; no veto messages to write; no party to lead; no boss to serve; no salary to enjoy; no honors or emoluments to bestow. He is a titular dignitary, the first among equals. That is all. He is elected as a councilman by his ward, and then chosen mayor by the council over whose meetings he presides. He is an ex-officio member of all committees and his influence on legislation and the life of the city depends upon his character, not upon his legal powers. He represents the city on official occasions, receives the King and distinguished guests. No man can accept the position unless he can afford to neglect his business for three years' time and spend a considerable sum of money in maintaining the dignity of the office. The office is one of expense, not of income. Despite his lack of legal authority, the Lord Provost exerts great influence on administration. He is the busiest man in the city. His daily programme is as full as that of a débutante at her first ball. At the Town Hall by ten, the morning is filled with correspondence and the sessions of committees. Then an official luncheon. Later, perhaps, a meeting of the council, over which he presides, with frequent interruptions to attend some public gathering. In the evening a dinner, some notable gathering, a congress or fair to be opened with a speech. Later another address, possibly before some working men's organization. To these demands are added various duties which fall upon him ex-officio, not to speak of the arbitrament of labor disputes, the representation of the city's interests before parliament, and a host of other claims all equally insistant.

What are the returns for all this sacrifice? When the Lord Provost retires from office the city has his portrait painted and hangs it in the Municipal Art Galley. It also places an official coach and pair at his disposal. His other returns? Well, they are certainly not of a financial sort. One of them is the order of knighthood, which is usually bestowed by the King. I asked the present Lord Provost about these things. I had seen the portraits of his predecessors in the art gallery-all fine-looking men, clad in pur

ple robes and ermine with massive gold emblems about their necks. So I did not recognize as the Lord Provost the alert, breezy, business man who dashed into his office like a railway magnate eager for the day's mail. While waiting in the anteroom, I had learned something about the present incumbent, Sir John Ure Primrose. He is a wealthy miller and has been in the council for twenty years. During that time he has never had a contest for his seat. For these people keep a man in office as long as he is satisfactory. They do not care whether he is a Conservative or a Liberal. He may be a Labor candidate or a Socialist. All his constituents ask is that he be a good councilman. He must be that. There is no party nomination, no party ticket, no platform-only the man himself. There are ward committees of a purely voluntary sort which look after local interests. Two voters with six seconders can place any man in nomination. The candidate has no assessments to pay, no expenses to incur, no party to subscribe to, no boss to bow to, no machine to placate. In America the politicians tell us we must have parties in order to have responsible government. The American official is made responsible to his party, which is his boss. With us the party is afetich. The Glasgow alderman is responsible to the most exacting of masters, the people. There is the difference. But if he serves them well, he may remain as long as he likes. Of the seventyfive elected members now in the council, more than one-third have been there for at least ten years, eighteen have been in office for at least fourteen years, while four have served their wards for over twenty years. Like a member of Parliament, the alderman need not live in the ward he represents. In fact, not more than one-third of them do. And about one-half never have any contests for their seats.

The election is as simple as the nomination. The ticket before the voter contains only the names of the councilmanic nominees. The issue is clear. It is not confused by national questions. It is not obscured by a big blanket ballot containing possibly a hundred names. There are no party emblems. Only the simple question of whether one man or another shall be the people's director in the people's corporation.

Here is pure democracy, the simplest that could be devised. Nominations and elect

tions by the people directly and so simply arranged that the issue cannot be evaded, cannot be confused. There is no boss, no machine, no party, nothing between the people and their servant. When a ward is contested, however, the campaign is as hot as if a seat in Parliament were at stake, and the candidate has to submit to a harassing "heckling" from the voters as to his position on local questions. In this art the Scotch are masters. It is a body so chosen that every three years elects from out its number its most distinguished member, the Lord Provost.

The present Lord Provost is a product of this local democracy. He happens to be a Conservative. His predecessor, Sir Samuel Chisholm, was a distinguished Liberal. Both were chosen without any change in the political color of the council. I asked the Lord Provost why he gave up his time and business the way he did for the city.*

I

"It's in the blood," he said. "I had an uncle who was Lord Provost before me. was influenced by his example. As far back as I can remember I was hoping to be Lord Provost. Even as a lad I conceived the ambition to follow in the footsteps of my uncle, John Ure. Even as a school-boy I made a study of extempore speaking, keeping before me this ideal of public life. I was the oldest of a family of twelve, and necessarily went into business as a young man. At the age of thirty, I entered public life, being elected to the council of the Borough of Goven. Later I was elected to the council of Glasgow, where I have served the city ever since."

"What was this boyish ambition?" I asked.

"It was an ambition to make the city a little better before I die."

"Wouldn't you rather be an M. P.?" "Decidedly not. A member of Parliament is but part of a machine. The work in the town council is creative. A man sees his work grow before his eyes."

"Is there any connection between the public spirit of men like you and the public undertakings, such as the trams, gas, water, electricity, and telephones, which the city carries on for its people?" I asked.

*Sir John Ure Primrose retired in November last on the expiration of his term. He was succeeded by a Liberal

William Bilsland, who, in addition, is a leading advocate of the Taxation of Land Values, as the Single-Taxer is called in Scotland.