Assuming that the business management of the “Christian Endeavor World” represents normal intelligence, I would like to ask whether it accepts the statement that a pair of “magic foot drafts” applied to the soles of the feet will cure any and every kind of rheumatism in any part of the body?  Further, if the advertising department is genuinely interested in declining “fraudulent and unworthy” copy, I would call their attention to the ridiculous claims of Dr. Shoop’s medicines, which “cure” almost every disease; to two hair removers, one an “Indian Secret”, the other an “accidental discovery”, both either fakes or dangerous; to the lying claims of Hall’s Catarrh Cure, that it is “a positive cure for catarrh”, in all its stages; to “Syrup of Figs”, which is not a fig syrup, but a preparation of senna; to Dr. Kilmer’s Swamp Root, of which the principal medical constituent is alcohol; and, finally, to Dr. Bye’s Oil Cure for cancer, a particularly cruel swindle on unfortunates suffering from an incurable malady.  All of these, with other matter, which for the sake of decency I do not care to detail in these columns, appear in recent issues of the “Christian Endeavor World”.

#Riches in Glory#

There came recently to Los Angeles a “world-famous evangelist”, known as “Gipsy” Smith.  There was a shirt-waist strike at the time, and the girls were starving, and they sent a delegation to this evangelist to ask for help.  They told him how they were mistreated, exposed to insults, driven to sell their virtue because their wage would not support life; and to their plea he made answer:  “Get Jesus in your hearts, and these questions will take care of themselves!”

So we see the most important of the many services which the churches perform for the merchants—­taking the revolutionary hope of Jesus, for a kingdom of heaven upon earth, and perverting it into a dream of a golden harp in an uncertain future.  To appreciate the fullness of this betrayal, take the prayer which Jesus dictated—­so simple, direct and practical:  “Give us this day our daily bread”, and put it beside the hymns which the slave-congregations are trained to sing.  In my neighborhood is a one-roomed building with a plate glass front, upon which I observe a painter inscribing in red, white and blue letters the sign “#Glory Mission.#” I approach him, and he drops his work and welcomes me with eager cordiality.  Am I “living in grace”?  I answer that I am.  I have to shout the good tidings into his ear, as he is very deaf.  He presents me with his card, which shows that he bears the title of “Reverend”, also the sobriquet of “Mountain Missionary”.  I ask him to permit me to examine the hymn-book which he uses in his work, and with touching eagerness he presses upon me a well-worn volume bearing the title “Waves of Glory”.  I seat myself and note down a few of the baits it sets out for hungry wage-slaves: 

  O, there’s a plenty, O, there’s a plenty,
  There’s a plenty in my Father’s bank above!