Cincinnati is, indeed, one of the most beautiful of all our American cities. Perhaps with the exception of New York and Boston, Cincinnati has more points of interest for strangers than almost any other city in America.

With renewed interest I again viewed the massive Postoffice building in Government Square; again I admired the fountain in Fifth avenue presented to the city by Tyler Davidson; once again I entered the wonderful Romanesque Public Library building with its more than a quarter of a million volumes; and again in appreciative silence I stood in St. Peter's cathedral before Murillo's masterly painted, "St. Peter Delivered,"---a glorious conception.

In meditation again I stood and viewed number

twenty-one on East Eighth avenue, where, on a wintery afternoon, November 21st, 1864, T. Buchanan Read wrote that deathless poem, "Sheridan's Ride;" again, mindful of the sweet memories that cluster around their immortal and god-blessed songs in every Christian heart, I journeyed out to beautiful 'Clovernook' and stood with bared head before the former home of Alice and Phoebe Cary, now the Home for the Blind.

In Garfield Place once more I admired that superb esqestrian statue of William Henry Harrison, ninth president of the United States from whom my own son can claim descent, and, mindful of historic interest, I went down the river to North Bend to the old Harrison Home, now sacred to the memory of the hero of Tippecanoe.

On the ride to Price Hill, via the Warsaw car, is one of the finest specimens of ingenious engineering I have ever seen---made necessary by the extraordinary steep grade.

From one of the many elevations on Price Hill a wonderful scene caught my eye; all of beautiful Cincinnati in nature's own magnificent amphitheater below. I was thinking of this grand panorama when the conductor called "Hawthorne," and touching me on the shoulder said, "there's the gate to the convent grounds, sir, just follow the driveway."

Following your assignment faithful to my promise to the editors and through them to the vast army of Menace readers a quarter of a million strong, I was on my way to explore the mysteries of one of the largest, most notorious, most feared and most worshipped, most hated and most loved, most poverty stricken yet most profitable, apparently most innocent and yet closest-guarded and most shrouded in secrecy---of all convents in America.

I succeeded. What I saw there I shall tell, kindly

as may be and yet fearless; for, readers all, you were unconsciously looking through my eyes; what I saw you of The Menace army shall see. And yet---one word with you before we, together, you and I, shall walk these long, dark halls or peer suddenly into many rooms with locked doors or stand before the holy shrines or stare into a long, dark, cement tunnel or gaze into the dumb souls that peer darkly out from the suffering eyes of countless little, enslaved girl-children!

Let us divest ourselves first of all malice---all hatred---all personal bitterness. Let us distinguish in our civic wrath and righteous indignation between the individual and the Romish system that makes that individual its self-sacrificed victim, its dumb-driven slave. Let us have mercy and human sympathy for the victim, the slave, even as we demand and enforce the political extinction of the Vatican's system in America.

The summer sunshine beat down pitilessly from above as I pushed the iron gate of the driveway open and entered the grounds of the Cincinnati convent of the Good Shepherd. These grounds comprise one of the many high points on Price Hill; a board fence some ten feet in height extends around the enclosure which contains eleven acres.

A few steps---and I discover that I had entered a beautiful place. Great, wide spreading trees cast a grateful shade. Trees and grass everywhere. A hundred feet further, and above the trees a great, grey, four-story building towered in massive silence. A second glance, and I saw another building, perhaps half a city block to the rear of the first and built of red brick.

Around the second building were walls and high board fences extending in several directions, forming various yards. But now I was nearing the great, grey building, sauntering leisurely up the cement

walk, admiring the beautiful flowers that bloomed in luxuriant profusion beside all the walks.

In my pocket I carried a "permit" to tour the convent in the form of a letter of introduction from an influential Catholic source, further requesting that my investigation be thorough. How did I secure this? Well, I---but what's the use---you don't really want me to tell 'out loud' do you? We may want another, you know!

Fifteen or twenty little girls were sedatedly playing under the trees. Another little girl some eight or nine years old came suddenly out of a side entrance near me. In answer to my question as to where I would find the "Mother Superior" she said, "I'll call her for you," and pressed a button beside the door. I passed on into a small, bare reception hall. A door opened softly and a woman, clad in white robes from head to foot, entered. To her I introduced myself and explained my mission, giving her my letter of introduction, which was addressed to "Mother Xavier."

"But," said the lady in white, looking up from her reading, "I am not Sister Xavier, I am Sister Aurelia." "Yes," said I, "I am so glad to meet you for I have heard you spoken of quite often. I believe you have charge of the smaller girls, the 'Preservates,' do you not?"

"Yes," said Sister Aurelia, "and I shall be delighted to show you all through my part of the building, and then introduce you to Sister Xavier, who will be so pleased to show you all the rest."

And with that she led the way to the massively arched front entrance of the building, pass a still lovelier profusion of flowers, up the steps, down a corridor; truly, I was 'behind convent walls.' The interior of this building is rather plain in finish, but is kept in the best of repair. Sister Aurelia is soft of speech, in her voice is the sweet lit of old Ireland;

she is of medium height and perhaps forty years of age, as she glanced at me as we ascended the stairs to the second floor I suddenly became aware that her eyes were large, handsome, but keenly gray.

I must hasten and will be brief in describing the younger girls' department. These girls, from six to twelve years old, are classified as 'Preservates' and are supposed to be kept separate from the older girls. I noticed that every door, almost without exception, is kept locked and Sister Aurelia had difficulty with some of the keys she carried---they failed to fit some of the locks.

Soon we encountered another lady in white (white robes are the distinctive garb of the 'Sisters' of the 'Good Shepherd'). She was introduced to me as Sister Vincent. She was evidently in authority---I since strongly suspect that she is in reality Sister Xavier herself---but whoever or whatever she may be, I shall long remember her quiet dignity, her gentle courtesy, and, above all, her differential diplomacy.

She carried one key, and every door opened to that key. I was shown the school rooms. Two were small rooms and one rather large. Rapidly I silently counted the small, plain, painted desks---not enough for a third of the one hundred and sixty to two hundred little girls constantly in this department.

One after another I passed into and keenly scanned the sleeping dormitories; from thirty to seventy small, iron beds in each place about two feet apart, painted windows always kept closed---and locked. We passed into the "recreation room"---a large, plain room filled with empty chairs. At one end an altar with sacred and wonderfully sculpted images. A half dozen disconsolate little girls in checked calico aprons, busily knitting red yarn winter caps completed the picture.

We passed into the chapel. There amid the 'dim,

religious light' at the far end was God's altar, gleaming and glistening in white beauty. Again the striking, marble figures, among them even the Son of God, the true "Good Shepherd." Except for the figure of a woman in black robes kneeling silently midway of the room, the chapel was deserted. Yet---as I gazed---I wondered if God was in the holy place behind that altar.

Some other time I may tell you all that I saw in this building, but just now I must omit all that intervened until Sister Vincent said, "now we will go to the other building and we will show you through our laundry and our sewing rooms. You know we own the 'Bank Street' laundry. You understand, of course, that children must have some work for their own welfare and development, so we provide them employment for their own good."

I had the cue now and I discoursed so eloquently on the absolute necessity of employment for children, etc., ad lib, that as we emerged from the rear entrance of the main building and made our way toward that faithful, red brick building, my companions were visibly delighted and we all three waxed quite enthusiastic.

We paused by a large stone basin where floated pond lilies amidst which many gold fish glided and played. "Beautiful---beautiful!" I exclaimed. "Yes," answered Sister Aurelia in her soft Irish accents, "the children do so love to come here and watch the fish---and do you see our teeter-totters and our swings? Oh, they have some grand times playing here."

(There were two 'teeter-totters and I think three swings!)

Even here the ground under your feet was trembling in unison with a constant rumble that surged and roared from the other building.

"Now, Mr.---, we will go in if you like," said Sister Vincent, leading the way. Being courteous by nature (perhaps for other reasons also) I took pains to keep both my conductors in front of me whenever possible. Probably they will never dream until they read this article how much I really saw nor how closely I was watching.

The outer door was locked---so was the inner door. Now a deafening crash smote our ears, then lapsed to a steady hum, like some giant bee above us. "Ah," said Sister Vincent, "see, they have shut the power off---they are through for today." "And yet," I remarked, "'tis early, not later than five o' clock, is it?" (I had the cue again.) "Why no," said Sister Vincent, pulling her gold watch from a fold in her white robe and showing me the time with a satisfied smile, "it is just a quarter till five." I had expected the proper 'stage setting'---I was apparently very duly impressed.

Some twenty or thirty girls from twelve to eighteen years old were visible here and there in the laundry, some folding sheets in a desultory way, some sitting here and there obviously reading books, others doing fancy work. But there is no bookcase visible in this building and the girls doing fancy work had only the thread or silk on their needles, not a spool of thread or a skein of silk to be seen anywhere! Get the idea? It was all well-staged---only it was too well done.

"You see, Mr. ---," said Sister Vincent, "when they finish they may do as they like, read or sew or crochet until supper time, six o' clock, then they have two hours' play-time until bed-time at eight-thirty."

Magnificent!

And that laundry is one of the largest and best equipped I have ever seen. It takes two hundred girls to operate its machinery! And the work of

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course is perfect. Every modern machine known to laundry science is found here.

The laundry work done here comes from corporations, fashionable clubs, and wealthy citizens gathered from all parts of the city and delivered by wagons bearing the sign, "THE GOOD SHEPHERD LAUNDRY, PRICE HILL." Glancing at the records sheet for the day I saw the names of hotels and restaurants.

Then after visiting every other department of this immense laundry I was shown up-stairs and taken through every department of the "sewing rooms." The first we visited was the shirt factory. Here are, perhaps, fifty power sewing machines, every machine designed for its especial task, at every machine sat a little girl---and some were such very little girls! With bowed heads and stopped shoulders these female infants toiled and toiled.

I thought of Hood's "Song Of The Shirt," but as I walked amidst the grinding, shrieking, whirling howl of these merciless power machines, as I saw the tired, bent, thin, anemic bodies of the girl-children and their claw-like, crippled fingers, as I gazed at the pitiful little checked calico aprons, all alike, my thought changed. All the beauty and the glory with which Catholicism would invest that white altar I saw in the chapel fell away as filthy rags! My heart whispered the burning, blightening, biting Truth---

"This is one of Hell's own sweatshops! In that laundry little human beings wash other folk's dirty, stinking clothes in tears! The shirts that are made here by these childish fingers are black with the blood of slavery in God's eyes!"

These machines are owned by Rauh and Mack, shirt manufacturers, who are located on Sixth street, between Sycamore and Main, this city. Their shirts are marked "R. & M.," "Avondale," and "Famous," which is their leader. The Menace dares this firm to

print the true price named in their contract with this convent for the making of these shirts. If they do not, The Menace may.

Just here the Protestant people have been asleep. Look carefully at the label of the next shirt you buy (inside the collar-band). Oh, Protestant fathers of little, darling girls---Oh, you Big Brothers of tiny sisters---if one of these brands of blood be on the next shirt you buy, and you can deliberately buy it after reading this article, may it burn you like the mark of Cain! Unpaid, imprisoned child labor!

We passed next---the sweet, slave-driving 'Sisters of Heaven' leading the way---into the overalls factory. And, Ye Gods! 'Twas but going from Hades to Hell! A great battery of forty power-driven overalls machines---at each a miserable, little girl-slave, working feverishly twelve hours six days in the week---for what? To finish her allotted task of forty or fifty dozen pieces each day that she may not lose her pitiful supper of two slices of bread, a piece of cold meat (perhaps) and a cup of chicory coffee or weak tea, and drugged at that!

I have used other means of gaining inside information besides this visit. It is little wonder that these girl-slaves present such a pitiful physical appearance as they do when numbers of former inmates swear that saltpeter and insidious drugs are fed these victims daily in the poor grade of waste food given them, drugs that prevent womanly development and kill all spirit and remove all self confidence.

No wonder that in every act and look I noted the craven, dog-like obedience born of this diabolical scheme hatched up in Hell and worked upon the helpless, imprison little girls by Rome's she-slavers!

Oh, what a grist of blood and sweat and tears and prayers and human souls is ground into the pulp of Hell every year in this mill! And all possible only

because Protestants slumber while Rome NEVER SLEEPS!

The Juvenile Court, presided over by Rome-haunted John Caldwell, is the great procuring agency in Cincinnati for this "Price Hill House of Good Shepherd." The Juvenile Court is located at Court and Main streets. Go there again and again and yet again, Oh, fearless menace army. Haunt that Judge---help him---protect him from the influence of Rome's agents.

In addition to the helpless girls railroaded to this immense, white-washed sweatshop through the Juvenile Court of Cincinnati through the nefarious work of Catholic spies and agencies over the city, hundreds of their victims are procured from Juvenile Courts and by "press-gang" methods from Hamilton, Dayton, Columbus and all over this state and from many other states, seventeen luckless girls being received in one consignment from far-away Florida! Their system hardly needs an "underground railroad" so long as non-Catholics either sleep or stand by cravenly cowed or supinely indifferent. This condition of Protestantism alone makes possible such awful slavery of the innocents by Catholic sweatshops.

Lastly, know this---as a matter of simple legal truth---no commitment to such private institutions of girls underage will stand in law in Ohio! And if the Protestants and justice-loving non-Catholics of Cincinnati will arise and demand the release of these four hundred girl-slaves who sleep tonight behind prison walls in penal servitude, abused and exploited, condemned for no crime,---if you demand legally and publicly that those thirty-six Romish female task-masters liberate these helpless girl-children Rome will howl, 'tis true, but the four hundred slaves will be FREE before another night falls!

I have opened this campaign lightly this week---just touched upon the surface of the mass of material

all around me at my command. I dare Rome to deny. More will follow.

Personally it matters little the fate of just one soldier on the Firing Line---I may die in this fight---but the dice are cast. Rome will lose in this fair land, as always and everywhere she has lost before.

Chapter 4