fake philanthropist. Now we are grieving at the antics of a governor who was wished on us by the women of the state to their regret and ours. Involved in a maze of personal quarrels with other members of his administration, he is endeavoring to use his present office as a stopping-stone to higher political preferment; meantime, reform stands still. Who was it that remarked, so aptly, "When Dr. Johnson observed that patriotism was the last refuge of a scoundrel, he was unaware of the immense power for evil that lay in the word 'reform'?"

I wish that we might pause and take stock of ourselves. Is it not time for us to go slow, to "stop, look, and listen," as the railway signs have it, at dangerous crossings? I wish that we might descend to a higher order of living. I wish that we might not fell all our trees, burn all our coal, exhaust all our mines. Let us leave something for our children. As I look about, I see two great political parties, bankrupt of ideals, led by rival demagogues interested only in securing or retaining power. I see one gigantic "Main Street," a Corso along which is a reckless race for wealth. I wish that we might close our doors and keep them closed until we have assimilated our enormous foreign population.

I remember Goldsmith's lines:

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.

I wish that an intellectual and property qualification limited the franchise, which politicians refer to as our

fake philanthropist. Now we are grieving at the antics of a governor who was wished on us by the women of the state to their regret and ours. Involved in a maze of personal quarrels with other members of his administration, he is endeavoring to use his present office as a stopping-stone to higher political preferment; meantime, reform stands still. Who was it that remarked, so aptly, "When Dr. Johnson observed that patriotism was the last refuge of a scoundrel, he was unaware of the immense power for evil that lay in the word 'reform'?"

I wish that we might pause and take stock of ourselves. Is it not time for us to go slow, to "stop, look, and listen," as the railway signs have it, at dangerous crossings? I wish that we might descend to a higher order of living. I wish that we might not fell all our trees, burn all our coal, exhaust all our mines. Let us leave something for our children. As I look about, I see two great political parties, bankrupt of ideals, led by rival demagogues interested only in securing or retaining power. I see one gigantic "Main Street," a Corso along which is a reckless race for wealth. I wish that we might close our doors and keep them closed until we have assimilated our enormous foreign population.

I remember Goldsmith's lines:

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.

I wish that an intellectual and property qualification limited the franchise, which politicians refer to as our

building, but the people of London raised such a hue and cry against its destruction that the London County Council stepped in, bought, and as far as possible restored it. There is nothing to be seen on the ground floor, but above there is a fine old room with a plaster ceiling with the Prince of Wales's crest in the middle and wooden paneling of a later date. The room can be hired for public meetings of a select character, and a little-used visitors' book inspected, if you are so inclined.

Henry, Prince of Wales, with whose name this room is associated, has always had a peculiar interest for book-fanciers. Had he lived to come to the throne he would have been Henry Ninth. It was inevitable that his popularity with the people, who were none too fond of that Scotch pedant, his father, should lead to a good deal of friction between King and Prince, but the King took the keenest interest in the education of the young lad, and among other things, set out to make a book-collector of him. That he failed is no fault of the father; we fathers have to work, sometimes, upon the most refractory material.

Henry's grandmother was Mary Stuart; we do not often think of the beautiful Mary Queen of Scots as a grandmother, but she had a son by Lord Darnley, who became James Sixth of Scotland, and, after the death of Queen Elizabeth, James First of England. Quarrels in royal families were not unusual in those days; James made an alliance with Elizabeth against his mother, and even after Elizabeth removed his