In science we were still far behind.  The Charleston earthquake in September, 1886, proved this.  Our philosophers were disgusted that the ministers and churches down there devoted their time to praying and moralising about the earthquake, when only natural phenomena were the cause.  Science had no information or comfort to give, however.  The only thing the scientist did was to predict a great tidal wave which would come and destroy all that was left of the previous calamity.  Science lied again.  The tidal wave did not come; the September rains stopped, and Charleston began to rebuild.  That is one of the wonderful things about America; we are not only able to restore our damages, but we have a mania for rebuilding.  Our chief fault lies in the fact that we rebuild for profit rather than for beauty of character or moral strength.

There had been a time during my pastorate when Brooklyn promised to be the greatest watering place in America.  We were in a fair way of becoming the summer capital of the United States.  It was destroyed by the loafers and the dissoluteness of Coney Island.  In the autumn of 1886, Brooklyn was more indignant than I had ever seen it before, and I knew it intimately for a quarter of a century.  Our trade was damaged, our residences were depreciated, because the gamblers and liquor dealers were in power.  Part of the summer people were too busy looking for a sea serpent reported to be in the East River or up the Hudson to observe that a Dragon of Evil was twining about the neck and waist and body of the two great cities by the sea.

In contrast to all this political treachery in the North there developed a peculiar symbol of political sincerity in Tennesee.  Two brothers, Robert and Alfred Taylor, were running for Governor of that State—­one on the Republican and the other on the Democratic ticket.  At night they occupied the same room together.  On the same platform they uttered sentiments directly opposite in meaning.  And yet, Robert said to a crowd about to hoot his brother Alfred, “When you insult my brother you insult me.”  This was a symbol of political decency that we needed.  One of the great wants of the world, however, was a better example in “high life.”  We were shocked by the moral downfall of Sir Charles Dilke in England, by the dissolute conduct of an American official in Mexico, by the dissipations of a Senator who attempted to address the United States Senate in a state of intoxication.

Mr. Cleveland’s frequent exercise of the President’s right of veto was a hopeful policy in national affairs.  The habit of voting away thousands of dollars of other people’s money in Congress needed a check.  The popular means of accomplishing this out of the national treasury was in bills introduced by Congressmen for public buildings.  Each Congressman wanted to favour the other.  The President’s veto was the only cure.  This prodigality of the National Legislature grew out of an enormous surplus in the