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 fables of some imagined time when honey was made by the bee, butter of milk, and bread of wheat. Nay, some of them go further still, and picture to their dupes, say, the Spanish peasant living in content on the produce of his garden, drinking the light red wine from his own vineyard; indifferent to the mineral wealth of his country, not anxious to live in Manchester, careless as to doing business, happy in an atmosphere almost devoid of sulphur and carbonic acid gas, unwilling to be a Baptist, not clamouring for tinned products, crossing himself when he passes the village crucifix—sunken, in fact, in every conceivable degradation, as you and I know. Yes, there are men who are willing to compare this poor unhappy wretch with the blest denizens of Chicago, who dare to dispute the glories of democracy; and who shall say whether such insidious arguments as these may not prevail?

And now, I think, I have made you understand my regret at the publication of these deplorable details. I am convinced that this so-called scandal is the work of