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 in person to deliver it, wrote into it the remarkable figure of speech, “an isolated island of jealous power.” His address at Congress Hall had no relation to the occasion and had no value. He was brought into contrast with Champ Clark, round, healthy, jovial, with something of the milk of human kindness in his soul, who also made an address. After it was over and Wilson had slipped away to Swarthmore, I went up to Clark:

“How do you do, Governor?” he inquired.

“My name is Pennypacker,” I said at the same time.

“Oh, I know you very well, and anyhow I could tell you from the caricatures.”

“You made a good speech,” I followed. “I wish to goodness that while your Democrats were electing a President they had elected you.”

He laughed and replied:

“So do I.”

I replied: “I should have felt much more secure about our national affairs.”

Then he grew sober.

Dining with Charles C. Harrison, the former provost of the University of Pennsylvania, on the evening of September 23, 1914, at his attractive country place, I sat at the head of the table with Mrs. Harrison and on my left was E. T. Stotesbury, the millionaire, who, entering the house of Drexel & Company years ago as a clerk at a small salary, is now the head of the establishment. A short, meagre man, with much vivacity, he told me that he had been much opposed to the nomination of George H. Earle, Jr., for the mayoralty of the city, but that now, under the Wilson regime, eleven hundred men had been discharged by the Baldwin Locomotive Works and every business in Rh