meant, so perhaps it would be better to draw a veil.

I myself went on into the village, where I discovered the elephant that had brought us from camp, and was enabled to communicate with our friends and inform them of our plight, so that search might be made if the things did not turn up before the train left, for it was impossible for us to delay our return. About three in the morning I was awakened by one of our friend's chuprassies, who informed me that we should find everything at the next station, as the carts had gone there by mistake. Sure enough, as the train pulled up some twenty minutes after starting, before a red-brick shanty in the heart

of the jungle, I saw my servant at the side of the line, for platform there was none. Between us we bundled everything into the carriage, as the place did not boast of coolies, and the train sauntered on.

So concluded almost the most pleasant ten days I have ever spent. Given fine weather and congenial company, there is a charm in the jungle and camp during an Indian cold season that puts all the attractions of civilisation and social gaieties into the shade. Out in the open-air all day, one feels fitter than the proverbial fiddle, and there is not a single waking hour which is not replete with interest and excitement.

E. F. KNOX.

THE Palace of Peace, which has lately been opened at The Hague, might more properly be called the Palace of Cant. In other words, it is acclaimed chiefly by those generous and foolish souls who cannot distinguish between between "is" and "ought to be," who pretend to themselves, in true hypocrisy, that we live in a world wherein all passions, save commercial greed, are extinct, and that there is nothing more left for mortal man to desire than to make as much money and as quickly as he can. If we may trust the descriptions afforded by the public prints, the Palace resembles nothing so much as a very costly and rather vulgar hotel. It is surrounded by a "well-timbered "park, in which obscure diplomatists may spend a happy day. It boasts a restaurant, whose cooking is said to be "unexceptionable." And if these material advantages do not bring peace to the world, then will man remain a fighting animal unto the end of time.

The Palace is the gift of that eminent philanthropist, Mr Andrew Carnegie, and this fact is enough of itself to place it under a well-merited suspicion. The old superstition that money does not smell should long ago have been renounced. Money never loses its scent, and upon every sovereign of

Mr Carnegie's giving there is the taint of hatred and hostility. His chief claim to notoriety was won by the production of an insolent book, 'Triumphant Democracy.' This masterpiece of impertinence is dedicated "to the beloved republic, under whose equal laws I am made the peer of any man, although denied political equality by my native land." Thus he strikes the note of enmity, and while he does not tell us for what transgression he was deprived of political equality by his native. land, it is plain that he boasts when he proclaims himself the peer of any man. He is the peer only of millionaires precisely as successful as himself. The one kind of warfare which he tolerates is the bitter, grinding warfare of commerce, in which more gold than blood is shed, and in which not a minute is lost, for those who are resolved to grow rich by the labour of others. Mr Carnegie, as far as we know, has never done anything, or invented anything by his own endeavours. He has understood the task of making a trust, and therefore he is in an excellent position to teach the rest of the world manners and morals. The words "throne" and "king"-ridiculous words he calls them throw this wealthy democrat into a fury

of uncontrollable anger. "A royal family," says he, "is an insult to every other family in the land." A poor man, perchance, might find an insult in the flaunting of millions. But the great Mr Carnegie is gracious. He likes nothing better than poverty-in others. "Give us poverty, honest poverty," says he, with a tear rolling down his rugged cheek; and you may be quite sure that he will not devote his millions to destroying that lack of pence which he finds beneficial in his inferiors.

To

For money that is inherited he can find no excuse. be Mr Carnegie's equal you must have toed his line; you must have made your money by the familiar methods; you must have lived for the rest of your life on the proceeds of a fortunate manœuvre. For "the average peer Mr Carnegie has a profound contempt. He is "a wretch, concentred all in self," who "doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung." What Mr Carnegie does not know about the making of money may not be worth knowing. He has not discovered the elementary truth that there are other less reputable ways of making it than by inheritance. However, as we have said, he reserves his choicest insults for thrones and their occupants. He condemns with an unctuous pomposity all "thrones and royal families, and the influences necessarily surrounding them the vile brood they breed." He declares amiably that "the

He

Queen of England insulted labour every moment of her life." He holds his sides with laughter when he thinks of "the great democratic continent of Australia really subject to the little island, and to the funny monarchy and its antiquated forms.' Americans, he tells us, would not tolerate the abuse of a royal family for an instant. "Turn the rascals out," they would cry, and thus prove themselves more than a match in urbanity for Mr Carnegie himself. But what filled Mr Carnegie's sturdy pate fullest of disgust was the idea that any one should be "required to kiss " the Prince of Wales's hand when he came to the throne. did not entertain a lofty view of the honour of English statesmen. He believed that there was not a man in Britain of the rank of a Cabinet Minister "but would have bowed, and that low and repeatedly, if desired, to Gesler's cap." A life spent in the barren collection of dollars no doubt justifies Mr Carnegie in imputing cowardice to others. But the Prince of Wales's hand seemed to him a far worse object to salute than Gesler's cap. "The first man who feels as he ought to feel," says our money-bag, "will either smile when the hand is extended, at the suggestion that he should so demean himself, and give it a good hearty shake, or knock his Royal Highness down." Neither Mr Carnegie's ignorance nor Mr Carnegie's wealth can excuse this kind of effrontery. England is bound to the throne by centuries of immemorial