I hope I am a good Democrat here at home, but in following English politics in the newspapers I observe one intellectual characteristic of a Tory government which touches my admiration and enthusiasm, and inclines me to prefer the Tories to the Liberals. The Liberals, like the large army of “Reformers” we have with us in this country, are rather apt to appeal to the mawkish sentimentality of the unbalanced and short-sighted masses, and they encourage schemes for the reformation of human nature by Act of Parliament. The Tories are saner, broader and more tolerant of human failings that are in the nature of things incurable. Perhaps it is because they themselves do not pretend to be wholly incorruptible on the moral side that they have perception enough to recognize the fact, that folly and wickedness are the sole compensations of the lower orders for the hardships of existence. The Lord save the poor from the dispensation of the reformers and moralists! I am glad to note that Lord Salisbury has just turned down a deputation of fanatics on the liquor question with the curt remark that the subject did not attract the government after past experience, and, moreover, the government had other more important matters to attend to. It is time these Prohibition lunatics learned that free men will never relinquish their divine and human rights to go to the devil in their own way. And besides, liquor is not by any means the worst evil in this world. It is time Americans arrived at maturity of judgment in intellectual matters, instead of complacently occupying a position of servile dependence upon English opinion. A declaration of Literary Independence is needed, and must soon be made by some bold spirits. It is ridiculous to see the American cultivated public taking all its opinions in literary matters from the organs of British complacency and ancient prejudice. _The London Times_, an ancient bulwark of immovable Tory Know-nothingism, is regarded seriously on this side. Then there is the _Saturday Review_, a dirty gutter rag of imbecile impertinence, which diverts the naturäl “sports” and hobbledehoys of the British aristocracy. It is written in choice English superciliousness, by snobbish and half baked boys, for English country houses, where the coagulation of insular stupidity needs a whip and stable-boy familiarities to set any wits in motion. These astounding journals of civilization are taken seriously by the American reading public, and more especially by the critics, who will, with very few exceptions, dance to any jig that is played in London.