Mayors, declared that the City might well adopt Winthrop as its patron saint. His was an ideal, saintly life, and his character, in a sense, supernatural. He bore success and defeat in a political election with like equanimity, a trait that, as it were, by a law of heredity marks with special honor his living representative. Whether in office or out, and possessing large estates or, one after another, deprived of them, he kept his mind active and his brain industriously working for the development of a higher social life under Christian culture in a virgin land, by his leadership, under the Providence he devoutly acknowledged, to be fitted and fashioned for a new and powerful country, of which Boston was to be a memorable city.

Nor could he fail to remark upon the location of the statue set up in his honor in Scollay Square, rather than on Boston Common, which he had laid out and secured to posterity. The City Square in Charlestown, where he first unrolled the old charter of the Colony before the new government at its first meeting here, would have been a better site for it than the one selected.

Difficult it is, indeed, to set down in worthy lines the remembrance of the interview herein depicted. Of course, it has been faintly and inadequately done. Let us hope, however, that, should Winthrop's spirit, two or three centuries hence, visit again the last and most eventful scenes of his earthly life, he will find Boston, though changed anew, yet vastly improved, keeping pace with all developments for the good of an ever advancing race, and second to none in the Commonwealth or Nation in true excellence and progress.

AN INTERVIEW

WITH

A GREAT CHARACTER.

A Poem

POEM.

There was a quiet hour in Scollay Square;
The cars and teams were blocked from getting there;
No longer shone the famed electric light,—
It flickered out and left the darkest night.
I seemed to feel a shock upon my arm,
And hear the statue speak: "I 'll do no harm,—
An elder of First Church I think you are;
I have a message for you; come, prepare."

Portrait of Rev. John Wilson.

"Winthrop!" cried I, "my venerable sire!
Do you reanimate your rich attire?
Most glad am I to have this interview;
Pray, tell me all you wish, things old and new."
"My friend," said he, "no ven'rable am I,
For mortals grow no older when they die;
E'er since my earthly race I long have run,
My age has numbered only sixty-one.
Years are not counted on the heavenly shore,
For in eternal life time is no more.
The children sweet, the lovely bride forsooth,
Transferred, preserve the freshness of their youth.
Those who departed later are not found
Far to transcend them in their endless round.
More of the spirits' life I may not tell;
Enough to say that with them all is well;
God's universe has boundless worlds to show;
His works will take eternity to know.

"But I would speak of your millennial time
Whose fame has gone through yon celestial clime.
Almost one seventh of the years our Lord
Has named for Him, First Church has preached His word.
Its simple cov'nant ever served its need;
It learned to live without a cumbrous creed.
Its 'goodly church,' fast built where flowed the tide,
Fulfils the vision Wilson saw with pride.
Its charming chapel opens wide the door
To the bright children