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effect. The bloodiest ages have the most at which to point with pride. Imagination, poetry, art, architecture, are things of inspiration; as one might say, a quickened pulse. When a genius returns to earth with loot from the realms of mystery, he is panting and hot. There is no There is no such thing as cold-blooded inspiration. The blood must be stirred. And nothing stirs the blood of a people so much as being spilled.

This is exemplified even in religion. Why is this department of humanity falling into decay and fine embroideries? Why is its gold lace beginning to rot before the apathy of the flock? Why was piety once a matter of divine rage? The church falls at the word "why." Religion was once a matter of wars and blood. It does not now infuriate itself suchwise. It has become listless and diplomatic. Everybody is invited, with the salutation that nothing will be preached to offend. Sect mingles with sect on a basis of civilization and suavity. But man is not yet accustomed to act save through partisanship. When sect slaughtered sect, then men went body and soul into religion, even at the risk of being cast out of it in the same


Where the earth is well fertilized with blood, there great statues will arise, churches uplift themselves, and wonders be for the future ages.

There can be no plea for bloodshed. Still there is a solace for those who keep asking, "why this complacency, this self-satisfied way of living?"


Verily, man has little to do besides making himself comfortable and dream happiness. Yet he will not do even the former unless pricked and aggravated thereto. Were it not for the rich ensnaring unto themselves all the blessings of man, antagonizing and at the same time setting an example, the others would perish in their underclothes.

This is as much as to say that certain matters have existed and will exist until they burn themselves out; at which time, a new fuel will be found. Monarchy cannot be plucked out of Government before the sun is pulled from the sky. It may burn out sooner. The change of a title does not change the man. The limitation of his office, as to time, does not lessen

what a very foolish and very inebriated young college man once denominated at a grand rally, (referring to an opponent), the "Rapidity of his rapacity." Six consuls are in the ultimate no milder than one emperor. The rulership may be for a prescribed, constitutional term, without dynasty. Yet the succession is assured from King Power to Prince Ambition. Betwixt the two terms of constitutional office, one may hear, if he listen privilegedly, "Power is dead; long live Power."

In some ages, the most aristocratic figures have not been on the throne. They are not always there now. The throne would be a mere august circumstance to them. Now and then there is no autocrat on the throne. Here and there is no throne for the autocrat. He may use a roller-top desk. The ancient general slew his captives; the less ancient enslaved them. At the present day, without sword, or ability to wield one, he lets them work. And every few years, he or his advocates furnish moral grounds therefor. This is as it must be. Did these folks not work for their gentle oppressors they would bleed for fiercer ones. And they may anon.

Power, like many other things, is to be found in many places where experts declared it could not be. Gold is said to be obtainable from the waters of ocean. The proportion is small, but the sea is large. Power has existed in the arm, and then in the tongue. It was incarnated above the flowing blood of war. It hovered before great audiences. It gleamed in the face. of devout congregations. It reared from throne, forum and pulpit. During inactive times, the descendants of the great appeared with greater show. Lineage was as proud as achievement.

As soon as power was found in the overpowered came rebellions. Mob has been king; but in a few hours had to go home and cook dinner. And the next day it had to go to work. So this multitudinous sovereign took up a system of voting. Leastwise, the power was there in theory, while the intellectuals, artists, poets, philosophers and the like, assumed an aristocracy of their own.

Subsequently, power was found in the most curious place of all. The golden emblem of power was beheld gleaming unexpectedly upon gold. Without heroism,

without eloquence, without spiritual grace, without lineage, without leadership, art, science or a shapely hand, any one who could amass extraordinary quantities of aristocracy's medium of values became powerful in the community.

And new discoveries in power may be made any day.

Returning to the concrete, specifically, Anthony Bruges, that quite agreeable knight of modern times, he is not observed treated by his fellowmen with the same antipathy as by Lysander. Bruges was a good-enough companion, friend, entertainer, feaster, theatre-goer, wit, mannerist, bill-payer, wearer of clothes, pokerplayer, story-teller, club, member, athlete, dancer, reader of newspapers, and a faithful wooer.

But he wooed fortune. When making suit to Honora Faraday, he held her before him as an idol. One worships an idol not for the piece of gaudy clay itself, but for what prayers it may answer. Thus he idolized Honora. Later, he found a richer image, one that seemed all gold.

Dingley Creed was a Flour Senator. He was friendly with Copper Senators and Steel Senators, Sugar Senators, Ship Senators, Gold and Silver Senators. These were the epithets of some irresponsible wag who apprized their business interests as having some connection with their federal duties. Bruges' intimacy with the Faradays had brought him into contact with the Creeds of Iowa and New York; also with the Hamples of New Jersey. Erskine Hample was a ketchup manufacturer. He had also a political ketchup with whch he was endeavoring to flavor the factional diet of his party. He was the only Ketchup Senator among them. To be sure, there was a Catsup Senator; but he was tainted with democracy and a trace of socialism. Howbeit, the Democratic latter's catsup was said to be impure, while the ketchup manufactured by aristocratic Senator Hample was of the finest quality. The Lawyer Senators liked him and his ketchup.

ber-glistering hair. They made a contrast entirely pleasing to one as well as the other, each claiming that she would have preferred, if consulted by Nature, to have had the form and complexion of the other. Dingley Creed was a Presidential possibility. His friend Hample declared this possibility to be awful and inevitable. Maybe it was. The words of statesmen are usually less awful than inevitable. In the main, they are circuitous. Labyrinths are always alluring.

To forsake Faraday was not difficult. To obviate Honora required exquisite tact. Bruges viewed this as nothing more than an exhibition of his skill. Creed desired him at the convention. Emily Creed was more than courteous. The Faradays were somewhat dull and moral. Jonathan Faraday had made a public statement, to wit: "Victory is enough for me; let others divide the spoils as they will." This was provoking. It was joggling out an individual thought. Any one who knows anything at all about politics knows that individualistic thought is a phenomenon for which the strongest political organization is unprepared. The party should produce the man. He is sapped, branched and foliaged with party environment. His principles find root in the nicely carpentered party platform. If, for instance, his party should be doing business under the name of the Maple Party, the candidate should be a maple tree; and when the axe of any inquiry is directed upon him, he should exude the maple syrup of his party. When a man arises and says: "Victory is enough without the spoils," it is undeniable that he has become tainted with some outlandish breeze and is wasting away. Parties would spoil without the spoils. This man has quaintness, a quality which should be reserved until after the election.

All this was common gossip in the district club. No one in the Cherokee had aught to say of it. They babbled too often at the district. That goes without saying. Among the Cherokees, everything went without saying-went and prospered and was seen to bear the Cherokee stamp and draw the Cherokee salary.

There were, daughters of the first two, Emil Creed and Olive Hample. Emily Creed, in spite of her flowery wealth, was Lysander heard what was to be heard. short and dark, with full face and tiny It meant that Bruges was no longer a rival Olive Hample, despite the ketchup in love. This was pleasing and grievous of her father, was tall and pale, with am- at once. Which meant that Lysander was


honest. The dishonest man is never embarrassed with dual sentiments. He is dual in the world, each part at a time. Inwardly he either rejoices or droops; as one might say in the drama, gloats or is foiled.

Bruges was not ignoble. He was one of the partisans of success. It is not an attribute of the successful to go down to defeat for having made a mistake. They divide the world among them. Their favorites, their lackeys, their loves, are temporary. They spend service and affection as currency.



With Lysander it was otherwise. loved a strange thing called truth. could frown on Bruges' duplicity that had accrued to his own advantage. He might have demanded of Bruges wherefore he had trafficked in a woman's devotion, gripping, as he asked, the throat that should answer. There was that unconcerned savagery in him to such purpose. He transcended the idea. Yet a mood, a word, a gesture, might bring it out.

Honora Faraday knew naught of this. She still received Bruges' addresses. Yet who can say when it is that a lover observes the decline of love, overclouded as it may he. However, Bruges was not yet ready to declare himself for Dingley Creed and at the same time his daughter. The Flour Senator himself was not yet in a position to state definitely his own attitude toward the presidency. By "attitude" in such cases, a statesman means his chances. Creed had been in public life 'for about twenty years, and latterly was becoming much spoken of and printed of. His advisers cautioned him not to be too hasty, but to "come in with the sunrise." Perhaps the Flour Senator was the Dark Horse suspected by Nicholas Boksky. There was little solution in guessing perhaps this and perhaps that. Politics is an enchanted beast perhapsing on a long road.

Lysander narrated nothing of this to the young woman whom Fate had enforced to allure him. He would not be the first to tell her of Bruges' withdrawal. He could not bear to do So. The manner of his own winning was as much as the to-be-won. He contrived to visit Honora more frequently. With her his colloquy sometimes came to the brink of a pause, an outlook of seriousness, a horizon

of dreams. But he quickly led to blither meadows.

One afternoon he was on the shady side of Fourth avenue, looking into a shop of antiques, when he observed in the reflection of the window-pane, a familiar face. She alighted from her carriage.

"Are you collecting curios?" asked Honora Faraday as he turned.

"To some extent. I was allowing myself to feel sad in the presence of these mementoes of the past. Relics are given that way. And you? Are you in search of Louis XIV's hand-mirror or a toasting fork from Herculaneum ?"

"I am in the mood for a bit of old brass," she replied.

"May I accompany you?"

"Yes; if you promise not to make sarcastic remarks about a woman's method of shopping."

They went inside. They poked among old England and rummaged through antique France, fumbled Egypt, and lifted up Greece and Rome.

"It is ghastly," Lysander remarked. "It does look as if we had no right to be here."

The dealer assured them that there was nothing unconscientious in their bartering.

"One must be quite sure," said Lysander, "that he does not pick up an evil omen, a relic stained with blood, a jewel with the curse of a dying miser, or something of the sort."

"Now, this brass urn might have contained the ashes of some woman's dead lover," mused Honora.

"Or the ashes of her live lover's cigarettes," Lysander suggested.

"Very likely the jewels of a French Countess escaping from the Reign of Terror; it is of that period," bespoke the dealer.

Honora put it aside with some red roses, and the dealer smiled aprobation. "You do not ask the price," said Lysander. "There is a premium on the Reign of Terror.

"I shall merely faint artistically when the gentleman tells me its worth," said she.

"Twelve dollars," he murmured in a reverie.

"Now, if it were the cup in which Dan

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"We have Greek blood in us. I ought to buy some of these things," said Lysander.

"And me," she added. "Have you anything very old?”

They were shown some vases, buckles, ear-rings, armlets, swords.

"What is this?" Lysander inquired, picking up a long blade of flint, fitted with a wooden handle.

"Isn't it odd?" muttered Honora. "How more than ancient it looks!"

"I warrant there is no 'period' to it," said Lysander.

"It was dug up near Athens from the house of a king," said the dealer. "The lady is correct about its age, and I would say that this was not the first time it has been dug up from somewhere. It has no period. I believe it to be a genuine 'prehistoric.""

"What is its price?"

"If it were authentic it should be priceless. It was sold to me by an Italian prince, since dead, I believe. And yet it seems to me to bear its own authenticity. Any scientist who knows about flints and wood, could guarantee you its antiquity. I should say one hundred dollars."

"I must compliment you on the ease. with which you say it," returned Honora. Lysander examined the blade. "Why, look," he said, "can you not imagine two figures there, a man and a woman?" She held it aslant the light. "Yes; to be sure."


He looked down over her shoulder. "And I might almost say the strongly resembles you in her shadowy features. There is a gloomy expression and a contour that I have noted many times upon you. The shadow about the

eyes is a perfect resemblance."

She smiled, then gazed at him searchingly. "And I, in return, can fancy you in the flinty features of the man. Your resemblance is stronger still." She handed him the weapon.

Lysander examined it intently. He grasped the handle with a sudden firmness that made the young woman shudder comically. A trifle he posed, with the sword trembling in fierce strength at his hip. He scowled at an imaginary enemy. "Perhaps there is a wicked charm attached to it," she suggested.


"How ancient it makes one feel," observed Lysander. "I almost saw a mammoth then, and hordes of naked dancing in the prehistoric moonlight. I must own this. I suppose the price is still no higher than you quoted a moment ago." He turned to the dealer.

"Yes one hundred dollars." Lysander opened a wallet, paying for the knife and the brass.

"I don't know that I shall let you pay for the brass," said Honora.

"Pardon me," he replied. "I was feeling quite arbitrary when I handled that ancient flint, and the feeling had not yet gone out of me when I assumed the privilege of paying for your Reign of Terror. You may also have the flint if you wish it."

"The gift of a knife cuts

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"So it does; I shall keep it, so that it does not cut-though it does not look sharp enough to cut even so frail a thing as our friendship has been. However, now that I think of it, I begrudge it to you. There is that about this knife that seems singularly appropriate to myself. You see-no; what is the use of seeing that ?"

They parted on the curb, she with her "Reign of Terror," and he with the sword of forgotten tradition.

(To be continued.)




It has always seemed to me that the Man with the Hoe has an ironical touch— that something which is untrue. It has seemed always, to me, a cheap bid to the lachrymose man or woman. I remembered that the man with the hoe must be less able to feel, and that, with the ability to feel keenly comes the dropping of the hoe. The man in the painting was certainly such an one. The Man at the Wheel has always seemed more important, for their weal or woe, than the atoms who place him there. Anyway, Mr. James Arnott has given us an idea in verse, and we find the man at the wheel quite the right thing in sentiment, at a time while President Taft is visiting the City by the Golden Gate.-EDITOR OVERLAND MONTHLY.

Rejoicing in strength, a Thetis fair,
Obeying the trumpet's cry,
With her fiery breath and soul aflame
And her bosom swelling high;
With throb and pulse of her iron heart
She speeds o'er the waters curled,
And see in the storm an ocean queen
On Typhon's breakers hurled.

Her decks are swept by the maddened flood
While Terror assumes his reign

And a thousand hopes of a thousand hearts
Are tossed on the stormy main.

And ever anon, as the angry waves

Lift high the proud ship's keel,

The prayer

from the hearts of all below
Ascends for The Man at the Wheel.
In Passion conceived, by Honor designed,
With a purpose holy and high,

A shallop was framed in the haven, Love,
'Neath the beams of a star-lit sky.
That craft sailed out on the shimmering sea
When the sun from Heaven beguiled,
And fulfilling the joys of devotion's home
Rings the laugh of a darling child.
And when on adversity's perilous surge
Is tossed that frail bark's keel,
To God on high, affection's prayer

Ascends for The Man at the Wheel.

A staunch ship, cradled in Liberty's hand,
Was launched on the flashing brine;

A voice cried: "Freedom"-and Valor flung,
To the storm her flag divine.

It has floated for more than a hundred years
Over seamen strong and brave,

And the mightiest victories ever achieved
Have been won on the peaceful wave.
But when, on the whirlwind-billows of war,
Hard reels the Great Ship's keel,

A Lincoln calls-and a Nation's prayer
Ascends for the Man at the Wheel.

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