es at bay, but disloyalty
struck at him at home--his best helpers were sacrificed to
superstition--his beloved helper Phidias was dead. War came--the
population from the country flocked within the walls of Athens for
protection. The pent-up people grew restless, sick; pestilence followed,
and in ministering to their needs, trying to infuse courage into his
whimpering countrymen, bearing up under the disloyalty of his own sons,
planning to meet the lesser foe without, Pericles grew aweary, Nature
flagged, and he was dead.

From his death dates the decline of Greece--she has been twenty-five
centuries dying and is not dead even yet. To Greece we go for
consolation, and in her armless and headless marbles we see the perfect
type of what men and women yet may be. Copies of her Winged Victory are
upon ten thousand pedestals pointing us the way.

England has her Chamberlain, Salisbury, Lord Bobs, Buller, and
Kitchener; America has her rough-riders who bawl and boast, her
financiers, and her promoters. In every city of America there is a
Themistocles who can organize a Trust of Delos and make the outlying
islands pay tithes and tribute through an indirect tax on this and that.
In times of alleged danger all Kansans flock to arms and offer their
lives in the interest of outraged humanity.

These things are well, but where is the Pericles who can inspire men to
give in times of peace what all are willing to give in the delirium of
war--that is to say, themselves?

We can Funstonize men into fighting-machines; we can set half a nation
licking stamps for strife; but where is the Pericles who can infuse the
populace into paving streets, building good roads, planting trees,
constructing waterways across desert sands, and crowning each
rock-ribbed hill with a temple consecrated to Love and Beauty! We take
our mules from their free prairies, huddle them in foul transports and
send them across wide oceans to bleach their bones upon the burning
veldt; but where is the man who can inspire our mules with a passion to
do their work, add their mite to building a temple and follow the
procession unled, undriven--with neither curb nor lash--happy in the
fond idea that they are a part of all the seething life that throbs,
pulses and works for a Universal Good!

England is today a country tied with crape. On the lintels of her
doorposts there linger yet the marks of sprinkled blood; the guttural
hurrahs of her coronation are mostly evoked