lifting to view the royal crown of gilt and velvet.

The other actors in this, as Harold Frederic called it, "Opera Bouffe
Monarchy," are still living.

The Baroness Harden-Hickey makes her home in this country.

The Count de la Boissiere, ex-Minister of Foreign Affairs, is still a
leader of the French colony in New York, and a prosperous commission
merchant with a suite of offices on Fifty-fourth Street. By the will of
Harden-Hickey he is executor of his estate, guardian of his children,
and what, for the purpose of this article, is of more importance, in
his hands lies the future of the kingdom of Trinidad. When Harden-Hickey
killed himself the title to the island was in dispute. Should young
Harden-Hickey wish to claim it, it still would be in dispute. Meanwhile,
by the will of the First James, De la Boissiere is appointed perpetual
regent, a sort of "receiver," and executor of the principality.

To him has been left a royal decree signed and sealed, but blank. In the
will the power to fill in this blank with a statement showing the final
disposition of the island has been bestowed upon De la Boissiere.

So, some day, he may proclaim the accession of a new king, and give a
new lease of life to the kingdom of which Harden-Hickey dreamed.

But unless his son, or wife, or daughter should assert his or her
rights, which is not likely to happen, so ends the dynasty of James the
First of Trinidad, Baron of the Holy Roman Empire.

To the wise ones in America he was a fool, and they laughed at him; to
the wiser ones, he was a clever rascal who had evolved a new real-estate
scheme and was out to rob the people--and they respected him. To my
mind, of them all, Harden-Hickey was the wisest.

Granted one could be serious, what could be more delightful than to be
your own king on your own island?

The comic paragraphers, the business men of "hard, common sense," the
captains of industry who laughed at him and his national resources
of buried treasure, turtles' eggs, and guano, with his body-guard of
Zouaves and his Grand Cross of Trinidad, certainly possessed many things
that Harden-Hickey lacked. But they in turn lacked the things that made
him happy; the power to "make believe," the love of romance, the touch
of adventure that plucked him by the sleeve.

When, as boys, we used to say: "Let's pretend we're pirates," as a man,
Harden-Hickey begged: "Let's pretend I'm a king."

But the trouble was, the other boys had