“They were even lower last year,” said Sewall, “at the time of the worst depression. The mill has really no reason for being, except the tariff; and, of course, in the bad years the laborers are ten times worse off than if there were no tariff at all. But it attracts Canadian cheap labor; and our ignorant workmen think they are being protected all the same.” “Surely, you would not abolish the tariff and wipe out the mill entirely?” said Wemyss, who had taken a seat close by. Sewall shrugged his shoulders. He was the editor of a great protectionist newspaper. “There is no use riding against a herd of cattle,” said he. “If you want to lead them, you must ride their way.” Arthur opened his eyes at this, for Sewall’s paper declared itself the great representative of the laboring classes; but he soon found that “cattle” was a milder term than the popular editor usually applied to his constituency. “The secret of statesmanship,” he went on, “in representative government, is to do nothing yourself until driven to it by the rabble, and in the meantime make capital out of the other fellow’s mistakes.” “Ay,” said Derwent; “but it is not the people, but the selfish middle class that rules as yet. Anarchy, even tyranny, may be the mother of men, of high thought and noble deeds; but the lights of the Manchester school are matter and greed, dry bones and death.” Sewall looked at him quizzically. “Oh, dear,” said he, good-naturedly, “here’s another terrible fellow who believes something!” “But,” hazarded Arthur, with a blush, “will not representatives do something, and think something, when we make our politics something more than a game for party stakes?” “Young man,” said Sewall, impressively, “this country cannot be governed without parties and organizations. And if the organizers are not paid for their trouble, they won’t organize. I’ve never known a man with a principle that was worth his salt in politics yet; how can you expect parties to have them? This great country of ours is on the make, just now; and it doesn’t trouble itself about much else.” And Mr. Sewall suddenly dropped his professional tone and, turning to Mrs. Gower, resumed his air of an _homme du monde_. “Lovely country, after all, is it not, Mrs. Gower? Look at that purple twilight stealing in under the western mountains; I’ve just got a Daubigny with exactly that feeling in it. Only Frenchmen can paint in the half lights, the minor tones, after all.”