It is not a pretty topic to consider. We will not face the facts--that is the trouble with America, as I see it. I know one Assemblyman in New York State who bravely ran on a wet platform in a dry community, as a matter of principle. He was weary of lying to himself, and to his constituents. He said that as long as he kept a wine-cellar, and deliberately transported some of its contents when it suited him, in his car, he could not face his friends. He must come out in the open and accept their blame or their approval. He ran for office with a clear conscience; but others will not thus declare themselves. Behind veils of verbiage they discreetly conceal their political faces; alone with one another, or with you and me, they will speak their true mind on Prohibition--particularly if their tongues are loosened by one or two glasses of whiskey. These are the men who are a danger to the Republic they pretend to serve. Janus-faces have they. They are all things to all men. The time will come when, before we go to the polls, we shall know just where each candidate stands on every issue. There will be no equivocation. Declarations must be made. Masks must be off. Of the menace of hypocritical office-holders and senators, Edwin Markham has spoken eloquently in these ringing lines. They should be known to us all in these times of shattered dreams and false avowals. The old established Ship of State could weather the gale if the crew were honest and remained on deck. THE FEAR FOR THEE, MY COUNTRY In storied Venice, where the night repeats The heaven of stars down all her rippling streets, Stood the great Bell Tower, fronting seas and skies-- Fronting the ages, drawing all men’s eyes; Rooted like Teneriffe, aloft and proud, Taunting the lightning, tearing the flying cloud. It marked the hours for Venice: all men said Time cannot reach to bow that lofty head: Time, that shall touch all else with ruin, must Forbear to make this shaft confess its dust. Yet all the while, in secret, without sound, The fat worms gnawed the timbers underground. The twisting worm, whose epoch is an hour, Caverned his way into the mighty tower; Till suddenly it shook, it swayed, it broke, And fell in darkening thunder at one stroke. The strong shaft, with an angel on the crown, Fell ruining: a thousand years went down! And so I fear, my country, not the hand That shall hurl night and whirlwind on the land; I fear not Titan traitors who shall rise To stride like Brocken shadows on our skies: These we can face in open fight, withstand With reddening rampart and the sworded hand. I fear the vermin that shall undermine Senate and citadel and school and shrine; The Worm of Greed, the fatted Worm of Ease, And all the crawling progeny of these-- The vermin that shall honeycomb the towers And walls of State in unsuspecting hours. CHAPTER IX DRYING UP THE OCEAN