"A noise of archery and wielded swords All night rang through his dreams. When risen morn Let down her rosy feet on Galilee Blue-vistaed, on the house-top Judas woke: Desire of battle brooded in his breast Although the day was hung with sapphire peace, And to his inner eye battalions bright Of seraphim, fledged with celestial mail, Came marching up the wide-flung ways of dawn To usher in the triumph-day of Christ.... But sun on sun departed, moon on moon, And still the Master lingered by the way, Iscariot deemed, dusked in mortality And darkened in the God by flesh of man. For Judas a material kingdom saw And not a realm of immaterial gold, A city of renewed Jerusalem And not that New Jerusalem, diamond-paved With love and sapphire-walled with brotherhood, Which He, the Master, wrestled to make plain With thews of parable and simile-- So ''tis the flesh that clogs him,' Judas thought (A simple, earnest man, he loved him well And slew him with great friendship in the end); 'Yea, if he chose to say the word of power, The seraphim and cherubim, invoked, Would wheel in dazzling squadrons down the sky And for the hosts of Israel move in war As in those holy battles waged of yore'.... * * * * * "Ah, all the world now knows Gethsemane, But few the love of that betraying kiss!" * * * * * I did not have to be very long at Eden to learn that the community was divided into two parties: the more conservative, rooted element whom success was making more and more conservative,--and the genuinely radical crowd. The anarchist, Jones, led the latter group, a very small one. As far as I could see, this anarchist-shoemaker held the right. On my third day in Eden my interest in the community life about me led me to inquire my way to the place where Jones lived ... a shack built practically in its entirety of old dry goods boxes ... a two-room affair with a sort of enlarged dog-kennel adjunct that stood out nearer the road--Jones's workshop. The man looked like the philosopher he was--the anarchist-philosopher, as the newspapers were to dub him ... as he sat there before his last, hammering away at the shoe he was heeling, not stopping the motions of his hands, while he put that pair aside, to sew at another pair, while he discoursed at large with me over men and affairs. "What is all this trouble I'm hearing about?" I asked him. "Trouble?--same old thing: Alfred Grahame, when he founded, started, this colony, was a true idealist. But success has turned his head, worsened him, since,--as it has done with many a good man before. Now he goes about the country lecturing, on Shakespeare, God, the Devil, or anything else that he knows nothing about....