I looked at my old school-teacher as he waddled quietly to the front. I saw that his face was pale and his eyes blazing with fire. I felt that the presence and the speech of the celebrated orator had aroused the indolent giant. I knew he would carry that crowd by storm—would rise, rise into the very azure of eloquence and hover above us like an eagle in the air. And he did. Men and women, boys and girls, laughed and cheered and cried, and hung breathless on his every word, as no crowd ever does unless a born orator gets hold of them. Actually I got to feeling sorry for the celebrity who had made the set speech. He sat there looking like a cheap piece of neglected toy-work of last Christmas. The faces of the leading people after my old teacher had sat down, were a study. The expression seemed to say, “Who would have thought it was in him!” I don’t think he ever made another speech. The brilliant eyes will blaze no more. The merry smile faded long ago. The great head, that was fit to bear a crown, lies low for all the years to come. He left no lasting memorial of his genius. Only, as through a glass darkly, you may see him, in a book called “Bethany,” written by one in whom he, the unambitious, kindled the spark of an ambition which will never die. * * * * * There being no smokers in the “smoker,” I went in there to stretch out. The Florida East Coastline train was working its way down the peninsula, and was doing it very leisurely. Into the “smoker” came a young fellow with whom I opened conversation. It turned out that he had been pretty much all over Europe. He had toured Germany several times. On the Sir Walter Scott principle, I sought knowledge from him, and he told me several interesting things. One evening he had been at Heidelberg when the soldiers mounted guard. This being a regular function many civilians had assembled to see it. An officer was putting the men through some of their exercises, when, at the order to “ground arms,” one of the privates let his gun down too slow. The officer flew into a rage, rushed up to the soldier, slapped his jaws, kicked him repeatedly on the shins, struck him with the flat of his sword, and _spat time and again in the man’s face_! Of course the officer was cursing the private for every vile thing he could lay his tongue to, all the while. Said my informant, “He not only spat in the man’s face once, but he did it four or five times.” * * * * * I asked, “Was there no murmur of disgust or indignation in the crowd of citizens who were looking on?” “None whatever,” he said. “The people took the occurrence as a matter of course. It happens so often.”