again threw himself upon the floor, and again Aristides collapsed. Then he turned his back on the old man, yelling:

"Disappear, or I shall become a coward, as you are!"

As quick as a flash, the old man disappeared into the crowd. Some one offered a glass of water to the young Greek.

"It is all over now," he said to me when I approached him. "That was Termandre. That heap of flesh writhing on the floor like a worm was the enemy I pursued. And I thought I was hunting a tiger, a wild tiger!" he

mourned, shaking his head from side to side.

And in that minute he again became the old, indifferent, cold Aristides, with no interest in life, the passion in his eyes extinguished; and it seemed to me that even his glossy, black hair became dull and lifeless.

The following day the Parisian papers spoke about the suicide of a young Athenian, and I came into the possession of the history of the Termandre family, whose tigerish and fighting qualities were specially emphasized by the man who wrote it.

gave a reception to Cameron as the oldest newspaper man in the National Capitol. All the Washington correspondents were invited. As Cameron stood leaning back against the pillar between which the folding-doors ran, meditatively running his forefinger around the edge of an empty champagne glass (Blaine was a prohibitionist in Maine, but this did not prevent champagne at Washington), he said, "My boys, to sum up fifty years, be honest when it 's the best policy."

This precept was followed by the dynasty he founded. Simon Cameron was frankly for power and profit; his son entered politics a man of means. Quay rose in politics step by step, as men rise in a regular army. He had done it all himself. There was no election crime for which he did not, in private, frankly confess responsibility. "I shall win," said one of his followers, fighting for party control in the Philadelphia Republican machine, "because I am ready to risk the penitentiary to win; the other man is n't." He won.

§ 2

Boies Penrose is the only state boss whom I have known who entered politics with a clear philosophic view of the way to win and of his reason for wanting to win. He went to Harvard with his two brothers, who were both elected to Phi Beta Kappa. He missed this distinction by a handbreadth because he preferred dominance and his own way. His people were educated and influential through the colonial period and after. His father was a prominent physician in a city never lacking a group of men of international repute in medicine. Senator Penrose's brothers have both won success, one

as a surgeon, the other as a mining engineer. Senator Penrose acquired such fortune as he had from a mining development. In politics he never gained a dollar, though directly and indirectly he furthered the dubious gains of money by others.

Most party bosses make their own gains, though the real evil of the relations of party government to business is not in the money made by them, evil as this is, but the way in which reforms are halted, improvements postponed, and the public made to suffer. But Boies Penrose had no desire for these personal gains. They did not interest him. He left an estate of moderate size. He wanted in life what he wanted in Harvard, dominance. He entered upon his career a highly educated man. He left college schooled in history, in national and civic administration. He studied law from the point of view not of the student, but of the public man. He entered a law office with extensive banking relations, but his brief years there were marked by the preparation of an excellent book (on the city government of Philadelphia) which Johns Hopkins University published. It contained many suggestions which have since figured in the reform of city charters. When I discussed this book with him, I found myself dealing with one of the keenest and most detached intellects I had ever met, a mind singularly free from any moral strabismus. The book was widely reviewed and approved. It was the joy of reform editorial writers who in later years quoted from the book when Senator Penrose was in position to carry out his early ideas of reforms, but blocked them, though thirty years later, when the time came and he had a wider power, he incor

porated some of them in legislation for Philadelphia. But before this book was finished, his little office in a firm that was more than usually fastidious in its clients, swarmed with negroes from the lower end of the eighth ward, in which he lived, who gave their time to providing the votes that later sent him to the Pennsylvania Legislature. The western end of the ward was the unchallenged social center of Philadelphia from 1850 to 1910, but years ago the eastern end of the ward was negro, able to outvote the other end in any election, partly because the negroes voted and society, wealth, and learning did not vote, and partly because the negro population did not confine itself to a vote for each man, but cheerfully risked the penitentiary to win. This dusky black flock was ruled and shepherded, not unwisely and not unkindly, by an Irishman, a city magistrate, abundant in charities and for whom all who knew him could not help having an abounding charity. There have been cases in which a Philadelphia election for mayor has been decided when by twelve at midnight it was clear that a few hundred ballots would carry the plurality vote needed, and this was gained by diligently marking reform ballots in this and adjacent wards for both candidates, throwing out this share of the vote for four years of misrule.

Senator Penrose lived in a house midway between the two extremes of the ward. Its upper windows looked across a few roofs to an alley that was one of the worst plague-spots in the city and was never raided. Senator Penrose mastered this new task. He knew every voter. He sat by the hour with them, knew their lives, their needs, their wants, their families, and

everything that was theirs; he shared their slang and all their desires. A man who could hold such a group had all of American political life before him. He knew its inner secret power, the very foundation of the triumphant working of the Pennsylvania Republican machine.

He had learned the trade of American politics in the best of all schools. He knew what it was to carry his division, his ward, his district, the lower and higher branches of his state legislation, and at length his election as senator. He left Harvard with his mind bent on politics and power in 1881, and in three years he was in the Pennsylvania House of Representatives, in six in the state Senate, and in sixteen years, at the age of thirtyseven, was elected senator by the second largest State in the Union. Few younger men have been sent to the United States Senate in years, and the number elected at this age since the Senate first met has been minute. He was elected five times in all, the last time in 1920, just before his death, after serving twenty-four years. His last election, in 1920, was by the unprecedented plurality of 583,627 votes over a Democratic candidate who polled only 484,362 votes.

"Give me the people every time," he said in a braggart mood to a reform friend. "Look at me! No legislature would ever have dared to elect me to the Senate, not even at Harrisburg; but the people, the dear people, elected me by a bigger majority than my opponent's total vote,-by over half a million,-and you and your reform friends thought direct election by the people would turn men like me out of the Senate. Give me the people every time!"

He had implicit confidence in only one great factor in American politics, the machine which brings votes to the polls. When, at the selection of Senator Quay, he was chosen senator in 1897, a riotous dinner was given to him by his personal friends of the Clover Club, a unique organization in Philadelphia which prohibition brought to an untimely and lamented end. A member, I walked home with him. He was in a grave and conscious mood. He had won his utmost desire; no higher prize could be before him. To the Presidency no Pennsylvania Republican will be nominated. Candidates that can carry doubtful States are too necessary in a Presidential election. He stood the sure successor of Quay; he had years of power before him. He had made his record. He had originated no legislation, had mastered no problems of the day. Whenever a good cause was safe, prudent, popular, and injured no political friends, he had voted for it in the state Senate for ten years. Appropriations for education, for the universities, for hospitals, for education, he had urged. Whenever he could do it without delaying the pecuniary aid or political influence of a manufacturer, he was for restriction on child labor, and any friend seeking sound legislation he was always aiding by shrewd suggestion and fruitful support. This work, this course, I knew had not been his vision when he entered public life; but he saw no other course, and he was visibly depressed and silent. He said something of the sort. "You are," I answered, "only thirty-seven. You are secure in your seat for years to come. You enter the Senate its youngest member. Great issues are all about, the railroads, labor, our foreign relations;

war is certain over Cuba, as you know, knowing McKinley's personal policy. No one in the Senate is abler, keener than are you. Not a young man in our history has had a greater opportunity." It was in a way a foolish speech, but no one could know Penrose without admiring his ability and wishing for him better ends than were before him.

"What's the use?" he replied. "I propose to stay senator. I want power. It is the only thing for which I care. I have it. I shall keep it. There are about five thousand election divisions in this State. They hold from twenty thousand to twenty-five thousand Republican workers who carry the division and bring out the vote. I must know all these men. They must know me. If I do not meet them and never see them, I must know what they are, what they want, and how and when. My hand must always be on the job. I can never take it off. All my time goes to the task, and must. If I take my hand off, I am gone. The interests of the State? Of course I look after those. But the job is managing and knowing the twenty thousand or twenty-five thousand men who run the election divisions. As for great measures and great issues such as you talk about, no senator of a State of this size, run as it is, has the time to take them up. I am always glad to hear suggestions. Come to me, write to me. I shall always be glad to hear you, but staying senator is my job."

He knew the Republican machine. He was Quay's fit successor. He had seen Quay, defeated in the state convention and near his fall, retrieve his fortunes because an able and agile secretary of the state Republican committee had seized the card catalogue