satisfied,
and weary your bright wings. I will be no pillar of salt, a sterile
portent in a sterile desert. Carry me forward, Wind of Time. What is
there going to be?"

The Wind put his hand over my eyes.

I

AT BIRMINGHAM TOWN HALL

"This is our first stopping place," said a voice from the points of
flame.

I opened my eyes expecting to see one of those extravagant scenes that
imaginative novelists love to depict. I was prepared to find the upper
air busy with aeroplanes and the earth beneath given over to unbridled
debauch. Instead, I discovered myself seated on a tall electric
standard, watching a crowd assembled before what I took to be
Birmingham Town Hall. I was disappointed in this so tame a sight,
until it flashed across me that I had never seen an English crowd
preserve such an orderly and quiet demeanour; and a more careful
inspection assured me that although no man wore a uniform, every man
carried a rifle. They were obviously waiting for some one to come and
address them from the balcony of the Town Hall, which was festooned
with red flags. As the curtains were pulled aside I caught a momentary
glimpse of an old person whose face I shall never forget, but
apparently it was not for him that the breathless crowd was waiting.
The man who finally appeared on the balcony was an individual not more
than thirty years old, with a black beard and green eyes. At the sound
of acclamation which greeted him he burst out into a loud laugh; then
with a sudden seriousness he held up his hand and began to address his
followers:--

"I have but few words for you, my army, a few bitter words. Need I
encourage men to fight who have staked their existence to gain
mastery? We cannot draw back; never will the cries of the slaughtered
thousands we yearned to rescue from a more protracted, more cruel
misery than war, make us forget the myriads who still await the
supreme mercy of our revenge.

"For centuries and for centuries we endured the march of that
Civilisation which now, by the weapons of her own making, we have set
forth to destroy. We, men of Birmingham, dwellers in this hideous town
unvisited by sun or moon, long endured to be told that we were in the
van of progress, leading Humanity year by year along her glorious
path. And, looking around them, the wise men saw the progress of
civilisation, and what was it? What did it mean? Less country, fewer
savages, deeper miseries, more millionaires, and more muse