completing that predestined cycle of universal knowledge and aspiring
ultimately to the glorious pinnacle of political achievement.

Rupert Plinge's fourth birthday had scarce dawned across the hills of
time when the long drawn out shadow of earthly obscurity completely
enveloped the brightest flower of nineteenth century America. The almost
morbid cultivation of his superluminary brain reached its devastating
climax while committing to memory the anatomy of the common grub in
order to demonstrate to the Eastern constituency the fundamental
principles of fiscal autonomy. Lying in his cot, his large pale eyes
fixed grimly on a visionary goal, he realised with an intuitive pang
that the hour of dismissal was at hand. Calling his mother to him he
asked his last illuminating question, his mind groping still in search
of truth's flaming beacon:

"Mother, why am I dying?"

Mrs. Plinge leant over him and whispered impressively, "You are dying of
dropsy caused by over-education!" And turning on her heel she went
slowly out of the room.

Delirium entered the darkening nursery. Rupert, clasping his hot-water
bottle raptly, murmured dreamily as he merged into the Great Unknown,
the crystallisation of the subconscious influence which had permeated
his whole career--

"Dropsy, Dropsy,
Topsy, Topsy--
Harriet Beecher Stowe."

ANNA PODD

[Illustration: ANNA PODD

_From a very old Russian oleograph_]

Though of humble origin, though poor and unblessed with any of life's
luxuries, Anna Podd made her way in the world with unfaltering
determination. The tragedy of her life was perhaps her ambition, but who
could blame her for wishing to better herself? She had nothing--nothing
but her beauty. What a woman's beauty can do for herself and her country
is amply portrayed in the kaleidoscopic pageant of Anna Podd's life. The
only existing picture of her (here reproduced) was discovered in Moscow
after Ivan Buminoff's well-remembered siege, lasting seventeen years.
Poor Anna! Destiny seemed ruthlessly determined to lead her so far and
no further. A Tsar loved her, which is more than falls to the lot of
some women, yet fate's unrelenting finger was forever placed upon the
pulse of her career.

Of her parents nothing is known. We first hear of her in a low cabaret
in St. Petersburg West. All night, so Serge Tadski tells us in "Russian
Realism," it was her sordid duty to flaunt that exquisite loveliness
which He