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 when they might. He knew he would continue to believe that Christ was but a man, and that when we quit this life we lie down to rise no more.

Nor had he any apologies to make for his heresy. If anyone asked him, there were always the words of Carlyle:

Pin thy faith to no man's sleeve. Hast thou not two eyes of thy own?

There were two Pillars of Hercules in the United States whom I wished to see. Thomas A. Edison towers on the eastern coast, but I had to rush through New York and could not stay for my friend to present me. In San Francisco I had the—for so restless a wanderer—unusually long stay of six days, when the imperious voice of E. Haldeman-Julius, vibrating over the wires, roused me from my slumbers and bade me seek the shrine of Santa Rosa. I responded with alacrity. No, that is not poetry. I rose at 7 a. m. For me that is deadly prose.

And prosy was the journey of fifty miles to see the great master of practical science. The Golden Gate was of ancient lead. The hills were sullen. A gray-blue haze screened the fair maid California. She was just recovering, maid-like, from a prolonged fit of weeping, and seemed cold even to the amorous sun, though the stately palms and rich green oranges bore witness to the warm blood pulsing in the heavy