This millionaire, much discussed because of his piquant originality, has put on a dress coat with two pointed tails behind, and, geared in a white shirt front and white tie, with silk socks highly colored and patent leather shoes, this splendid American product has led a cotillon and has led a cakewalk.
Grand, splendid, magnificent, inspiring, isn't it?
What lop-eared, mild-eyed rabbit dancing in a clover field with a full paunch need fear comparison with this man of millions?
Old Jacques Coeur, of France, giving his fleets to his country—there was a man of millions and imagination combined. But his kind has died out, and in his place we have a herd of overfed, sleek, timorous, hopping white rabbits, hoarding their piles of gold, shivering at the mention of change or innovation, asking only for peaceful possession, as free from thought as the fat oyster in his bed.
What wonderful things, what useful things, what dangerous things could these all-powerful men do?
What could they not do? They DO nothing.
NO HAPPINESS SAVE IN MENTAL AND PHYSICAL ACTIVITY.
Bresci, who murdered the Italian King, is sentenced to solitary confinement for life. While you read this he sits on a narrow plank in a cell not much bigger than a sleeping-car section.
If you talk to any friend about Bresci—and especially if you mention the subject to any young man inclined to be idle—call attention to this point. You can amplify what must be presented briefly here.
Bresci's imprisonment is torture—why?