For a moment there was silence before the white ash and the dying heart of the wood, then Rand with the tongs squared a flaky bed and drew from top to bottom a jagged line.  “This,” he said, “is the great artery; this is the Mississippi River.”  He drew another line.  “Here to the southwest is Mexico, and that is a country for great dreams.  There the plantain and the orange grow and there are silver and gold—­and the warm gulf is on this side, and the South Sea far, far away, and down here is South America.  The Aztecs lived in Mexico, and Cortez conquered them.  He burned his ships so that he and his Spaniards might not retreat.  Here is the land west of the Mississippi, unknown and far away.  There are grassy plains that seem to roll into the sun, and there are great herds of game, and warlike Indians, and beyond the range of any vision there are vast mountains white with snow.  Gold, too, may be there.  It is a country enormous, grandiose, rich, and silent,—­a desert waiting dumbly for the strong man’s tread.”  He turned a little and drew another line.  “To this side, away, away to the east, here where you and I are sitting, watching, watching, here are the Old Thirteen,—­the Thirteen that the English took from the Indians, that the children of the English took from England.  It is the law of us all, Jacqueline, the law of the Three Kingdoms:  the battle is to the strong and the race to the swift.  The Old Thirteen are stable; let them rest!  Together they make a great country, and they will be greater yet But here is the Ohio—­la belle Riviere, the Frenchmen call it.  And beyond and below the Ohio, through all the gigantic valley of a river so great that it seems a fable, south to New Orleans, and westward to the undiscovered lies the country that is to be!  And Napoleon, in order that he may brandish over England one thunderbolt the more, sells it for a song!—­and we buy it for a song—­and not one man in fifty guesses that we have bought the song of the future!  The man who bought it knows its value—­but Mr. Jefferson cares only for Done lays.  He’ll not have the Phrygian.  He dreams of cotton and olives, of flocks and herds, rock salt and peaceful mines, and the manors of the Golden Age,—­all gathered, tended, worked, administered by farmers, school-teachers, and philosophers!  The ploughshare (improved) and the pruning-hook, a pulpit for Dr. Priestley, and a statue of Tom Paine, a glass house where the study of the mastodon may lead to a knowledge of man, slavery abolished, and war abhorred, the lion and the lamb to lie down together and Rousseau to come true—­all the old mirage—­perfectibility in plain sight!  That is his dream, and it is a noble one.  There is no room in it for the wicked man.  In the mean time he proposes to govern this land of milk and honey, this bought-and-paid-for Paradise, very much as an eastern Despot might govern a conquered province.  The inconsistencies of man must disconcert even the Thinker up in the skies.  Well—­it