Loud cheers greeted this utterance, and stimulated by the sound Mr. Lavender proceeded:  “What, however, must the civilized nations do when at last they have clean sheets?  In the first place, all petty prejudices and provincial aspirations must be set aside; and though the world must be firmly founded upon the principle of nationality it must also act as one great people.  This, my fellow-countrymen, is no mere contradiction in terms, for though in their new solidarities each nation will be prouder of itself, and more jealous of its good name and independence than ever, that will not prevent its’ sacrificing its inalienable rights for the good of the whole human nation of which it is a member.  Friends, let me give you a simple illustration, which in a nutshell will make the whole thing clear.  We, here in Britain, are justly proud and tenacious of our sea power—­in the words of the poet, ’We hold all the gates of the water.’  Now it is abundantly and convincingly plain that this reinforced principle of nationality bids us to retain and increase them, while internationalism bids us give—­them up.”

His audience—­which had hitherto listened with open mouths, here closed them, and a strident voice exclaimed: 

“Give it a name, gov’nor.  D’you say we ought to give up Gib?”

This word pierced Mr. Lavender, standing where he was, to the very marrow, and he fell into such confusion of spirit that his words became inaudible.

“My God!” he thought, appalled; “is it possible that I have not got to the bottom of this question?” And, turning his back on the audience, he gazed in a sort of agony at the figure of Nelson towering into the sky above him.  He was about to cry out piteously:  “Countrymen, I know not what I think.  Oh!  I am unhappy!” when he inadvertently stepped back over the edge of the plinth, and, still entangled in the flag, was picked up by two policemen and placed in a dazed condition and a deserted spot opposite the National Gallery.

It was while he was standing there, encircled by, pigeons and forgotten by his fellow man, that there came to him a spiritual revelation.  “Strange!” he thought; “I notice a certain inconsistency in myself, and even in my utterances.  I am two men, one of whom is me and one not me; and the one which is not me is the one which causes me to fall into the arms of policemen and other troubles.  The one which is me loves these pigeons, and desires to live quietly with my dog, not considering public affairs, which, indeed, seem to be suited to persons of another sort.  Whence, then, comes the one which is not me?  Can it be that it is derived from the sayings and writings of others, and is but a spurious spirit only meet to be outcast?  Do I, to speak in the vernacular, care any buttons whether we stick to Gibraltar or not so long as men do but live in kindness?  And if that is so, have I the right to say I do?  Ought I not, rather, to be true to my private self and leave the course of public