may be bought or sold or conferred.  Some political giants, who have not negotiated their credentials, are recognized as they walk down the aisle:  the statesmanlike figure of Senator Whitredge (a cheer); that of Senator Green (not so statesmanlike, but a cheer); Congressman Fairplay (cheers); and—­Hilary Vane!  His a figure that does not inspire cheers,—­least of all to-day,—­the man upon whose shoulders rests the political future of the Northeastern.  The conservative Mr. Tredways and other Lincoln radicals of long ago who rely on his strength and judgment are not the sort to cheer.  And yet—­and yet Hilary inspires some feeling when, with stooping gait, he traverses the hall, and there is a hush in many quarters as delegates and spectators watch his progress to the little room off the platform:  the general’s room, as the initiated know.

Ah, but few know what a hateful place it is to Hilary Vane to-day, this keyboard at which he has sat so complacently in years gone by, the envied of conventions.  He sits down wearily at the basswood table, and scarcely hears the familiar sounds without, which indicate that the convention of conventions has begun.  Extraordinary phenomenon at such a time, scenes of long ago and little cherished then, are stealing into his mind.

The Reverend Mr. Crane (so often chaplain of the Legislature, and known to the irreverent as the chaplain of the Northeastern) is praying now for guidance in the counsels of this great gathering of the people’s representatives.  God will hear Mr. Botcher better if he closes his eyes; which he does.  Now the platform is being read by State Senator Billings; closed eyes would best suit this proceeding, too.  As a parallel to that platform, one can think only of the Ten Commandments.  The Republican Party (chosen children of Israel) must be kept free from the domination of corporations. (Cheers and banner waving for a full minute.) Some better method of choosing delegates which will more truly reflect the will of the people. (Plank of the Honourable Jacob Botcher, whose conscience is awakening.) Never mind the rest.  It is a triumph for Mr. Crewe, and is all printed in that orthodox (reform) newspaper, the State Tribune, with urgent editorials that it must be carried out to the letter.

And what now?  Delegates, credential holders, audience, and the Reverend Mr. Crane draw long breaths of heated carbon dioxide.  Postmaster Burrows of Edmundton, in rounded periods, is putting in nomination his distinguished neighbour and fellow-citizen, the Honourable Adam B. Hunt, who can subscribe and say amen to every plank in that platform.  He believes it, he has proclaimed it in public, and he embodies it.  Mr. Burrows indulges in slight but effective sarcasm of sham reformers and so-called business men who perform the arduous task of cutting coupons and live in rarefied regions where they can only be seen by the common people when the light is turned on. (Cheers from two partisan bodies and groans and hisses from another.  General Doby, with a pained face, pounding with the gavel.  This isn’t a circumstance to what’s coming, General.)