Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger
By Winston Churchill
"We have been compelled to see what was weak in democracy as well as what was strong. We have begun obscurely to recognize that things do not go of themselves, and that popular government is not in itself a panacea, is no better than any other form except as the virtue and wisdom of the people make it so, and that when men undertake to do their own kingship, they enter upon, the dangers and responsibilities as well as the privileges of the function. Above all, it looks as if we were on the way to be persuaded that no government can be carried on by declamation."
First I am to write a love-story of long ago, of a time some little whileafter General Jackson had got into the White House and had shown theworld what a real democracy was. The Era of the first six Presidents hadclosed, and a new Era had begun. I am speaking of political Eras. Certaingentlemen, with a pious belief in democracy, but with a firmerdetermination to get on top, arose,—and got in top. So many of thesegentlemen arose in the different states, and they were so clever, andthey found so many chinks in the Constitution to crawl through and stealthe people's chestnuts, that the Era may be called the Boss-Era. Afterthe Boss came along certain Things without souls, but of many minds, andfound more chinks in the Constitution: bigger chinks, for the Things werebigger, and they stole more chestnuts. But I am getting far ahead of mylove-story—and of my book.
The reader is warned that this first love-story will, in a few chapters,come to an end: and not to a happy end—otherwise there would be no book.Lest he should throw the book away when he arrives at this page, it isonly fair to tell him that there is another and a much longer love storylater on, if he will only continue to read, in which, it is hoped, he maynot be disappointed.
The hills seem to leap up against the sky as I describe that region whereCynthia Ware was born, and the very old country names help to summon upthe picture. Coniston Mountain, called by some the Blue Mountain, clad inHercynian forests, ten good miles in length, north and south, with itsnotch road that winds over the saddle behind the withers of it. ConistonWater, that oozes out from under the loam in a hundred places, on theeastern slope, gathers into a rushing stream to cleave the very granite,flows southward around the south end of Coniston Mountain, and havingturned the mills at Brampton, idles through meadows westward in its owngreen valley until it comes to Harwich, where it works again and tumblesinto a river. Brampton and Harwich are rivals, but Coniston Water givesof its power impartially to each. From the little farm clearings on thewestern slope of Coniston Mountain you can sweep the broad valley of acertain broad river where grew (and grow still) the giant pines that gavemany a mast to King George's navy as tribute for the land. And beyondthat river rises beautiful Farewell Mountain of many colors, nowsapphire, now amethyst, its crest rimmed about at evening with saffronflame; and, beyond Farewell, the emerald billows of the western peakscatching the level light. A dozen little brooks are born high among thewestern spruces on Coniston to score deep, cool valleys in their waythrough Clovelly township to the broad music of the water and freshriver-valleys full of the music of the water and fresh with the odor ofthe ferns.
To this day t