Excerpt from The Driver

And now, by the timbre and volume Of the cheer ing, you recognize the Commander. He rides. Sit ting so still and distant beside a negro driver in a buggy drawn by two mares he is disappointing to the eye. There is nothing Obviously heroic about him. He wears spectacles. Above a thin, down-growing mustache the face is that Of a man Of ideas and action, the lower features, especially the mouth, de note a shy, secretive, sentimental, credulous man Of mystical preoccupations. None Of these qualities is more than commonplace. The type is well known to inland communities - the man who believes in per petual motion, in the perfectibility Of human nature, in miraculous interventions Of deity, and makes a small living shrewdly. He might be the inventor Of a washing machine. He is in fact the owner Of a sand stone quarry and a breeder Of horses.

But mark you, the ego may achieve grandeur in any habitat. It is not in the least particular. This inconsiderable man, ludicrously setting forth on Easter Sunday in command Of a modern crusade, has one startling Obsession. He believes that with the bandit-looking person on the White horse he shares the reincarnation of Christ.

In a buggy following, with what thoughts we shall never know, rides the wife Of this half of Christ reincarnated.

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