The journalistic pipes with a mighty welter of superlative swell toward the climax of the overture. Out in the shadow house a moneyed populace whispers expectantly, and straining, catches through a rift in the curtain delicious glimpses of promised wonders. And not a tear, even hypocritical, falls for the old fellow, battered but unbowed, led away to an obscure almshouse. It is the model Y of fragrant memories, a picaresque place that in the noisy exuberance of gallant youth growing nation. But it is said that Harvard and America are decadent now. One rides in Chryslers.

"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard" the public alse over so gently implied. And Mr. Ford replies with better lines, quiet, more power, more speed, in a still veiled Juggernaut of a motor millenium that can butcher pedestrians to make a Sudbury holiday, and buy the antiques of a more restful past. A Detroit Isis is born again with renewed vigor in the American pageant. They used to laugh at the car that now is dead. "But there is no death. There is only laughter," said Mr. O'Neil's Lazarus.