It remembered the descendants of its subjects,
the Aztec Indians. It remembered how the Spaniards had cruelly broken
the Aztec nation. Through the subtle influence of psychic forces, it
stirred up a passion of hate for Spain in the hearts of the people of
the United States, and it fostered the awful spirit of strife, and at
the right moment it let loose the dogs of war. One convulsive touch
of its rocky claws on the hidden currents coursing in earth's veins
and an evil spark fired the fatal mine under the battleship Maine, in
the harbor of Havana.
"Is this possible; can this be true?" If not, why is it that at the
call to arms, even before the nation rallied from the shock of the
cowardly deed which sacrificed the lives of inoffensive sailors--why
is it, I say, that from under the very paws of the Sphinx, so far
away in Arizona--and at the call of Captain O'Neill, the noble mayor
of Prescott, there arose the first contingent of fighting volunteers
in our war with Spain? The inexorable Sphinx had resolved to grant to
our beloved and honored friend its last and most exalted gift, a
hero's death on the field of battle. It has graven the name of
Prescott, the city of the Sphinx, on scrolls of everlasting fame, as
the town which rallied first to the call of the President and as the
only town which gave the life of its mayor, its first, its most
honored citizen, to the nation.
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