ment of social and political life in every phase during one of the most engrossing, one of the most momentous, periods in the world's whole history. Not to mention the works of historians like Herodotus, Xenophon, Polybius, Arrian, Cæsar, Livy, Tacitus, consider the political insight we gain from the comedies of Aristophanes and the theorizing of Plato and Aristotle.

There can be no better initiation into political science than is here provided, partly because so many of our own problems were already urgent for Greeks and Romans, partly because in those days such problems offered themselves in a more elementary form. Those who regard the Greeks as outof-date, except for an epic or so and a few hundred good vase-paintings, will have their eyes opened by reading one play, if no more, the Acharnians, and the Politics of Aristotle. 'People forget that the evils whereof they complain are due, not to a rejection of socialism, but to the wickedness of the human heart.' Is that out-of-date?

One is almost afraid to indicate another vast topic - the illumination which students of English literature will gain from these studies. Admirers of Mr. Hardy will be able to see for themselves whether he is right in his apparent belief that he has been influenced by Eschylus. It is notorious that Shakespeare owes a debt definite, however small, to Seneca, that amazing executant who yells pathos through a megaphone. How much light does the Eneid throw upon Paradise Lost? Moloch gains something from Turnus, the vision of Adam from the evermemorable muster-roll of Roman heroes whose wraiths present their overwhelming pageant in the Lower World before the eyes of their ancestor and exemplar. In our own time that fine novelist, Miss Sheila Kaye-Smith, has adopted a device used before her by Sophocles

to

depict a hero, faulty yet sublime, leaning both morally and in a severely technical sense upon a smaller character whose quiet soundness and sagacity are after all the pivot of action. The relations between Edipus and Creon in the Tyrannus, between Ajax and Teucer in the Ajax, are curiously like those between Robert and Clement in Green Apple Harvest.

The Loeb Classical Library is making a great and successful effort to bring classical learning itself— not secondhand etiolated reminiscences — into the orbit of normal modern culture, which for some generations has attempted, with increasing impetus and increasing self-damage, to dispense with it. More strongly and clearly than any other mass of literature, the Greek and Roman classics teach us what are the things that matter, and why they matter. It is of no avail to argue that such contemporary work as The Egoist, The Dynasts, The Old Wives' Tale, are first-rate yet owe nothing to such erudition, or that Shakespeare himself is in every sense nonclassical. Men of genius can produce great art without drawing upon distant tradition. But their public cannot appreciate them without such aid. The ordinary reader, the ordinary playgoer, the ordinary music-lover, needs a sound education with an urgency which does not apply to the creative artist. Bunyan was a tinker: do tinkers read him?

That feeling for reality, beauty, the sound taste, the relish for what endures, which the great artist possesses by nature, comes to us ordinary folk by training. We must acquire our standards; and the history of culture shows that they can best be acquired by Europeans from classical literature. From generation to generation literary taste has risen and fallen with the flourishing and decline of ancient learning. If art is to be sound, this inspira

tion must be astir among the commonplace people to whom art appeals. To-day such education is at a low ebb. Hence those portentous weeds, futurist painting, cubist sculpture, the various Colonial 'Kiplings.'

Everyone in his heart knows that these things are bad, but dares not say so. Why? People mumble phrases about 'keeping an open mind,' or 'conventions kill art.' The real reason is that they have no standards. Conventions do not kill art; on the contrary they make it possible. And it is just as fatal to 'keep an open mind' about everything as to keep it about nothing. Get your basis right and be dogmatic about that; then let your superstructure vary according to the temperament of the builder. That is the only way to sound, satisfactory, enduring art; the basis is racial, the superstructure individual. Because we have no dogmatic theology of our own, we have no cathedral architecture of our own.

Tradition need not be a chain; it may be a life line. That cubist group of cogwheels which its maker called 'statue of a soldier' - what are we to say about it? It makes us ashamed, but we cannot say why, and we are a prey to shibboleths in its favor which sound as convincing as shibboleths directed against it. You can best put the thing in its proper place by comparing it with the Venus of Melos in the Louvre or the Delphian Charioteer in the British Museum; not so well, be it observed, by comparing it with Watts's Physical Energy or Rodin's Penseur. Those Greek statues give you peace not only calm of soul, but mere comfort in dealing with a matter of taste. So with literature. You need no longer worry over the fact that you enjoy Harry Richmond but have been three times defeated by One of Our Conquerors. You may actually study here this very question of

'the value of the classics,' particularly in that passage where St. Augustine (Confessions, Bk. L) asks why he hated Greek literature as a boy and concludes that children have a better chance of learning languages by 'a free curiosity' than by 'frightful enforcement.'

So with most 'public questions' of our time. How much mere fruitless mental scurry will you be saved in political thinking by Tacitus, in educational thinking by the Republic, in moral thinking by Aristotle's Ethics! Not that you are saved thought — far from it. You are saved from that mere empty bustle of discussion which so often passes for thought. These works give you the keys to great treasurehouses; the treasures you must still appraise and use by your own endeavor.

By your own endeavor; for it is a vain boast that classical education makes a complete man, even on the mental side. Character is needed quite as much for mental excellence as for moral. All that such study provides is a magnificent means to largeness and fruitfulness of life, a means which may be neglected like any other. Yet even if one is nothing but a reader, a passive recipient of noble thoughts, exciting problems, beautiful stories, deeply moving studies of human sorrow or adventure, one adds vastly to the pleasures of existence. That is to put the claims of Greek and Latin on the lowest plane. Of all pleasures there is only one which is followed by no reac tion the pleasure of literary study; of all literary studies this remains the most solid, most engrossing, most pleasant. But seek to turn your passive acceptance into a positive enterprise of creating, increasing, bracing the mental fibre, and you will find in no other literature so noble a discipline. These boons the Loeb Library is making possible for every English-speaking man and woman.

1914

'Have you seen the paper?'
'No. What's up?'

"They say General Rennenkampf has deserted to the Kaiser.'

"The devil! How long will it be before they get wise and string up those swine?'

'String up? There are other ways of doing it. They drowned a German over in the Zindel factory. He was a real one all right. He would n't go under. So the boys helped him.' 'I'll bet we've got some dscoundrels like that here!' 'Just my idea.'

-d

It is early morning. There is a piercing whistle. What is the trouble? They are driving a German out of the

factory. The whole force refused to work with him. He lit out without looking behind him, the scoundrel. An excited crowd has gathered before the office.

"The Germans! They made all the trouble. They lowered wages, they ground us down. Clean 'em out!'

Timid clerks are peeping out the window. A burly fellow mounts the steps and roars: 'We 've got to get the Germans and spies out of the place!'

The crowd echoes back: 'Good! Quite right! Clean the scoundrels out!'

Just then a timid voice rises above the crowd: 'Comrades!' A curious silence follows.

'Do you want to know the real cause of your misery? Do you want to know who is to blame for this massacre? Do you? Do you want to know who has made these rivers of blood?'

The crowd is as still as death.

'Ask yourselves if you're on the right trail. What is this war to us? For whose profit is it fought? Our class enemies have always stirred us up against each other. They have sowed dissension in our ranks. Before the war they told us the Jews were to blame for everything. They got up pogroms to divert our attention from the really guilty ones. The Government is to blame. The Government wanted war. They are trying now to place the blame for their own blunders

on the men who are the least guilty of all on the little group of Germans that has stayed here in Russia. International capital exploits us all alike. This question of Jews or Christians, Russians or Germans, means nothing to us. I tell you that, comrades.'

'Down with him! Out with him!'

A wild scrimmage follows. The air is filled with shouts, blows, and curses. Someone yells: 'Police!' A police lieutenant steps out of the office and asks: 'What's up there?' The crowd is suddenly silent.

'Your honor, we are giving the Germans the devil. Things are going badly with us. We can't let these fellows stay here and take the bread out of our mouths, and then sell us behind our backs.'

A new speaker presses forward. 'Gentlemen! We are compelled to ask a list of all the Germans employed in the shops.'

The crowd approves vigorously. 'Right! Choose a committee!'

Ignorance and prejudice have won the day. The workmen stand around in groups, excitedly discussing the situation. Here and there two or three Bolsheviki are violently protesting. The crowd is not satisfied. It breaks up in little parties, and slowly leaves the works.

The next morning.

'Kirillych! What did you think yesterday? I cannot get it out of my head what that fellow said yesterday.' 'What do you mean?'

'Oh, go on! You heard what that fool said: the war means nothing to us - we're being exploited. The d-d blockhead, he's forgotten how those barons and vons ground us under their heels, the bloodsuckers! Wherever you look there is a German — in the shops, in the office, in the salesroom - and all holding the best jobs.'

'You ought to know better than to talk like that, old chap. There was a good deal of truth in what the fellow said yesterday. We don't know the whole story. I think there is something in what he said.'

'Do you mean to say you believed him? Why, that fellow he looked like a tramp.'

'Just the same, he spoke well. I sympathize with those fellows.'

"Those fellows? Whom do you mean?'

'Why, with his fellows - you know, those Socialists! You could see he was one at a glance.'

'Why, you fool! They ought to send you to the front. They would teach you some sense down there.'

The condition of the workers gets worse daily, while the management grows more arbitrary and exacting. Wages are very low in the shell shops. [This is an error of fact. TRANSLATOR.] The men are in an ugly state of mind. A strike meeting is called. Someone gets the floor and says:

'Comrades! This war has no interest for us. Our class enemies started it.' 'Question! Get down to business!"

"The situation of labor is getting worse daily. We propose the following.' The man reads a resolution.

'Not strong enough. Say they must treat us more considerately.'

'Fire the foreman of the shell shop.' The crowd approves vociferously: 'Down with him! Down with him!'

'Comrades, I have made that amendment.' He reads something. 'Do you approve?'

ever we wanted if we only struck. Now see where we are!'

'Ha! I told you so. I told you no good would come out of it. Have they got many on their side?'

'A whole lot of fellows!'

up the Petrograd workers, or they'll be beaten. We call upon every one of you to rise as one man and defend your cause at any price. We must elect delegates to the Soviet, which has been organized to defend the interests of

END OF 1916

Disasters at the front. Mass meetings. Singing the Marseillaise. Food Committees. The Bolsheviki incessantly repeating: "The war means nothing for the working class. End the war.' People begin to listen silently.

'Hey, Demidov gave it to the Government at the meeting yesterday!' 'I suppose they'll jug the poor devil for it.'

you

'Do think so? But the war "The devil take the war! What does it matter to us, after all, whether the Germans or the Chinese win it? We're a lot of stupid fools. Ah! . . .

'By Jove, but he did give it to them! We must n't let them arrest him, eh?' 'Sure not. We must n't let them stop a man's mouth when he tells the truth.'

'Do you know, there has been a strike on for three days at Petrograd. Some workingmen were shot.' 'A Bolshevik again.'

'What was the trouble?'

'Ah, high prices. The mob cleaned out the provision stores.'

'So? If it comes to that, it's time we were taking a hand.'

"They have drunk our blood long enough, these d-d capitalists.'

FEBRUARY 1917

'Comrades, the Petrograd proletariat has struck to a man. They want the war stopped at once. They want the whole imperial gang- the Romanovs

tried for their crimes. We must back

All the men elected are Bolsheviki. Red flags, red ribbons, red rosettes everywhere. Soldiers coming back from the front. 'Hurrah, Kerenskii, hurrah, Miliukov! Hurrah for the Provisional Government! Hurrah!'

'Hi there, you fellow with a beard! Where are you going?'

"To the meeting of the SocialRevolutionaries.'

'Don't let them take you in. Come to the Bolsheviki!'

'Not on your life. They 're only big talkers and nothing else. They want to get everything at once. The Socialist-Revolutionaries are practical fellows. They're more modest. Rome was n't built in a day.'

Reaction begins to lift its head.

'Comrades, all power to the Soviets! The compromisers, the Mensheviki and Social-Revolutionaries, have again sold out the workers and peasants. We must rally against the enemy. To arms, or you are lost!'

'I don't know yet what the Bolsheviki want. The Tsar is overthrown. We have a revolutionary Government and our Soviet. These fellows are insatiable. They want all the power to themselves. Just wait and see.'

JUNE 1917

Lenin is a German spy. The Bolsheviki are traitors.

'Have you seen the paper? Lenin is a German spy! And to think that I believed him! I said to myself: "At last we 've got an honest man who is a true friend of Labor." All bosh! The rascal came through in a sealed car!'