Russia. For most people those two volumes would have been quite enough. When laid on a table, on their sides, the one on top of the other, they stand several inches high. But Masaryk is thorough. He had composed a third volume, as huge as either of the first two. And it lay in his house in manuscript, unprinted. And the Austrians had it.

Would they destroy it? Then all that work would have to be done again. Among Masaryk's enormous worries at Paris that fall, we may be sure that this small worry kept coming up every day in his scholar's mind. And we may be also sure that one of the first things he will do when he reenters Prague in presidential pomp will be to hunt for that manuscript and recover it if it still exists and then sit down in his late evenings and laboriously revise it and bring it to date and send it to the printer-and then, perhaps, begin on volume four.

But at Paris, in the fall of 1915, he was quite unable even to think of volume four; and at Prague he had left hostages behind him a bit more precious than manuscripts after all.

One of his sons was compelled to be in the Austrian army, forced to bear arms for a cause detested by Bohemia. One of his daughters was imprisoned. His wife was at any time likely to be imprisoned. She is of American birth, and Masaryk in his youth had

voyaged to America to marry her and take her back to Europe. They had been students together at Leipsic, he of philosophy and she of music. And it was characteristic of Masaryk's views of women that when he married her, he calmly added her name to his own, and, from being Thomas Masaryk, became Thomas Garrigue Masaryk. And when in October of this year, 1918, he finally issued the "Declaration of Independence of the Czecho-Slovak Nation by its Provisional Government," he did not fail to say: "Our democracy in Bohemia shall rest on universal suffrage; and women shall be placed on an equal footing with men, politically and socially and culturally."

In the fall of 1915 Mrs. Masaryk was in the power of a government which has not hesitated to execute thousands of women.

And that Government, the Government at Vienna, along with the Government at Berlin, seemed to have a full fighting chance, and more than a full fighting chance, of being victorious in the world war. The British were not ready to take the offensive on the western front.. The western front was standing still. And the eastern front was going back. The Russians were in retreat across the Carpathians.

And, finally, the Allies were still blind to the cause of Bohemia and still deaf to Masaryk's arguments.

Not one word had they spoken on which Bohemia could rely for its future.

In these circumstances a clever man, a merely clever man, a diplomat like Talleyrand or even like Bismarck, would have sought for a way by which he could remain on good terms with the Allies and yet he prepared for a compromise with Vienna and with Berlin. At that moment the wisdom of the world would have been to carry water on both shoulders. And at that moment Masaryk took his pen and wrote his manifesto of November 14, 1915, in which he demanded the complete democratic dismemberment of Austria-Hungary, and in which he committed Bohemia totally and irrevocably to the side of the Allies. This was a million miles beyond cleverness. The Central Powers represented autocracy. The Allies, on the whole, represented democracy. The cause of Bohemia was entirely a democratic cause. Therefore Bohemia must go up with the Allies to triumph, or down with the Allies to the pit and night. With that simplicity, with that grandeur, Masaryk walked into the statesmanship of the great war and shook the hand of Fate for himself and for his country.

A year and a half later, in the spring of 1917, he was in Russia. The Revolution had come. And after the Revolution came the Mensheviki and the Bolsheviki. And in the summer came the last Russian

offensive.

And the Russians were now running all the way home to their cities and farms. And if the fall of 1915 was black, the fall of 1917 was blacker. And Masaryk went down to the neighborhood of Kief, in Southern Russia, in the Ukraine, where a large number of his countrymen were gathered together.

They were men who had been compelled to serve against their wills in the Austrian and Hungarian armies. They were Czechs and Slovaks, from Bohemia and from the districts immediately to the southeast of Bohemia. They were blood-brethren, speaking the same language and linked by a common hatred of the oppressions practised upon them by the Germans of Vienna and the Hungarians of Budapest. They had revolted against their German and Hungarian officers and had gone over to the side of the Russians. In the last Russian offensive they had been the only troops that had really fought. They fought till the Russians on both their flanks, to the right of them and to the left of them, had run so far to the rear that the whole Czecho-Slovak unit was almost surrounded. Then they retired toward Kief. And to them, to these strenuous soldiers, came Masaryk.

He was sixty-seven years old. He was a professor of philosophy. He was a maker of books. He had written a very good book on "The Concrete Grounds of Logic." He was slender, tallish, with a slight

mild stoop of the shoulders, a slow speech, a benignant beard, and gentle brown eyes. And whatever this old man told those young heroes to do, they did.

In the midst of the anarchy of Russia he had no possible physical control over them. But they knew him. They all knew him for his toil and for his character. And hundreds of them knew him personally. They had listened to his lectures at the University of Prague.

In European universities, more than in our own, it is possible for students to discriminate between professors whom they wish to hear and professors whom they do not wish to hear. The lecture-rooms of certain professors at Prague, as at all other European universities, were frequented by twenty, ten, five students. Masaryk lectured on philosophy. In his lecture-room the students filled all the chairs and they filled the aisles and they filled the windowledges and they filled the corridor outside, standing on tiptoe and turning their heads to catch his words. He spoke of life and strength and truth to nourish them. And if they ever murmured against him he knew how to rebuke them without sternness.

One such murmuring, one such rebuke, Captain Spacek of the Czecho-Slovak army near Kief could remember and could afterward recount at Washington. It was on the famous occasion when Masaryk