enough to live. To-day, for nine hours of inferior work, they are generally paid well, in some cases so much that the profit of their employers is but nominal. Wherever they are underpaid or badly treated, it is quite reasonable that they should protest and strike. But the demands which they make in the majority of cases are preposterous. Before the strike of the crews of the Caspian steamers was ordered, the employers were asked to abolish all work on Sundays and holydays even when at sea. If these and other strikers persist in idleness much longer, the industrial population of central Russia will be impoverished, and the poorer classes generally be hard set to satisfy their absolute needs. The peasants are likewise inoculated with the malady in its agrarian form. They want land without paying for it; but, if they can obtain it by means of crime, they are well satisfied. istic theories saturate their minds. Their political teachers are dangerous fanatics, men of one book, and that a political penny pamphlet. Their schools are often revolutionary temples from which only the goddess Reason is absent. The love of God and the fear of the devil are fast going out of their lives; and they take to violence as readily as a duckling to water. There are still tens of thousands of peasants who cling to the faith of their fathers and respect the traditions of their fatherland; there may even be millions of them; but they are silent, inarticulate, without influence.

Social

LIVING AGE.

the State, is not the kind of parliament to make helpful laws. Still less is it a gathering of statesmen willing and able to rescue the people from the dangers that compass them round.

The first Duma was as revolutionary as is the second, but it grossly miscalculated its strength. It relied fully on the support of the nation, only to find that it was leaning on a broken reed. The parties of the present Chamber have profited by that bitter lesson. They know that, if the nation is their hope for the future, it is not their mainstay for the present. Aware that the forces of the revolution are scattered, disunited, and only semiconscious, they are seeking to join, animate, and organize them. And this can be done only by such powerful centres of attraction and radiation as the Duma, the electoral colleges, the educational establishments, the factories, and the press. Hence the parties in the Duma and the students in the universities will endeavor to avoid everything that might serve the Government as a good ground for dissolution, and they assume that it will not be contented with a mere pretext. That is the alpha and omega of the tactics now being adopted by the deputies, who, to a certain extent, have secured the half-reluctant, half-conscious co-operation of the Cabinet.

But the dissolution will come. It is only a question of time, and of a very short period of time. And yet the Government, longing to find a co-operation in the people's representatives, would have met these halfway. M. Stolypin was literally panting for an opportunity to show how liberal his programme is; and the Constitutionalists have perhaps seriously damaged their cause by refusing to submit his promises to a practical test. But Russian Constitutionalists, like Russians of every other party, are deficient in political acumen. They are incapable of

making plans and executing them. If in this respect the Tsar's advisers had been superior to the rest, they would have made hay while the sun shone from August last until March. What they will now probably do is to dissolve the Chamber, promulgate a new electoral law, and perhaps authorize the Council of the Empire to exercise temporarily the functions of a consultative Chamber.

The

The question has been often asked, whether it is still possible for the autocracy to recover its lost position and rule the country on the old lines without causing a financial smash or a political catastrophe. At present, of course, this is but a speculative query. It is as though sailors, shipwrecked on a sandy, treeless island, should set themselves to discuss whether they could sail across the stretch of ocean that divides them from land. answer is affirmative in both cases, provided that there is a seaworthy boat for the one task and a ruler of men for the other. History offers a striking instance. Friedrich Wilhelm IV of Prussia conceived the idea of taking back the reins of power thrown to the nation in a moment of fear; and he had his way, despite the opposition of a Chamber that struck the words "by the grace of God" from his title, and refused to recognize his claim to adjourn the assembly without its consent. It was a risky design, but he compassed it.

What was arduous in Prussia is easy in Russia-or rather it would be if there were a man of will to undertake the task. Whether such a man is living in the Tsar's dominions, has been doubted. One fact is very obvious, that he is not active. There is no one to The Quarterly Review.

raise a breakwater against the spring floods of the revolution, which may at any moment submerge the land."

There is, however, a group of Monarchists, Conservatives, and reactionaries who are irreconcilable enemies of the revolution and devoted defenders of the throne. For them the throne is a sacred politico-religious symbol; and they refuse to believe its occupant capable of sacrificing the autocracy in the interests of the autocrat. Under a bold leader they feel that they would work wonders. But they are leaderless and probably mistaken as well. They hold that the October charter is already too great a concession to the revolution, and they add that if M. Stolypin's programme were carried out there would be nothing left for them to defend. They censure the Government's policy as suicidal, and speak as though they would brook its realization only up to a certain point; for it bestows rights upon the Duma which render the refusal of further and sovereign rights dangerous to the peace of the country and subversive of the security of the monarch and his religion. High above the loyalty of this group of persons is their loyalty to principles; and the success of their cause, if it be not already lost irretrievably, depends upon their never being obliged, during the present revolution, to choose between the two.

There are a few individuals who, while gifted with the strength of will to tackle the problem, lack the moral or intellectual qualities. M. Durnovo or M. Gurko are disqualified by their reputation, M. Pikhno by his unwillingness. The Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich might possibly succeed if he had experience and parliamentary life. M. A. B., who seems to understand the situation and its possibilities better than any one else, is almost unknown to the Tsar.

The

The prison van, with its twelve separate compartments, one for each prisoner, rattles over the stones on its way to Holloway Jail. As it passes down the poor streets the people cheer. The prisoners, in the darkness of the van, hear the cheers. It is evening when they arrive at their destination. darkness is closing in as they pass in single file through the great gates, across the courtyard, and into the prison. They find themselves in a long corridor with small cubicles on either side. An officer calls out their names and the length of their sentences, and locks them each into one of the cubicles, which are about five feet by four, and quite dark. The wardress then goes from door to door, taking down further particulars as to profession, religion, and so on, and asking if they can read, write, and sew. Meanwhile, the prisoners call to each other over the tops of the cubicles, and talk in loud, high-pitched voices. Every now and then the officer protests, but still the noise continues. Soon another van-load arrives. All the cubicles are filled. Several women must go into one cubicle-sometimes as many as five. Now the prisoners are sent, one after the other, to see the doctor. He touches them quickly with his stethoscope; they pass back to their cubicles, and are then sent to change their clothes. They undress, two or three at a time, and deliver up any money or jewelry they may have with them. Particulars of these and of their clothes are entered by an officer, who also again takes down their names and ages. This done, they are searched to see that they have nothing concealed about them, and are sent to the bath; after which they are provided with underclothing, each prisoner being told to pick out a dress for herself

from the heaps that are lying on the floor, and a pair of shoes from the rack near by. All is hurry and confusion. The room is dimly lit. The dresses are old, badly washed, and awkwardly made. None of the shoes seem to be in pairs. They are heavy and clumsy, with leather laces that break easily in the hand. When dressed-third-class prisoners in brown, second-class in green, and first-class in gray, all with white caps and blue and white check aprons-they go through a maze of wards and passages, and up seemingly endless flights of stairs, to their respective cells, stopping on the way, however, to have their names, etc., once more verified, and to have sheets and a tooth-brush, if they ask for it, given them, also a Bible, hymnbook, prayer-book, a tract called The Narrow Way, and a little book on health and cleanliness.

Imagine that you are one of these prisoners, and that you are with the vast majority of your companions in the third division.

You find yourself at last in a small whitewashed cell, twelve or thirteen feet long, by seven feet wide, and about nine feet high. There is a stone floor. The window, which is high up, near the ceiling, is divided by an iron framework into many little panes, and guarded by iron bars outside. The iron door is studded with nails, and in the centre is a round, eye-like hole, through which you may be observed, but which is now covered on the outside. The gas-jet is placed in a small recess behind a pane of glass. Near the door there is a wooden stool and a small wooden shelf, called the table, whilst by the window is another shelf, about three feet six inches high, with one about six inches from the floor immediately under it. The lower shelf

is for the mattress and bedding. The upper one holds a wooden spoon, a pint pot of block tin, a wooden saltcellar, a piece of soap, and a red cardcase containing the prison rules and a prayer card. On this shelf you also place your books and tooth-brush. These things must all be put in certain never-varying positions. Along the wall are arranged a plate, water-can, basin, and slop-pail of block tin, two brushes for sweeping, a little tin dustpan, and rags for cleaning the tins. These also are placed in an order never to be changed. A towel and a little table-cloth hang on a nail. Propped against the wall on the right-hand side is the plank bed, with the pillow balanced on top.

It was past supper-time when you came in, but you have been given a piece of bread. You eat it, and having made your bed, lie down to sleep. You are as yet only in the admission cells, and every one is too busy to set you to work, so that it is best to pass over the next day and take a later one.

You will then be settled in a cell much like that already described. If you happen to be in the new wing, the cell, though smaller (nine feet six inches by six feet six inches), will have a larger window, and there will be electric light instead of gas. A badge has been given you to wear, bearing the letter and number of your block in the prison, and the number of your cell, by which you will henceforth be called. Suppose that this number be 12. Each morning, while it is still quite dark, you are awakened by the tramp of heavy feet and the ringing of bells. Then the light is turned on. You wash in your tiny basin, nine or ten inches in diameter, and dress hurriedly. Soon you hear the rattling of keys and the noise of iron doors. The sound comes nearer and nearer till it reaches your own door. "Empty your slops, 12." You

ful to do it very neatly. Next clean the tins. They are soaped, rubbed with brick-dust, and polished, and must be made very bright. The door opens and shuts. Some one has left you a pail of water. Scrub the stool, bed, and table, and wash the shelves. Then scrub the floor. All this ought to be done before breakfast, but at first, unless you are already experienced in such matters, it will take you much longer.

Again the jangling of keys and clanging of doors. Then-"Where's your pint, 12?" You hand it out, spread your little cloth, and set your plate ready. Your pint pot is filled with gruel, and six ounces of bread are thrust upon your plate. The door swings to. Now eat your breakfast, and then, if your cleaning is done, begin to sew. Perhaps it is a sheet you have to do. Of these with hem top and bottom, and mid-seam, the minimum quantity, as you will learn from your labor card, is fifteen per week. About 8.30 it is time for chapel.

The officer watches you take your place in line among the other women. They all wear numbered badges like yours, and are dressed as you are. A few, very few, four or five perhaps, out of all the hundreds in the third division, wear red stars on caps and sleeves. This is to show that they are first offenders, who have previously borne a good character and have some one to testify to that fact. Every now and then the warder cries out that some one is speaking, and as you march along there is a running fire of criticism and rebuke. "Tie up your cap-string, 27. You look like a cin

der picker. You must learn to dress decently here." "Hold up your head, number 30." "Hurry up, 23." In the chapel it is your turn. "Don't look about you, 12." In comes the clergymau. He reads the lessons, and all sing and pray together.

Can they be really criminals, all these poor, sad-faced women? How soft their hearts are! How easily they are moved! If there is a word in the service which touches the experience of their lives, they are in tears at once. Anything about children, home, affection, a word of pity for the sinner, or of striving to do better-any of these things they feel deeply. Singing and the sound of the organ make them cry. Many of them are old, with shrunken cheeks and scant white hair. Few seem young. All are anxious and careworn. They are broken down by poverty, sorrow, and over-work. Think of them going back to sit, each in her lonely cell, to brood for hours on the causes which brought her here, wondering what is happening to those she loves outside, tortured, perhaps by the thought that she is needed there. How can these women bear the slow-going, lonely hours? Now go back to your cell with their faces in your eyes.

At 12 o'clock comes dinner. A pint of oatmeal porridge and six ounces of bread three days a week, six ounces of suet pudding and six ounces of bread two days a week, and two other days eight ounces of potatoes and six ounces of bread. After dinner you will leave your cell no more that day, except to fetch water between two and three o'clock, unless it be one of the three days a week on which you are sent to exercise. In that case, having chosen one for yourself from a bundle of capes, and having fastened your badge to it, you follow the other women outside. There all march slowly round in single file with a distance of three or four yards between each prisoner.

Two of the very oldest women, who can only totter along, go up and down at one side, passing and repassing each other.

If you came into prison on Wednesday, the first day to exercise will be Saturday. How long it seems since you were last in the outside world, since you saw the sky and the sunshine, and felt the pure fresh air against your cheek! How vividly everything strikes you now! Every detail stands out in your mind with never-to-be-forgotten clearness. Perhaps it is a showery autumn day. The blue sky is flecked with quickly driving clouds. The sun shines brightly, and lights up the puddles on the ground and the raindrops still hanging from the eaves and windowledges. The wind comes in little playful gusts. The free pigeons are flying about in happy confidence. You notice every difference in their glossy plumage. Some are gray with purple throats, some have black markings on their wings, some are a pale brown color, some nearly white, one is a deep purple, almost black, with shining white bars on his wings and tail: all are varied-no two are alike. The gaunt prison buildings surround everything; but in all this shimmering brightness, in this sweet, free air, they have lost for the moment their gloomy terror.

Now your eye lights on your fellowprisoners. You are brought back to the dreary truth of prison life. With measured tread and dull, listless step they shuffle on. Their heads are bent, their eyes cast down. They do not see the sun and the brightness, the precious sky, or the hovering birds. They do not even see the ground at their feet, for they pass over sunk stones, through wet and mud, though there be dry ground on either side. The prison system has eaten into their hearts. They have lost hope, and