tending. School books and stationery are scarce and on account of poverty but few children can get them. Very Very poor text books published in Japan and China are being used, but the price is exceedingly high. Then the teachers cannot support themselves, on account of the sudden fall of the ruble, and so, cannot help their students.

While I was traveling from Habarovsk to Nikolaievsk, I became the train mate of two Russian young ladies, and listened to their conversation. Both were school teachers at Habarovsk but they could not live on their salaries, and had given up their positions. One intended to go to Vladivostok, the other was bound for Harbin. Perhaps they might at last be caught in the net of fate and sink to unlicensed prostitutes, or beggars wandering from town to town. The case being thus, the schools everywhere are closing for want of teachers, and education in Eastern Siberia is declining more and more. I deeply sympathize with the children of school age in Siberia who cannot get an education. Not only the children, but young men and women, too, have lost facilities for education, since the business schools and the colleges have closed, and they are idly spending priceless years in vain regrets. While I was passing an important station on the Ussuri railway, I met the son of a certain country squire. He had had bright prospects of entering a Petrograd university, but as things were now, he could only while away his time in this country place. I was deeply sorry for him.

Next, let us consider religion. The people are in general adopting a laissez-faire policy, and hence faith, too, is declining. After the Great War, the Revolution came, difficulty in gaining food followed, and naturally a loss of faith. Recently, however, we

hear of a revival of spiritual life. I, myself, attended services wherever I went, in accordance with my custom, and found everywhere about 70 to 80 per cent attendance. At places like Harbin, where the atmosphere of the Empire still exists, the churches are full. The central cathedral is always crowded. Escaping from real life, the people find themselves in another world when they enter church and are suffused with strong emotion as if the former days had returned. This we could sense in the zealous prayers, ardent faces, and mystic air of intense longing for spiritual revelation. In eastern Siberia I saw no fine cathedrals, though we have one such in Tokyo. Whenever I saw the Byzantine architecture with its round domes, or the Gothic spires on the hilltop churches, as these rose from the plains in the clear blue northern sky, I found the fascination they exercised over me was wonderful, because they recalled the Middle Ages to my mind. In the intervals of the solemn ritual service, the deep male voices, chanting slow music, make a deep impression. I catch a glimpse of the power of Russian religious fervor, in participating in such a service. This religious faith has grown up in them through a thousand years of their history and has become a part of their deepest inner life. So, although it may become weak or cold for a time, it will surely revive again.

But this present revival of faith is certainly no evidence of a reaction from Bolshevism. It is rather the faith that comes from passive endurance of evil the idea expressed in the popular saying, 'In extremity, man prays.' As a result of the horrors experienced in war, the hard living conditions so long continued, the realization that life is uncertain and evanescent and that nothing in this

world is in stable equilibrium, the people, naturally, turn to God as their only sure dependence. As the sudden fervor of religious faith which has taken hold of the people of eastern Siberia appears to be the concomitant of intense pessimism; it is not an active force. It will be a long time before there is a great national religious crusade against Bolshevism.

While spiritual life is suddenly showing a great revival, yet, moral conditions in eastern Siberia are get-. ting worse and worse in consequence of the hard living conditions. Now these two statements may appear curiously paradoxical, but, indeed, the truth is that to Russians, religion and morality have appeared quite separate and distinct from each other for long ages. The religious zeal of the people might rise to inconceivable heights, and yet the high-water mark of their moral life be very low. A man may go to church and to the confessional, and pray in tears, and then a little later, tempted by the odor of vodka, may drop into a wayside saloon, become intoxicated, quarrel, fight, and, not seldom, even commit murder. The Russian tem

perament is lacking in calmness and self-control. Easily running to extremes, the people show religious zeal, but a low morality. Their morals being more practical than their religion, tend to be more easily affected by daily life, and hence become corrupted. When the problem how to live becomes dominant, both religion and morals seem to lose their power.

To-day, the disorganization of the home and the degradation of women have almost reached the lowest point. Low sex morality, which formerly was asserted to be due to Russian characteristics, is now intensified by the living conditions. For example, there are now many widows in Russia on account of the war. If they have children to feed and educate, they cannot live in the usual way and are obliged to barter their chastity for gold. Again, many young women refugees are coming in from western Russia. If they cannot make a living, they must join the host of unlicensed prostitutes who sit in the parks in the dusk of evening. To see those who had formerly lived a sober, normal life thrown into this black abyss is a pitiful sight indeed.

AMONG the papers left by my brother, Friedrich Nietzsche, I found a little memorandum to the effect that the moral phrases used by a nation at different periods in its history might remain the same, but that the sentiments expressed by these phrases might completely change. He cited several examples of this. 'Among the people with whom I have lived, men are classified as good, noble, and great. The word "good" varies considerably in meaning, according to the viewpoint of the user. In fact, it is employed with contradictory meanings. "Noble" generally indicates something more than good, not extraordinary goodness, but a different quality in a good man, which places him somehow in a superior category. A "great" man in the current acceptance of the word need be neither good nor noble. I recall only one example in this century of a man to whom all three adjectives could be applied even by his enemies - Mazzini.'

Recently, someone asked me about my brother's acquaintance with Mazzini. I had to reply that it was only a fleeting travel acquaintanceship made under unusually romantic surroundings and circumstances. My thoughts flew back fifty years. My brother had returned in the autumn of 1870 from the war, where he had served as a nurse for a short period. He was in ill health. His war experiences had shaken him to the depths. He had chanced to be an eye witness of the horrible way French prowlers tortured

the helpless wounded who fell into their hands. He rarely spoke of this, because the mere memory excited him so unpleasantly. After the physical and spiritual shock of his military life, he returned to his professorship in Basel too early, and broke down completely. His physician ordered him to go South, and to take his 'jolly young sister' with him. Therefore, I was suddenly summoned from icebound North Germany, and picking my brother up at Basel, we started for Italy. At that time, there was no railway through the Gotthard, and we had to take the coach road over the mountains, as our predecessors had done for centuries. We bought our tickets for the journey at Lucerne, and our guide regarded his party from that time on much as a piece of private property which he had to look after. I still recall pleasantly his good humored, confidence-inspiring countenance. I got my brother tucked away in a sheltered spot on the deck of the steamer, well wrapped up with rugs and furs, but found my precautions unnecessary, for our route lay down the sunny side of the lake, and the breath of spring was in the air, although the northern shore still looked gloomy and icebound. I soon noticed that our guide was showing particular attention to another couple in the party, and, a little later, he confided to us who they were. 'The old gentleman is a very distinguished man, but no one must know who he is, for he has been exiled from his native country as a dangerous subject and a

reward of many thousand lire has been placed upon his head. But,' continued the good man, triumphantly, 'I know him well. He is a wonderful gentleman, and I shall not betray him.' When I asked, with intense curiosity, who he was, the guide looked around, placed his hand cautiously over his mouth, and whispered to me: 'Mazzini.' My brother said quickly: 'Do you understand, Elisabeth? That is Fantasio.' We had just read an English book, Lorenzo Benoni, which we had been told described the personal adventures of the two Italian conspirators, Ruffini. A very noble, and sympathy-inspiring conspirator named Fantaso was an important character in the story, and was supposed to portray Mazzini. The guide finally yielded to our entreaties to point him out. He was not difficult to identify; for all of the rest of the passengers aboard the steamer were Swiss, returning from some celebration. Mazzini sat wrapped up in a big gray rug at the forward end of the deck. His finely-shaped head with its abundant white hair gave him a striking appearance. Care and trouble had engraved deep lines in his noble, haggard countenance, which had the yellow cast of a Southerner. As his gaze swept over the beautiful landscape, he gradually turned in our direction. His dark and marvelously brilliant eyes betrayed an expression of such suffering, that we were both a little intimidated by his glance. It came back to me vividly, later, when I read an account of a letter written by Mazzini, in the Memoirs of an Idealist, describing the impression which the trip over the Lake of the Four Cantons made upon him. The authoress, Malvida von Meysenburg says: 'One day when I was with C, she received a letter from Mazzini containing an extremely poetical and melancholy account of his trip down the Lake of the

Four Cantons. He described how the solemn repose of the glorious land scape inspired him with deep religious sentiment, a renewed faith and hope for his fatherland, which he so ar dently loved and which he could visit only in secret.' That particular letter must have been written long before 1871; but I was none the less sure that Mazzini was overpowered by the same sentiment at the moment when we chanced to catch the expression of his eyes as he again surveyed that magnificent mountain panorama.

We reached Fluelen on a marvel ously beautiful evening, and had to stay there over night, because the post wagon to Gotthard did not leave until morning. Had we come a few days earlier, we would have been obliged to tarry here for fourteen days; for it took that time to open the roads over the pass after a recent heavy snow fall. Our guide told us that the snow lay two metres deep above the stone walls along the highway.

At supper, we discovered that Maz zini and his young Italian companion were the only other guests besides my brother and myself. However, my brother and I sat at some distance from them, at a little private table. After dessert, we drew up to the warm stove and overheard the lively Italian conversation of the two gentlemen, who were at some distance from us. Maz zini's voice was a particularly pleasing one. I could not understand what they said, but my brother told me that Mazzini was trying to explain the beauty and the genius of Goethe's poetry to his young companion. Before long, I heard Mazzini quoting:

Sich des Halben zu entwöhnen
Und im Ganzen, Vollen, Schönen
Resolut zu leben.

My brother ever afterward asso ciated this quotation with Mazzini. The next morning, our hostess asked

us if we would not take breakfast at the same table with the other two guests. She tried to make us under11 stand by a wink that the old gentleman with whom we would sit was a very interesting man. Apparently, Mazzini's incognito was rather transparent; but he was registered as Mr. Brown. I took my seat at table, next to the eminent conspirator, with a beating heart. He addressed me in perfect French. My brother, after Mazzini had looked at him inquiringly, apologized for not taking much part in the conversation, because he was feeling seriously indisposed and, moreover, he spoke such an extraordinarily literary French that I, his sister, always insisted it sounded like Racine and Corneille and was impossible to understand. I added to this that in my brother's opinion and 1 mine, languages were taught in the German schools so that no ordinary man could express himself in them. My brother said, jokingly, that he could carry on a conversation much more easily in Latin or Greek. Mazzini would listen to no criticism of the German schools, and kept repeating they were splendid institutions. Finally, my brother begged us to continue our conversation without paying attention to him. He enjoyed listening and might, perhaps, throw in a word of Latin here and there, which he did. Mazzini seemed to enjoy this. He told us that he could understand German very well, but could not talk the language.

It was a glorious day and quite like spring, until we reached Amsteg. Two immense mail wagons took us passengers and our luggage. Mazzini and his companion occupied the first, my brother and I had a top seat in the second. After leaving Amsteg, the snow became deeper, and the progress of the heavy mail wagons constantly slower. So we welcomed the change to the little sleds which were to take us over

the pass itself. They were remarkably pretty little vehicles. I must not tarry with a description of the magnificent landscape, but when we reached the higher altitudes, all nature above, around, and below us, was a symphony of three colors: blue, white, and gold.

The mail stopped at midday at Andermatt, where we four had another opportunity to converse. I think we all felt that we were utterly isolated from the rest of the world in this smokeblackened, wainscoted room, from which we looked out over an endless wilderness of sparkling snow drifts. When I mentioned this impression of solitude to Mazzini, he said: 'Yes, indeed, our surroundings are well-calculated to produce that feeling. And yet, we are not really remote from the world, but in fact at its very centre. Mt. Gotthard is the very heart of Europe. Four rivers rise in the neighboring mountains, whose valleys are the seats of modern civilization. On the banks of these streams men made settlements in the earliest ages. These grew through trade and industry and became powerful cities. Later, men perfected the finer arts, and the channels of these rivers became the highways by which the treasures of culture were distributed to the world. And each of these streams, which plunges so merrily down these heights to grow into a great burden-carrier of civilization, broadens out until it becomes a majestic flood, merging, finally, with the waves of the mighty ocean. But,' he concluded, casting a smiling side glance at my soup, which stood unobserved and untouched before me, 'I strayed into the realm of fancy. Let's get back to facts.'

My brother had listened to Mazzini's remarks with great interest, and observed that the four rivers which began in this solitude were an excellent symbol of the solitude of a great thinker, whose mighty world-moving