Americans shall forfeit their rights to the Islands, but rather, whether they would be, at the present stage of its existence, justified in giving up a charge so arduous, so full of complications, and replete with responsibilities; whether they would be justified in standing aside at this juncture in the history of the Philippines and witnessing, as I believe they inevitably would witness-the ruin of all or much that has been done in the interests of the Archipelago. Again, do results prove

that the Filipinos are ready for, or capable of, at the moment, self-government? These are grave questions; but The Academy.

it is the belief of the great majority of thoughtful and sincere Americans in the Islands that the Filipino to-day, or for many a long day, will not be capable of self-government. Yet how often we humans try to persuade ourselves that the easiest way is the right way out of our difficulties. For there is no doubt it would be easier for the Americans to withdraw from the Islands than to hold on to them-to cling tenaciously to a possession that has ceased to bring them any material advantage, or, I fear, much satisfaction to their pride.

Sydney M. English. (Manila)

It is different from any other afternoon; it has a different melancholy; as different from the dire and squalid gloom of Saturday afternoon as Sunday, which I always think of as showing a glossy black amid the spectroscope of the days, is different from the pale yellow ochre of Saturday. The sense of Sunday will be one of the last things to die in a race that has sat under the shade of Puritanism, and even those people who have never observed the rites of any religion are subject to strange recurring qualms every seventh day, and will be pricked by the desire to do something on that day which is different from their ordinary occupations. It needs no bell or calendar to tell the Anglo-Saxon that it is Sunday; and even if he has forgotten it for the first few hours of the day, it will find him out towards three o'clock in the afternoon. On ships far out at sea, on the burning sands of the desert, on the wide African veldt, in trains storming across the continents, men are every week suddenly remembering that it is Sunday afternoon. I do not know how it may be with others, but with

me the sensation is a depressing one. In fact the whole week-end is a very dangerous time. Things which would be grasshoppers on Monday or Wednesday become burdens on Saturday or Sunday. The attack sets in with acute symptoms early on Saturday afternoon, when in certain quarters of any town there is a change in the note of the traffic, a kind of empty resonance in which the dreadful clangor of the barrel-organ echoes unchecked. You re

member that it is Saturday afternoon, and therefore a rest for hundreds of thousands of toiling people, and you ought to be happy at the thought; but somehow the thought does not make you happy. Then is the time that I am first threatened with panic. What am I doing this afternoon and this evening, and to-morrow afternoon and to-morrow evening? A chasm separates me from Monday, when the wheel of life will begin to turn again; and if no one has thrown a bridge for me across it I am certain to be engulfed.

That there is something universal in these symptoms is shown by the pains people have taken to relieve them; even

for people who do not go to church there remains the instinct to do something regularly on Sundays. Hence the Sunday concert, which for so many people fills the unconfessed but none the less uncomfortable gap left by a cessation of public devotional ceremonies. The audiences at the Queen's Hall and the Albert Hall on Sunday afternoons are not audiences so much as congregations. They have the demeanor of congregations, and they are congregations of a different religious persuasion. Queen's Hall is inclined to be High Church; the Albert Hall is undoubtedly Low Church; indeed, the appearance of the pavement outside after the concert is over, black with a multitude of respectable people who have finished digesting a heavy dinner and are going home to eat a heavy tea, is like that outside some vast temple of dissent. But there the analogy ends; the music inside is happily free from any taint of the atmosphere which it is meant to relieve; and for thousands of people in London there is at least one hour in which Sunday afternoon is robbed of its terrors.

Yet even here one is in continual danger of the black dog. The mere fact that one so often sits in a certain place on Sunday afternoon and hears certain music becomes dangerous for the music. What if one were to associate it definitely with Sunday afternoons? Its charm and beauty would be gone; it would merely call up in one's mind visions of the Albert Memorial or Langham Place, the frock coats that still seem to linger in the fashions of the Albert Hall congregations, and the unbridged gulf between now and Monday morning. But happily the music resists these dread influences, partly because at both concerts it is so extremely well chosen. I do not know whether they are aware of it, but the compilers of these programmes have an infinitely more difficult task than they

have when they make programmes for any other concerts. Are they aware of what they have to fight against? Does Sir Henry Wood ever say to himself, "This will do for Wednesday evening, but it will never do for Sunday afternoon"? Consciously or unconsciously, I think he must; because although his programmes have nearly always the spirit of afternoon, they never have the spirit of Sunday afternoon.

And what is this spirit? In my case, I am pretty sure that one reason for its depressing influence is that my childish memories of Sunday afternoon are chiefly memories of things forbidden. In the country especially, by the sea, my childish impression was generally that Sunday afternoon was a time terribly wasted. It seems always, moreover, to have been absurdly fine; the rain might pour or a gale blow on Saturday night or Monday morning, but the Sundays of my childhood seem always to have been of a superlative beauty, steeped in sunshine and stillness days perfectly adapted for doing all the pleasant things forbidden on Sundays. I remember coming out of church and finding the tide brimming up to an unwonted height, the sea like glass, and the stones of the shore visible through the green water to a depth of several feet; the boats dreaming uselessly at their moorings, and all the little creeks and coves among the rocks, navigable only at high water of spring tides, perforce unvisited by my exploring keel. To Sunday afternoon also seems to belong that memory of the great heat stored up in the woodwork of a boat lying on the beach, and of the unwonted feeling of treading on the shifting pebbles on the beach in patent-leather Sunday shoes. The feel. ing, moreover, that a wet rope was a thing that might damage or soil one's clothes was a feeling entirely associated with Sunday. My further grudge against these summer Sundays of long

ago is that on those days I was a child ravished from my sea pursuits and forced to inland occupations; obliged to contemplate the flowers in walled gardens, and take walks over rolling turf and amid groves of trees from which not even a view of the sea could be obtained. Church I accepted as inevitable and (granted the necessity of going there at all) not without interests of its own; but the waste of the sunshine and the high tide out of doors was a thing that seemed unreasonable and unjustifiable. It is curious how false one's memory may be: for as in my recollection the Sundays were always fine, so was the tide always brim-high about one o'clock-a thing impossible in nature. And I remember no Sunday afternoon which had that empty feeling, caused by the tide being low and the shore ugly with misshapen and unfamiliar seaweeds, that made even the sea distasteful during week-day hours.

But I am grateful for the rule which obliged me to do different things on Sundays from what I did on other days. I cannot help thinking that the modern fashion of allowing children to do only what they like is a bad one: for there are many things which children are The Saturday Review.

glad in after years to have done, which they would never do of their own choice and initiative. Among these, perhaps, the restrictions of Sunday and the apparent waste of its golden afternoons may be counted. Something still and shining hovers on the horizon of memory where they lie; something that punctuated and divided life, solemnly perhaps, but simply and not unhappily. I was reminded of it when I saw in a visitors' book in a little inn in Cornwall the verses in which Professor Blackie had sung the praises of Mary Munday's hospitality enjoyed by him in that little cottage inn that lies between Mullion Church and the sea: a place half hidden in the angle of the road, where the church dreams in a peace as of the eternal Sabbath, and no rumor or drift of spray from the shouting sea ever reaches the sheltered graveyard. And I advise you all to hold By the well-tried things that are good and old,

Like this old house of Munday; The old church and the old inn, And the old way to depart from sin By going to church on Sunday. Certainly the Carlton and the Albert Hall are poor substitutes.

Filson Young.

The revival of Greek is one of the striking features of the present age. At a time which is restless in the whole field of thought, which is revolutionary in the application of thought to conduct, Greek influence is everywhere in the air. Fluid and elastic beyond all others, the Greek genius is the index to an epoch of flux; it retains across the centuries its astounding germinal force. It is a leaven working in the social and intellectual organism. Its action,

The Greek Genius and its Meaning to Us. by R. W. Livingstone. (Oxford: Clarendon Press. 68. net.)

its application, are not merely indirect. It reinforces subtly but powerfully, at every point, the modern spirit of analysis, but its action does not stop there. For the Greek genius not only thought, but achieved; its achievement proceeded side by side with its thought, and it was, in the full sense of the word, creative. In Greek life, as at once the soil and the product of the Greek spirit, are sought answers to the new problems which confront mankind. The wisdom of the ancients, the phrase of a time when the world was just wak

ing up to realize that it had a past and an inheritance, has taken a fresh meaning. With the advent of the twentieth century the world has ceased to feel old. It is abandoning, for loss and gain, the traditional ways; it is embarking, as though in a fresh youth, on voyages of discovery; it will leave nothing untried, it will set no limits to what is possible. In this spirit of a renewed childhood it turns eagerly back to the records of those early voyagers and discoverers. "Always children" as the Greeks were to the regard of the more massive empires which surrounded them-Egyptian, Persian, Romanthey were nevertheless the first to bring human life up to its full stature, or at least to grasp and anticipate its full possibilities. Their élan vital was unexampled, and it still retains its stimulating power; for not only did they see and state clearly the great problems of life; they faced them in practice, and they never succumbed to them or renounced them as insoluble.

This revival of Greek is nowhere more marked than among ourselves. England has shaken off the somnolent tradition of the nineteenth century, when great scholarship, as it was understood in the old formal sense, had almost ceased and the new world, with its fresh methods, enlarged interests, widened scope, had not yet broken in. Greek studies have been powerfully reinforced by the expansion of science. On all hands they find themselves in vital contact with the new sciences, with physiography and anthropology, with history and economics, above all with the master-science of politics in its largest sense. And not only so, but they have themselves been revitalized by the introduction into them of the scientific method which lies at the base of all the sciences. Among rather arid and inconclusive controversies about the position of Greek as a formal subject of education in schools and

Universities, Greek studies have quietly but assuredly taken their place as a factor of the first importance in the development of the social and intellectual life of the nation. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff in Germany is the leading figure among the new Hellenists; largely under his impulse a school has been created here the influence of which passes far beyond the ranks of scholars; the leaven of Greek has struck out its fibres into the theatre and the market-place, into the efforts towards self-realization and self-education of the organized democracy, into the national thought and life.

The centre of this new Hellenism has been, more than elsewhere, in Oxford; and its prime mover has been, more than others, Mr. Gilbert Murray: The volume now before us is by one of his pupils, who has in it approached in his own way the task which the whole school of the new Hellenists have as a common aim. Their object is to rediscover and reinterpret Greece as a living force and in relation to actual problems, and these not merely linguistic or archæological, but concerned intimately with thought, life, and conduct. Earlier scholars regarded scholarship partly, no doubt, (in the historic phrase) as a means of obtaining situations of dignity and emolument in this world if not even in the next, but mainly as an end in itself. The new school regard it not as an end, but as an instrument. With some, if not many, among them their real interest, their main work, lies in other fields; in philosophy, in politics, in art, in economics; or, more generally, in what is the task of each age, and of this age to a very marked degree, the readjustment of civilized life to new conditions and a new environment. But this does not detract from the value of their work in scholarship, while at the same time scholarship itself-a pursuit which always tends to

become devitalized and empty-owes much to the currents of fresh air We which are thus directed upon it. had recently occasion to notice Mr. A. E. Zimmern's brilliant work on the Greek Commonwealth as an instance of this revitalization of Greek studies. Mr. Livingstone's volume is larger, but less definite, in scope; it might seem ambitious, but that in truth the subject with which it deals lies at the threshold of Greek studies, although the finest scholarship and the fullest experience will never suffice wholly to compass it.

When I began to teach Latin and Greek a friend asked me what I supposed myself to have learnt from them, and what I was trying to teach others. This book was written as an attempt to answer the question, as far as Greek is concerned. My intention has been to try and make the spirit of Greece alive for myself at the present day, to translate it, as far as I could, into modern language, and to trace its relationship to our own ways of thinking and feeling.

Such work has distinct and immediate value, not less in what it suggests than in what it effects. Instead of considering too minutely the actual conclusions at which it arrives, the actual picture which it presents, it will be more profitable to set forth the lines of the author's inquiry and his method of envisaging the Greek spirit. These will in themselves suggest certain general criticisms; but the value of the book, as Mr. Livingstone would be the first to acknowledge and to insist upon, lies very largely in the degree to which it provokes such criticism. He does not claim to be exhaustive; he even deprecates the claim to be convincing.

If I am not convincing, I shall at any rate be contentious, and educationally the second quality is perhaps more valuable than the first. On the same grounds I would excuse myself for having raised many questions which are

left half answered; the method may stimulate readers, if it does not satisfy them.

This statement may be fully accepted; only we must modify, in the light of it, the author's suggestion that the volume may serve as a general introduction to the study of Greek literature. As a companion, as a commentary, it may serve; but to Greek literature there can be no introduction; we must go to it direct and find it out for ourselves. It is for those who know Greek already that a book like this is really useful; for it not only tells us what one particular scholar and lover of literature thinks about Greek, but it makes us think, or re-think, about what Greek means to ourselves.

His aim, then, as defined in the introductory chapter, is to form and set out some idea of Hellenism, of "the achievement of Greece"-that is to say, of its spiritual achievement; and this mainly as it is shown in Greek literature. For further definition it will be best to quote his own words:

I seem to find the Greek spirit at its purest in Homer, the lyric poets before 450, Herodotus and Aristophanes; in Sophocles and Thucydides, though otherwise unchanged, it has lost its first freshness; in Eschylus, Euripides, and Plato elements alien to it are present. In the fourth century a certain weariness, a sense of the complexity of life, impairs its energy in the thinkers, while the orators are dragged down by their audience to a conventional standard of thought, and have about them something of the political hack. After 336 B.C. free Athens is dead; Hellenism itself is middle-aged, and both for pleasure and profit we turn the pages a century back.

Nearly every clause in this statement is highly contentious; but it is not the less stimulating for that, and we must bear it in mind throughout the book as indicating the author's attitude towards his subject.