strategic advantages. His confessions that revolutionary hands were behind the screen in the Satyagraha campaign, working, he knew not how, to convert a peaceful and orderly gathering into a violent and vindictive demonstration was a tactical blunder of the first magnitude. A leader with less grit, but with a keen eye to strategic advantages, would not have owned it. It has been quoted against Mr. Gandhi, time and again, but he is too honorable not to admit an error.

Mr. Gandhi's open avowal of the perfidy of Albion is not to be pitted against his past declarations of loyalty to the British connection. His present attitude is a logical deduction from his premises. For more than once he has said that he prefers the rule of Britain, because within it he can exercise the utmost freedom of thought, even the freedom to rebel. With him politics is not a game. It is an extension of domestic virtues and a means to spiritual renovation. If the Alps stood in his way, let the Alps go. That is the Gandhi way. Everything must be sacrificed for truth. Compromise with error is wickedness. Now, this is at once the glory and the peril of Gandhism.

The truth is that politics is a game, and Mr. Gandhi has been playing this game without knowing it. There is no game without two parties or more, and Mr. Gandhi's move has invariably been determined by the course of the adversaries. 'He finds himself in the presence of situations that are not always the of life and growth, in connection with which he must take one course one day, and then, perhaps, another the next day.' 'I could not always plunge straight ahead like a cannonball,' said Bismarck. Sooner or later Mr. Gandhi will discover this secret.

same

The curt, covenanting way of Mr. Gandhi is seldom the way of the ordinary run of public men. A certain

mediocrity of mind is of the very essence of the politician. He must not look too far, and depth is seldom a qualification for success in public life. The generality of public men have a genius for magnifying a mole-hill into a mountain, and they apprehend a crisis at every ordinary election. This disproportionate estimate of current events gives them a zest in the pursuit of their cause which would appear utterly meaningless to an imaginative mind prying far into the future. Personal ambition, again, is a spur to political activity, and, indeed, much of the fascination of politics is in the play of personality. Mr. Gandhi is far too deep to be perturbed by passing aberrations, and has no personal motive in his public work.

But one ought to make a distinction between the success of a politician and the success of what one deems a righteous cause. In this sense I would rather give my vote to a man of Mr. Gandhi's superb character. It is the curse of India that its really first-rate minds seldom take to politics. Not so in England. A continuous stream of superior men have applied themselves to the business of politics in the West. It is needless to name Burke, Mill, and Bentham, or Montaigne and Tocqueville as examples of first-rate minds applied to the affairs of men. Morley, Bryce, and Haldane have continued the tradition to a degree. It would be invidious to mention names; but I can hardly recall a single really commanding mind applied to the business of politics in India during the last fifty years. The only really competent mind, so far as I am able to judge, is that of the late Mr. Ranade. I am not, of course, referring to active statesmen; for we have had no opportunity for the exercise of statesmanship in any wide or responsible sphere. We have been led like children. Perhaps one may add

a name or two more. But they can all be counted on one's fingers, even at a liberal estimate.

'Public life,' said Mr. Gokhale, 'must be spiritualized.' There can be no greater evangel of spiritual force than Mr. Gandhi. And yet, what a contrast between the two men! The mutual admiration of these two men was, in truth, due to their difference in temperament and outlook. Each loved what was wanting in himself; just as Lord Morley, most philosophic of doubters, loved the battling spirit of so matter-of-fact a politician as Joe Chamberlain. It is a study in contrasts: Gokhale, the supple statesman, with his Mahratta tact, with an eye to affairs and men, and Gandhi, flashing his sword with the nonchalance of a crusader and with his challenge

What though the field be lost, all is not lost,
The unconquerable will, the spirit of -

I will not say, of revenge, but of truth! Yes; that is just what makes him so perplexing. 'Revenge is not mine,' says he with characteristic humility, 'but I will pursue my course to the end.'

The people, the dear people, can never understand such subtle distinctions, and they misinterpret the words of the prophet. To him non-coöperation is a method of self-discipline, a school of suffering and self-sacrifice. But the men who follow his lead read a suggestion of aggressiveness and add:

'Boycott of foreign goods.' What an irony! How vulgar! Mr. Gandhi says mournfully, 'It mars the beauty of my programme, the symmetry of my gospel' - as a sonneteer feels a false rhythm or an inharmonious cadence.

But we must not seek in Mr. Gandhi for this or that specific contribution. Where politics are so amateurish, and leaders are numberless, where patriotism becomes the last refuge of incompetents, where gossiping in private and canting commonplaces in public make up all the output of politicians, a strong, original man is a welcome gift. He brings the right antidote to the prevalent spirit of somnambulism. He shakes the country out of its mood of indolence and pusillanimity. He gives a rude shock to our complacent makeshifts. He restores strength and confidence in ourselves.

But there is a fear. What if his lead be on the wrong track? Shall we be forever dragging in opposite directions neutralizing our energies? No; the spirit of progress is a spirit of effort. I do not despair; for I hold that the pervasive spirit of Mr. Gandhi is more than his cult. The man is more than his creed. His gospel may be rigid, cold, repellent; his philosophy may be lacking in system or coherence; his politics dangerous. But, his character is above board, and his deeds are in harmony with his words. Such a man is of the order of Marcus Aurelius, an influence pure and holy.

WE could see the Cathedral from the hotel, and it was natural that we should visit it first. It is difficult to approach such a monument of human ingenuity without bookishly acquired prepossessions. As I walked across the Piazza, Ibsen's words came into my mind: "The man who conceived that Cathedral could have made moons in his spare time and thrown them into space.' I found my brain repeating these words as the vast mass of clustered and. regimented spires and pinnacles, gray and gracious in the November mist, became more clearly defined. Milan as a spectacle, a spectacle in stone, a triumph of architecture, of intricate grace, stands alone among religious buildings, as it stood before me there, lonely in the mist of a November afternoon.

But the impression of grace which is gained from an exterior view changes into something dimly heavy and sinister once you pass within. Inside, it is nearly dark. It is like entering a cave. You feel the vastness of the place in spite of the darkness, as if you had entered a hollow mountain; you half expect bats to flutter by. The carvings and traceries appear and disappear fantastically in the gloom. The only light comes from the clusters of votive candles about little distant altars. They look like jewels and give the same sort of light, or rather keep a similar sort of light to themselves, refusing to diffuse it. The light from the colored windows is negligible. The windows look like translucent tapestries hung upon invisible walls.

You feel your way, and feel very little also beside the great columns, which spring apparently from nowhere, to lose themselves in dark vaults among arabesques in dim gray stone. It is a ghostly realm. You are conscious of people moving about, and almost stumble over a woman at prayer. She kneels on the stone pavement, looking small and helpless, a mere speck of blacker blackness in the prevailing gloom. There is a faint smell of incense, dim and furtive as the light the ghostly survival of centuries of swinging censers. The people are ghosts, and the sculpture and the wrought iron; the whole Cathedral is a ghost; it is discarnate dead, yet alive. It has a sinister beauty, the beauty of frustrate decaying and desolate things. You have a feeling of uncleanness, as you immerse yourself in it and resolve not to be contaminated. It is like walking through an area infected by some morbidly fascinating disease, but with the consciousness that you will escape contagion.

A light escapes through a grille in the pavement surrounded by an iron railing. We are curious and peep over the railings, and through the grille we see a crypt-like place, with red-covered chairs, and a priest gliding about, and one or two people. But we cannot see well, as half the grille is covered over with a cloth as if it were not desirable that the casual onlooker should see more. It adds to the ghostliness. So we pass away like moths toward a little shrine, where there are many women

worshipers and tiers of candles dimly burning with slowly moving flames. The women look as if they were afraid of something; as if something might happen, something which they desire but which, none the less, may not be all they desire. Living souls, afraid of life and not quite certain of the advantages of death.

The darkness is now more familiar.

We have merged into it and become for the moment a part of its dim life. We can see things: grated doors, shrines, effigies, tables, more people; and a little fat man with a rubicund face, watery, red-rimmed eyes and black skullcap on the back of his head like a sticking plaster, comes to us, a very Caliban of the cavern, and in AngloFranco-Italian asks us whether we should like to see the relics. We should. He then leads us toward a heavy door, which he opens, and we pass into a room in charge of a pleasant-looking priest, who reverently opens the doors of cupboards which are hung round the walls, revealing rows of life-sized effigies in silver of popes and cardinals; crucifixes and candelabra, coronets and mitres, and other symbols of religious pomp, jeweled and carven with fantastic designs and figures of the most delicate and beautiful craftsmanship. He explains these treasures to us in a soft voice, and is obviously appreciative of our appreciation. He tells us that this silver statue was made by Michael Angelo, and that that rich bauble was copied from a masterpiece of Cellini. We admire the noble craftsmanship, but feel that it has nothing to do with the modern world; it is part of the paraphernalia of the ghostly world we have entered, the bauble of a dead god.

We pass out again to the dim vastness of the Cathedral after handing a few lire to our priestly guide pour les pauvres. Our moon-calf is waiting for

makes mysterious gestures, and his little red eyes almost sparkle, as he leads us to a gate opening upon descending steps, and without a word, as if he were conferring upon us some inestimable privilege, he hands us over to the charge of another priestly figure, this time a sinister thing in a black cassock. It has a hushed voice which speaks English, a crooked nose too large for the face, goat's lips, and watery gray eyes. It is obviously one of Edgar Allan Poe's creatures come to life. We follow it down the steps and find ourselves in a small well-lighted chamber, below the grille which had earlier excited our curiosity. We look up and see curious faces peering down as we had done. The room is irregular in shape, with a groined and decorated stone roof; the walls are paneled in faded red brocade and tarnished silver. Facing the door is what looks like an altar, and below it a small narrow table covered with a red cloth. It is not an altar; it is the sarcophagus of a saint: San Carlo, Patrone di Milano. We admire, under guidance of the sinister priest, the superb workmanship of the silver casquette, and at an appropriate moment, gauged with the nicety of experience, the priest tells us that the dead saint lies within, and that for the small charge of five lire each we may have the privilege of gazing upon him. It is obviously an opportunity not to be missed. To see a real saint, though dead, for five lire, with the exchange at 96.60 is a bargain. We accept the proposal.

The priest then becomes theatrically impressive. He invests himself in a white surplice taken from a box near by and begins to turn a handle. We half expect that some sort of music will be the result; but this proves only to be a profane reaction from memories of the familiar Italian music of the streets of England. The handle operates no mechanical keyboard; it serves a more

WE could see the Cathedral from the hotel, and it was natural that we should visit it first. It is difficult to approach such a monument of human ingenuity without bookishly acquired prepossessions. As I walked across the Piazza, Ibsen's words came into my mind: "The man who conceived that Cathedral could have made moons in his spare time and thrown them into space.' I found my brain repeating these words as the vast mass of clustered and regimented spires and pinnacles, gray and gracious in the November mist, became more clearly defined. Milan as a spectacle, a spectacle in stone, a triumph of architecture, of intricate grace, stands alone among religious buildings, as it stood before me there, lonely in the mist of a November afternoon.

But the impression of grace which is gained from an exterior view changes into something dimly heavy and sinister once you pass within. Inside, it is nearly dark. It is like entering a cave. You feel the vastness of the place in spite of the darkness, as if you had entered a hollow mountain; you half expect bats to flutter by. The carvings and traceries appear and disappear fantastically in the gloom. The only light comes from the clusters of votive candles about little distant altars. They look like jewel and give the same sort of light, or rath keep a similar sort of light to th selves, refusing to diffuse it. The from the colored windows is ne The windows look like transluc estries hung upon invisible wa

You feel your way, and feel very little also beside the great columns, which spring apparently from nowhere, to lose themselves in dark vaults among arabesques in dim gray stone. It is a ghostly realm. You are conscious of people moving about, and almost stumble over a woman at prayer. She kneels on the stone pavement, looking small and helpless, a mere speck of blacker blackness in the prevailing gloom. There is a faint smell of incense, dim and furtive as the light-the ghostly survival of centuries of swinging censers. The people are ghosts, and the sculpture and the wrought iron; the whole Cathedral is a ghost; it is discarnate-dead, yet alive. It has a sinis ter beauty, the beauty of frustrate de caying and desolate things. You have feeling of uncleanness, as you immers yourself in it and resolve not to be taminated. It is like walking throw an area infected by some morbi cinating disease, but with the ness that you will escape ro A light escapes through pavement surrounded b We are