"A SPECTRE is haunting Europe -- the spectre of communism." Eighty-five years have passed since the Communist Manifesto opened with those fateful words. It is little less since Tocqueville predicted that the democracy, weary of the inadequate results of their political emancipation, would one day turn to the destruction of the rights of property as the condition precedent to their economic emancipation. "In matters of social construction," he wrote,[i] "the field of possibilities is much more extensive than men living in their various societies are willing to imagine."

After the breakdown of the revolutions of 1848 there was little disposition among the statesmen of Europe and America to take the growth of socialism with any profound seriousness until the epoch of the war. A moment of horror at the events in Paris in 1871, a sense that the abortive revolution in Russia of 1905 might be the prelude to a vaster drama, exhausted the sense of doubt about the foundations of the social system. Neither the experience of France nor of Germany seemed to point to the likelihood of Socialist governments; and as late as 1908, President Lowell, reflecting upon the English position at the close of his famous treatise,[ii] concluded that "unless the Labor Party should grow in a way that seems unlikely" there was no prospect of a class-division in English politics in the near future. Lord Grey, indeed, on the very eve of the war, was troubled by a sense that its prolongation might result in a repetition of 1848; but the universal welcome which greeted the March Revolution in Russia did not suggest that men had any doubts about the foundations of a capitalist society. At no time in American history prior to the war had the socialist movement made any profound impact upon American life.

The Bolshevik Revolution wrought an immediate and fundamental change in the perspective of public opinion. The very fact that Marxian principles could assume the guise of action made it evident that the foundations of capitalism had nothing like the security that had been assumed. As Lenin consolidated his position against both the attacks of the Allies and the impact of civil war, the Russian Revolution began to reveal itself as the profoundest change in the mental climate of the world since the Reformation. The proletariat in a state of one hundred and thirty millions had not merely challenged the rights of property, it had overthrown them. Before five years had passed it was obvious that the Russian Revolution was not, as its enemies hoped, a temporary portent. It had affected the psychological fabric of all civilization. Ideas like the class-war, the dictatorship of the proletariat, the expropriation of the capitalist, had passed at a single bound from books to action. What seemed in 1914 an underground and unimportant conspiracy had become, ten years later, a state. And it was obvious that the fact of such a state's existence, the knowledge that it could survive and grow, had turned men's thoughts into new directions. For the first time in history, a proletarian state was an actual, and not merely an ideological, inspiration; and for the first time in history, also, capitalist society met a direct and thorough-going challenge.

The impact of Russia upon the old world and the new cannot be expressed in simple terms. Certainly there were few thoughtful minds whom it did not compel to a revaluation, or, at least, a reassessment of the basic principles of politics. The pre-war state-system emerged from the great conflict far more shattered than was apparent in the mood of vindictive triumph embodied in the Peace of Versailles. It had to grapple with a damnosa hereditas. The necessities of war had given an enhanced status to the working-classes of the belligerent countries; and it was necessary to satisfy their new claims. National feeling had been profoundly inflamed by the conflict; and since nationalism took the form of an intense revival of neo-mercantilist doctrine, a community of states emerged whose political practices were increasingly at variance with the objective needs of the world-economic market. The problems created by debts and reparations, the control of imports and migration in the interest of the several states, the new levels of taxation rendered necessary by the demands of social legislation, the refusal of the Far East any longer to accept the domination of Western Europe and America, all implied the futility of believing that the old laissez-faire was compatible with the attainment of social good. It had become clear to every careful observer that it was necessary either deliberately to plan the post-war civilization or to perish.

For a brief period, the sudden prosperity of America (though much more confined than was generally realized) concealed from many the realities of the situation. It was argued that the condition of Russia was a special one; that, elsewhere, the problem was rather one of dealing with the excrescences of the capitalist system than with capitalism itself. As late as 1928 President Hoover felt able to announce to an awe-struck world that America had (under God) solved the problem of poverty. Two years later, it was clear that his announcement was premature. The world (including America) was caught in the grips of a depression more intense and more widespread than any recorded in history. The unemployed could be counted in millions in capitalist countries. The mood of pessimism was universal; men spoke gravely of a possible collapse of civilization. At a time when science had made possible a greater productivity than in any previous age, the problem of distribution seemed insoluble. All the nations demanded the removal of barriers against world-trade; despite pious recommendations, like those at Geneva in 1927, they did not seem able to remove them. All the world agreed upon the necessity of disarmament; the conference at Geneva to attain it would have been farcical if it had not been tragic. The dislocation of currency methods deprived commerce of that automatic measure of value upon which the life-blood of trade depended. Thirteen years after the end of the war, the perspective of capitalist civilization revealed an insecurity, both economic and political, which made justifiable the gravest doubts of its future.

Russian development was in striking contrast. The Five Year Plan gave it an integrated and orderly purpose such as no capitalist country could rival. Productivity increased at a remarkable rate; unemployment was non-existent. If the standard of living was low compared with that of Great Britain or the United States, its tendency was to increase and not to decline. The whole population was united in a great corporate effort at material well-being in which there was the promise of equal participation. Where Europe and America were sunk in pessimism, the whole temper of Russia was optimistic. The authority of its government was unchallenged; its power to win amazing response to its demands was unquestionable. Granted all its errors, no honest observer could doubt its capacity both to plan greatly and, in large measure, to realize its plans. No doubt its government was, in a rigorous sense, a dictatorship. No doubt also it imposed upon its subjects a discipline, both spiritual and material, such as a capitalist civilization would hardly dare to attempt. No doubt, again, its subjects paid a heavy price for the ultimate achievement to which they looked forward. Yet, whatever its defects and errors, the mood of the Russian experiment was one of exhilaration. While the rest of the world confronted its future in a temper of skepticism and dismay, Russia moved forward in a belief, religious in the intensity of its emotion, that it had a right to ample confidence in its future.


No one can understand the character of the communist challenge to capitalism who does not grasp the significance of this contrast. A hundred years ago the votaries of capitalism had a religious faith in its prospects. They were, naturally enough, dazzled by the miracles it performed, confident that the aggregation of its individual successes was coincident with the social good, happy in a security about the results of their investment which seemed to entitle them to refashion the whole world in their own image. The successful business man became the representative type of civilization. He subdued all the complex of social institutions to his purposes. Finance, oil, coal, steel, became empires of which the sovereignty was as unchallenged as that of Macedon or of Rome. Men so different as Disraeli and Marx might utter warnings about the stability of the edifice. Broadly speaking, they were unheeded in the triumphs to which the business man could point.

But those triumphs could not conceal the fact that the idol had feet of clay. The price to be paid for their accomplishment was a heavy one. The distribution of the rewards was incapable of justification in terms of moral principle. The state was driven increasingly to intervene to mitigate the inequalities to which capitalism gave rise. Vast and costly schemes of social legislation, militant trade unionism, a nationalism of pathological proportions, imperialist exploitation with its consequential awakening of nationalism among the peoples exploited,[iii] were all inherently involved in the technique of a capitalist civilization. Nationalism meant imperialism; imperialism meant war; in the struggle for markets there was involved an inescapable threat to the security of the whole structure. That became finally evident in the Great War and its aftermath. A world of competing economic nationalisms could not avoid inevitable conflict.

Nor is this all. The condition for the survival of an acquisitive society is twofold. There must be no halt in its power to continue its successes; and it must be able so to apportion their results that the proletariat do not doubt their duty to be loyal to its institutions. This condition has not been realized. Economic nationalism has given birth to a body of vested interests which impede in a fatal way the expansion of world trade. On the one hand, the power of productivity makes the ideal of self-sufficiency incapable of realization; on the other, the capture of foreign markets means commercial warfare which issues into actual warfare. The individual ownership of the means of production is incompatible with the kind of planning necessitated by the interrelations of a world reduced to the unity of interdependence.

The failure to maintain the allegiance of the proletariat, though different in degree in different countries, is, nevertheless, universal. Its danger was foreseen by Tocqueville nearly a century ago. "The manufacturer," he wrote,[iv] "asks nothing of the workman but his labor; the workman expects nothing from him but his wages. The one contracts no obligation to protect, nor the other to defend; and they are not permanently connected either by habit or by duty. . . . The manufacturing aristocracy of our age first impoverishes and debases the men who serve it, and then abandons them to be supported by the charity of the public. . . . Between the workman and the master there are frequent relations but no real partnership." Everything that has happened since Tocqueville wrote has combined to give emphasis to his insight. The decay of religion has intensified the appreciation of material well-being. The growth of education has made working-class resentment at the contrast between riches and poverty both keener and more profound. Universal suffrage has made necessary a far wider and more costly response to the demands of the proletariat; and the perfection of party organization has made the struggle for political power one in which the offer of bread and circuses is an essential part.

Men, in short, accept a capitalist society no longer because they believe in it, but because of the material benefits it professes to confer. Once it ceases to confer them, it cannot exercise its old magic over men's minds. It has become, writes Mr. Keynes,[v] "absolutely irreligious, without internal union, without much public spirit, often, though not always, a mere congeries of possessors and pursuers." Once its success is a matter of dubiety, those who do not profit by its results inevitably turn to alternative ways of life. They realize that the essence of a capitalist society is its division into a small number of rich men and a great mass of poor men. They see not only the existence of a wealthy class which lives without the performance of any socially useful function; they realize also that it is inherent in such a society that there should be no proportion between effort and reward. They see this when the decline of capitalist prosperity makes the payment of the price demanded for their allegiance to the system one it is increasingly difficult to pay without destroying the position of advantage which the rich enjoy in society. The social service state can only be maintained at a level which satisfies the worker in a period of increasing returns. Once its benefits have to be diminished, the moral poverty of capitalism becomes apparent to all save those who live by its preservation. There arises an insistent demand for economic and social equality -- such a distribution of the social product as can rationally be referred to intelligible principle. Resistance develops to the normal technique by which capitalism adjusts itself to a falling market. The growth of socialism in Great Britain, the dissatisfaction with the historic parties in the United States, the rise of Hitlerism in Germany, the profound and growing interest, all over the world, in the Russian experiment, are all of them, in their various ways, the expression of that resistance. Men have begun to ask, upon a universal scale, whether there is not the possibility of consciously building a classless society in which the ideal of equality is deliberately given meaning.

It is not, I think, excessive to argue that the experience of this generation leads most socially conscious observers to doubt the desirability of relying upon the money motive in individuals automatically to produce a well-ordered community. It is at least a matter of universal recognition that the collective intelligence of society must control all major economic operations. But the translation of that recognition into policy encounters difficulties of which the importance cannot be emphasized. For it asks men to part with power on an unexampled scale. It changes a system of established expectations profoundly rooted in the habits of mankind. It disturbs vested interests which are well organized, both for offense and defense, and accustomed by long tradition to have their way. No governing class in the history of the world has consciously and deliberately sacrificed its authority. It has gone down fighting, as in France and Russia; it has cooperated with the novi homines of the industrial revolution, as in England or Germany. But the call to socialism, which the anarchy of capitalist society has produced, is, at bottom, a demand for economic egalitarianism in which the possessors are invited to sacrifice their power, their vested interests, their established expectations, for the attainment of a common good they will no longer be able to manipulate to their own interest.

The socialist parties of Western civilization have conceived a simple formula upon which to place reliance. They will win a majority of the electorate to their side; and they will proceed, by legislative enactment, gradually to introduce the socialist commonwealth. Possessing themselves of the constitution of the state, they assume that they can operate the machinery to their own purposes. They argue that if the pace is not too violently forced, the instinct for law and order will enable them to consummate their revolution with good will because their policy will proceed by reasonable stages. That has been the policy of the two Labor Governments which arrived in office, a little accidentally perhaps, in Great Britain; and in their different ways it has been the policy of such socialist governments as have held office elsewhere. Of them all it is not unfair to say that they nowhere made any essential difference to the foundations of capitalist society. Of them, also, it is true to say that if they showed signs of seriously compromising those foundations, they were driven to surrender power to their rivals. And in that event it was the bankruptcy, rather than the success, of gradualist change which became apparent.

In this context, what is important is the underlying assumption of socialist gradualism: it builds upon the persistence of constitutional democracy. But not only -- as Italy, Jugoslavia and the rest make plain -- is that persistence a dubious matter in practice; the persistence of constitutional democracy depends upon the further assumption that men are agreed upon the fundamental principles of policy. In a broad way, this was true as between Liberals and Conservatives in the nineteenth century; experience has demonstrated how little ground there is for believing that it is true when the choice is between a capitalist and a socialist way of life. No one who meditates upon the prospect of large-scale socialist experiment can conclude that it is likely to go into operation without grave challenge. No one, either, can argue that such a challenge will permit the principles of constitutional democracy to survive unimpaired.


It is at this point that the communist hypothesis becomes of such overwhelming importance. It points to the inherent contradictions of capitalist society. It denies that there is in it any longer the power to resolve those contradictions within its assumptions. It insists that no socialist government can attempt seriously to put its principles into practice without encountering determined resistance which will issue in civil war. To maintain socialist principles, in short, socialists will be driven to become communists or to betray their socialism. If they become communists, they will find themselves involved in the grim logic of Leninism -- the dictatorship of the proletariat, the drastic suppression of counter-revolution, the confiscation of the essential instruments of production, the building of the state, in a word, upon the principles of martial law until the security of the new order is firmly established. The transformation of capitalism into socialism means revolution, and that implies an experience akin to that through which Russia has passed.

I do not see how it is reasonable to deny the possibility -- to put it no higher -- that the communists are right. The threat of war is implicit in our society, and war means revolution all over the world. Even if that revolution assumed a Fascist form, communism would be its inevitable antithesis; and, in that event, sooner or later communism would move to the assault. To avoid the threat of war, the degree of self-reformation which capitalist states must undertake would leave them unrecognizable as capitalist. The observer of England, of America, of France is entitled to doubt whether there is in the possessing classes of any of them that will to self-reformation which would make it effective. The change of heart required would involve a transvaluation of all values, the supersession by agreement of money as the dominant motive to action. It is only the acceptance of new values with an intensity almost religious in character which could effect that supersession; and that possession of a body of alternative values held with religious intensity is, to put it quite bluntly, practically a monopoly of the communists at the present time.

That, indeed, is the secret of its strength. Its devotees believe in it with a faith so absolute that there is no sacrifice they are not prepared to make in its name. Communism has succeeded in Russia for the same reasons that brought triumph to the Jesuits, the Puritans, the Jacobins in an earlier period. Willing the end, the communists have not shrunk from the application of any means likely to attain that end. They have consistently opposed an unshakable will to the resistance they have encountered. They have disdained both compromise and hesitation. In the service of no other social system in the world today can it be said that these qualities are enlisted. No one defends the acquisitive society save in the most mitigated terms. No capitalist society could attempt experiment on the Russian scale without risking the willingness of the working-classes to observe the demands of law and order. Not even the most intense propaganda in capitalist countries has prevented the working-classes from feeling a proud interest in every success the Russian experiment can show. "Perhaps," wrote Mr. Keynes,[vi] "Russian communism does represent the first confused stirrings of a great religion." That is a widespread and growing feeling among all who are disturbed by the contradictions of capitalism; and it is an emotion far more profoundly diffused among the workers than is realized by the rulers of alternative systems.

The unity, in fact, of capitalist society has been broken. No country is prepared to pay the price which its simple rehabilitation demands; and to attempt the enforcement of that price would involve disorders of which no one could predict the outcome. That is the significance of the point made earlier in this essay that the Russian revolution shapes the perspective of men's thoughts. Lower the standards of life, whether by decreases in wages or by economies in social legislation, diminish the worker's security, sharpen the contrast between poverty and wealth, and it at once comes into the worker's mind that in Russia, if the standard is low, it is rising, and that the hope of still greater rises is profound, that all social legislation is in the proletarian interest, that the contrasts between poverty and wealth are largely without meaning. A state has been built upon the exaltation of the common man; it is inevitable that the common men of other states should have its existence and its possibilities increasingly in their minds.

Capitalist society, in other words, is running a race with communist society for the allegiance of the masses. The terms upon which the former can be successful are fairly clear. It has to solve the contradiction between its power to produce and its inability to distribute income in a rational and morally adequate way. It has to remove the barriers which economic nationalism places in the way of an unimpeded world-market. It has to remove the fear of insecurity by which the worker's life is haunted. It has to end the folly of international competition in wage-rates and hours of labor; it has to find ways of saving Western standards from the slave-labor of the East. It has, not least, to cut away the jungle-growth of vested interests which at present so seriously impair its efficiency. Even a capitalist society will not long endure the spectacle of the cotton and coal industries of Great Britain or the power-trust in the United States. Above all, perhaps, it has to find some way of removing from the clash of competing imperialisms those structures of armed power which, clothed in the garb of national sovereignty, make certain the perpetual threat of insecurity and, born of it, the advent of war.

Let me emphasize again that to meet successfully the challenge of communism a capitalist society has to show itself immensely more successful than the former. This does not, of course, mean that communism, in its Russian expression, does not confront its own grave problems. Broadly, they are of two kinds. It is necessary, by economic success, to maintain the exhilaration, the enthusiastic will to sacrifice, of the first great period of striving; and it is necessary, in the second, to relate Russia more adequately to the conditions of the external world. For, in the context of the first condition, it must not be forgotten that Russia was to some extent fortunate in her situation. Not only was she dealing with a people accustomed to the psychology of an autocratic discipline; she was also able to take advantage of a profound patriotism engendered by external attack. The Soviet State cannot go on perpetually demanding the postponement of consumption for the sake of a future which does not arrive. They must come to a point where the maintenance of enthusiasm for the new régime is the outcome of having conferred tangible benefit. Nor will it be possible over any considerable period to maintain the dominating grip of the Communist Party over the whole political life of Russia. That grip has been acquiesced in because of the social circumstances confronting the new régime; no acquiescence in a dictatorship is ever permanent in character. There must, that is to say, not only be economic success in the new Russia; there must come also a time when restriction is relaxed and room is found for the admission of freedom. The permanence of communist society depends upon its ability to meet these issues creatively. For any new social order that seeks to become universal must be able to correlate its economic advance with spiritual growth.

No doubt, of course, spiritual growth, and especially that temper of tolerance which is the groundwork of all intellectual achievement, is, in its turn, dependent upon economic advance. Periods of revolutionary poverty rarely synchronize with periods of great scientific or literary production; for the atmosphere of dictatorship, the pre-occupation with material well-being, are stifling to that atmosphere of experiment upon which intellectual advance depends. It is not accidental that neither the Puritan nor the French Revolution has left behind it a great cultural impact upon the mind of the world; the spiritual fruits of each were gathered after men could in leisure and in safety seek to probe their implications. It is therefore reasonable to argue that the success of Russian communism depends upon the maintenance, at least for a considerable period, of world peace. For if Russia becomes involved in any serious military conflict the transformation of its energies will dangerously impair the prospect of its economic policy. More than this, the intensification of the dictatorship involved in war might easily, if the struggle were at all prolonged, result in the kind of internal conflicts within the Communist Party which, in the French Revolution, made ultimately possible the emergence of Napoleon.

It would be folly to deny the possibility of Russia becoming involved in war within the next decade.[vii] The clash of interests with Japan in the Far East is a grave one. The fear of the effect of Russian exports of butter, timber, oil, coal and wheat on a depressed market already gives birth to those economic reprisals out of which war has so often come. The instability of Europe is fed by Russian propaganda; and the very fact that communism expects a world-revolution to come by way of war gives to that propaganda the psychological perspective which so easily makes expectancy fact. The failure of disarmament, the dissatisfaction of minorities, the intensity of social revolutionary movements in the East, all of these point to that kind of collapse in the system of international regulation which is the prelude to conflict. And it is useless to deny that there are, all over the world, important interests which would welcome an attack on Russia before its success is beyond question as the surest way of ending that implicit challenge to capitalist society which it represents. Certainly militant communism and militant capitalism cannot exist side by side, especially in a period of serious economic stress. It is important that Moscow is the Mecca of the discontented and disinherited of the whole world; it is not less important that Moscow is ideologically driven to the encouragement of their hopes. No one who surveys at all objectively the relations of Russia with the external world can possibly be optimistic about their outcome.

I do not think that a war against Russia would destroy communism there though I believe it would enormously increase the price of its accomplishment; but I do believe it would be fatal to the maintenance of capitalist society at least in Europe and the Far East. Probably its cost would be a period of anarchy comparable to the Dark Ages, with every sort and kind of dictatorship emerging to supply for brief periods an uneasy semblance of order. Ultimately, I think, Russia would be the first state to emerge from that chaos with something like the hope of recovery; and its authority, under those circumstances, would be far more compelling than it is today, its challenge more direct and explicit. In the long run, in a word, the price of challenging communism to military conflict would be not its defeat but its victory.


The future of communism is a function of the capacity of capitalist society to repair its foundations. The success -- despite the appalling cost -- of the Russian experiment has made it the one effective center of creativeness in a world which, otherwise, does not seem to know how to turn its feet away from the abyss. Capitalist society since the war has adopted every expedient of self-destruction. The Peace of Versailles, the tangled mess of war-debts and reparations, the struggle for power concealed beneath the myth of national sovereignty, the failure to respect the League, all of these were implicit in its ultimate disrespect for moral principle. The social habits of its votaries, its literature with its insistent note of cynical skepticism, its philosophy which sought refuge in mysticism and impulse to shut out the still small voice of reason, a press which (not least notably in its dealing with Russia) could make miraculous propaganda but could not tell the truth, its religions in decay, its political and economic institutions hopelessly remote from the realities they confronted, its leaders like straws caught in the eddies of an ever-quickening stream -- it is not in such a society as this that one looks for the spring of a new hope. On the credit side, no doubt, there was a science more renascent than at any time since the seventeenth century; but it was also more dangerous because the formula seemed lost by which it could be bent to social purposes.

Such a society cannot meet the challenge of communism, because its faith in itself is not sufficient to give it a victorious destiny. It may postpone defeat; it cannot finally elude it. For in the conflict of ideologies victory always goes in the end to men who are willing to sacrifice material power for spiritual conquest. Communism interests the new generation because, alone among the welter of competing gospels, it has known how to win sacrifice from its devotees in the name of a great ideal. It offers the prospect -- the clue to the success of all the great religions -- of losing one's life in order to find it. There is poverty, there is intellectual error, there is grave moral wrong; but there is also unlimited hope. These have been characteristic of all great religious movements. They do not seem to disturb their power eventually to triumph.

The chance for a capitalist society in contest with communism lies in its ability to remake its own creed. Its danger is the ease with which it attacks the symptoms of communism instead of its causes. It is afraid of the propaganda of the Third International instead of the conditions which make that propaganda fall on fertile soil. It is afraid of the bold imagination which underlies the Five Year Plan; but instead of planning more boldly and more imaginatively itself, it spends its time dourly foretelling its inevitable failure. It attacks with passion the outrageous injustices of which communism has been guilty, its stifling of initiative, the reckless cruelty of the Ogpu, the relentless attack on the Kulaks. But it does not stay to remember that its own Sacco-Vanzetti case, the Polish treatment of minorities, the dreary wastage of its own unemployment, bear the same lesson to the masses, and that for them the costs of Russia are expended for the advantage of the many, while the costs of the capitalist society are paid for the profit of a few. There is an uncomfortable sense in the world that what is happening in Russia may be the prelude to a renaissance of the human spirit. There is no such prophetic confidence in capitalist society. Its very leaders look less like great adventurers than men who scan a gray horizon without confidence of a dawn.

The principles which govern capitalist society are, in fact, completely obsolete before the new conditions it confronts; and it seems to lack the energy to bend itself to their revision. It needs a new scheme of motivation, a different sense of values. It needs the power and the will to move from the era of economic chaos to a system which deliberately controls economic forces in the interests of justice and stability. To do so there are required far more pervasive international controls, on the external side, and far greater equality in matters of social constitution, on the internal. To find equilibrium by the blind adjustment of competing interests is simply to court disaster. Yet, generally speaking, the men who govern the old world can think in no other terms.

It is true there are men about us who voice a different philosophy. Rathenau, Keynes, Salter -- these have endeavored, as best they could, to insist that the way to survival lies along the road to profound reconstruction. They have seen that a temper is required which gives new significance to the claims of the common man, which recognizes the dangers inherent in a system which identifies self-good and social. They admit the need for sacrifice as the price of reconstruction. They see all the cost involved in a clash of ideologies which seek to test their respective strengths in terms of power. But theirs, if I may say so, is an aristocratic approach, a cool and skeptical impatience of dogma, a passion for the rational solution of questions in their nature essentially rational, of which the appeal is by its nature a limited one. They underestimate the inertia of the existing order, the irrationality with which men will cling to vested interests and established expectations even when their title to response is no longer valid. Given something like a geological time, such rationalism might prevail against the passions which stand in its path. The tragedy of our present position is that the voice of the Mean is unlikely to win attention until humanity has been sacrificed to the call of the Extreme.

[i] "Recollections," p. 101.

[ii] "Government of England," II, p. 534.

[iii] See my "Nationalism and the Future of Civilization" (1932).

[iv] "Democracy in America," Part II, Book II, Chapter XVIII.

[v] "Essays in Persuasion," p. 306.

[vi] "Essays in Persuasion," p. 309.

[vii] On this see Mr. R. D. Charques' admirable résumé, "The Soviets and the Next War" (1932).

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  • HAROLD J. LASKI, Professor of Political Science in the University of London; author of "The Dangers of Obedience" and other works
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