ON COMPROMISE. By John Morley. London: Chapman and Hall, 1874.

"I FELT that politics was a cursed profession," exclaimed Lord Salisbury, at a bitter moment of the rearrangement of his Ministry in 1887. His old friend Lord Iddesleigh (the former Sir Stafford Northcote), who had been scourged from the Tory leadership in the House of Commons for incompetence, and whom he had just unceremoniously removed from the Foreign Office, had come to say goodbye and dropped dead at his feet of a heart attack.

A thousand aphorisms attest to men's dismay at the harshness of political tasks. "Government is a very rough business," the dry and acute Sir George Cornewall Lewis used to say to the ardent young Gladstone. "You must be content with very unsatisfactory results." Significantly, however, Gladstone, who was to spend 61 years in the House of Commons and head four ministries, never accepted the truism, and his refusal to do so was a major source of his power. For there are two sides to the medal, and the paradoxical fact is that modern men exalt above all other professions this calling that they disparage so strongly. Political life draws a large proportion of the men whom we recognize as our best. By common consent, the chief western contributions to civilization are those which have a political cast -- legal and governmental institutions, and the unwritten laws of forbearance which make self-government possible for large groups of men. Our own era is preëminently an age of politics and political economy. There are few signs among us of a release of the spirit such as marks an age of creative activity in art and literature, or of a generation caught up in a quest for religious truth. The imagination of the era is centered upon finite and worldly problems. In particular, we are intent upon the task of establishing a new order of relationships among the groups called nations. Its immensity is suggested by our awareness that the validity of the idea which has ordered men's political relations for several centuries is in question: we are no longer able to assume that the nation is the final object of political allegiance. To what degree we must shift our allegiance from this fixed point we do not know, but we reach toward an order based on a relationship of men to men, crossing national boundaries, in which at least some laws will be valid for everyone.

The questions that revolve about the effort of the shaping of interests of nations which will widen the area in which men recognize the obligations of common laws are usually identified as questions of principle and of expediency. There are extreme schools which hold that political conflicts must be resolved by principle only, citing moral law which permits of no argument; or that they must be determined by expediency only, in the name of realism. In practice, most men or nations who wish to maintain relationships with those whose interpretation of principle differs from their own attempt to combine the two approaches. Customarily, this approach is considered the method of critical intelligence. Thus we believe (in the words of William Crary Brownell) that "it is a defect of intelligence to fail to understand the point of view of that which one disesteems." And from the desire to understand comes the effort of analysis, and the effort to reconcile interests -- in a word, compromise.

"The interesting question in connection with compromise," wrote John Morley in his famous treatise which served as the textbook of a generation of Victorian reformers, "obviously turns upon the placing of the boundary that divides wise suspense in forming opinions, wise reserve in expressing them, and wise tardiness in trying to realize them, from unavowed disingenuousness and self-illusion, from voluntary dissimulation, and from indolence and pusillanimity." In short, when to compromise, and how far to go? The location of the boundaries of compromise in international relations is the central problem of politics in our time.

Morley would have been the last to suggest that illumination on such a matter is to be found in generalities. The question, he pointed out, is one of "time and circumstance" -- a concrete problem always. And as if for the express purpose of providing us with an illustration of the interplay of principle and expediency in practical politics, John Morley, having formulated his answer in general terms, proceeded to test it in action. From an eminent position as author and editor, he embarked in his middle forties on a career as party politician which took him to the House of Commons for 25 years, to the Secretaryship for Ireland, to the Secretaryship for India, and to the peerage and the Privy Council.

A provincial doctor's son, born in 1838 in the milltown of Blackburn, he triumphed without the aid of money or connections. It was an astonishing worldly success in the England of that day. Yet for two generations of Britons, "honest John" Morley (as, somewhat to his dismay, he was popularly known) remained the symbol of fidelity to principle. His life covered an almost incredible reach of years, from the twilight of the French Revolution, of which he was a sympathetic interpreter, to the hopeful morning of the League of Nations, in 1923. He was the link between Cobden, Bright and Gladstone, and the Liberals of 1908 -- Asquith, Grey, Haldane, Lloyd George, Winston Churchill -- one of the most brilliant groups of younger men, it has been said, ever assembled in a British Cabinet. He was "the greatest source of the moral authority" of this Cabinet, so Asquith, then Prime Minister, told him appealingly in the tense days of early August 1914, when the Cabinet seemed likely to split on the issue of the first German war. There was no split; but Viscount Morley (and John Burns) resigned in protest against British entry into the war. Morley's resignation was a final act on principle. But it was a deadly error of judgment. It is this climactic event of Morley's career which focuses the significance of his life for us today.


In 1883, an enthusiastic writer for the Liverpool Post attended a political rally addressed by John Morley, then just elected a Member of Parliament from Newcastle. He perceived with pleasure that the new Liberal standard-bearer was a "tall, well-built man." Morley, who was below middle height, and frail, must have smiled as he read the story and been certain that he was now, indeed, in politics, where men tend to see what they are looking for.

What characteristics might a less impressionable observer have noted in him when, at the age of 45, he moved to the front of the stage? The words that he uses to characterize Voltaire describe himself as a young man: he was "alert with unquenchable life." The middle class from which he sprang had set the direction and supplied the drive in English politics since the first quarter of the century. Both his father and mother were, moreover, members of the most vigorous of the evangelical sects, the Wesleyans. In 1838 the Industrial Revolution was in full flood, and the waters were roiled and terrible. Into the maelstrom the Wesleyans moved purposefully, their kindly hearts armored with an excess of primness to meet the excesses of degradation which confronted them, their weapon the two-edged sword of the Protestant revelation: the duty of self-improvement, and faith in the beneficent power of education. That strong doctrine was everywhere in the air young Morley breathed -- in his home, at the nonconformist schools which he attended, and on the streets of Blackburn, so savage and ugly, yet pulsing with a mighty release of human energy.

John Morley's development followed a pattern familiar in young Victorian intellectuals, from early proficiency at school to the loss of religious faith at the university. He won a scholarship at Lincoln College, Oxford, and his family understood that he was preparing for holy orders. But the explosive power of science was breaking apart men's beliefs as it was remaking their environment. For some, liberalism partook of the nature of a new religion. J. S. Mill's "On Liberty" appeared in 1859, Morley's third year at Oxford. Even in advanced England, Catholic and nonconformist students had not yet won the full privileges of the great universities, and abroad the black reaction after 1848 held the Continent in its grip. "On Liberty" was an army with banners:

This, then, is the appropriate region of human liberty. It comprises, first, the inward domain of consciousness; demanding liberty of conscience, in the most comprehensive sense; liberty of thought and feeling; absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative, scientific, moral, or theological.

John Morley enlisted. For a while, indeed, he was inclined to wage the campaign in a spirit of hostility toward revealed faith. That attitude disappeared as he matured and as he perceived that religious distinctions were a poor guide for separating friend from foe in his political battles.

The immediate result of his break with orthodox faith was a quarrel with his father, which brought a withdrawal of funds. After only three years at Oxford, Morley was on his way to London, entirely without financial resources and almost without friends. But the period of hardship was short. He took the editorship of the almost defunct Fortnightly Review in 1866 and speedily made it not only the lodestone of Victorian intellectual distinction, but a valuable publishing property. His energy belied his slight physique; at one period he was editing the Fortnightly and the daily Pall Mall Gazette, contributing copiously to both, editing the English Men of Letters Series and writing the "Life of Richard Cobden." There was no Bohemianism. He liked to sit down to write in a fresh shirt at a clean desk. In his affairs, as he said admiringly of Gladstone at the Treasury, all was order, precision, persistency, success.

The lifelong attraction which Edmund Burke held for him suggests best his taste and temperament. In 1867, as soon as the Fortnightly editorship released him from potboiling, appeared the first chapter of his study of Burke -- a flash of brightest talent -- pages of which he was to use twice again, in the "Encyclopædia Britannica," and in a second book on Burke in the English Men of Letters. Though Burke was the great conservative and he was radical, he found in Burke exactly what he was looking for -- the highest thought that was brought to bear directly upon practical affairs.

It is as a product of such a temperament that his famous "On Compromise" must be read. Failure to note the starting point of Morley's thought has caused misunderstanding about the nature of the book. "On Compromise" is often described as a rejection of the very idea of concession and accommodation: one commentator is said to have remarked that there is nothing of compromise in it save in the title. But the opposite is more nearly the case. Morley's purpose was to suggest certain limits of compromise which, he believed, needed emphasis in the England of that day -- a quite different matter. His premise was that the political spirit rules in England.

Of all societies since the Roman Republic [he wrote] and not even excepting the Roman Republic, England has been the most emphatically and essentially political. She has passed through military phases and through religious phases, but they have been transitory, and the great central stream of national life has flowed in political channels. . . .

One great tap-root of our national increase has been the growth of self-government, or government by deliberative bodies, representing opposed principles and conflicting interests. With the system of self-government has grown the habit -- not of tolerance precisely, for Englishmen when in earnest are as little in love with tolerance as Frenchmen or any other people, but -- of giving way to the will of the majority, so long as they remain a majority. This has come to pass for the simple reason that, on any other terms, the participation of large numbers of people in the control and arrangement of public affairs immediately becomes unworkable.

But this deference to the decision of the majority, he maintained, was having undesirable effects in two particulars. It had resulted in "an immense decline in sincerity of spiritual interest," and a discouragement of "the sense of intellectual responsibility." Part of the book is a sort of case history of Victorians caught in religious dilemmas: should a husband who has lost his faith tell his wife?, and so on. Morley's answer was a resounding Yes. He wanted questioning pressed to the utmost and every doubt confessed. It was this part of the book which attracted most attention, and which is most dated today. The charge of apathy toward questions of religion is the last one that seems applicable to the Victorians. Morley's very interest was, of course, a reflection of the tremendous wrestle of science and religion in the Victorian soul, which was reaching a climax in the seventies. Gladstone, about this time, threatened to withdraw permanently from politics to devote himself to the defense of the orthodox faith. Morley, a stranger to Gladstone when he wrote, was ardently enrolled on the other side.

It is necessary to note, moreover, that he had a political objective -- disestablishment of the Church. A strong motive for in transigency had been supplied by the Education Act of 1870, which angered all nonconformists by widening the area of State support of Church schools -- the grievance which was chiefly responsible for Gladstone's overthrow in the next election. But the British nation was to settle the issue of disestablishment in the English way. Morley was presently to drop the matter, and to alter drastically his tone on the whole subject, as indicated by Gladstone's subsequent deep affection for him, and his own discerning treatment of Gladstone's religious allegiances in his great biography of the Prime Minister.

His charge of a weakening of intellectual vigor in his contemporaries seems no less remote from the realities of the early seventies than was the accusation of spiritual indifference. The mighty warfare waged by the stalwarts of Victorian scholarship, philosophy and political economy echoes in this day. Though Morley is always stimulating when he tilts against complacency -- as in his scorn of those who insisted that because a reform was not practicable at the moment, there was no point in talking about it or even thinking about it -- the weakest part of "On Compromise" seems his estimate of the actualities of time and circumstance to which he applied his point of view. Morley was still in his early thirties. He had stood once, unsuccessfully, for Parliament and was looking for another opening, but his active political career was not to begin for almost ten years. "On Compromise" was essentially a theoretical statement of the relationship of principle and expediency in the affairs of the world.

In non-religious matters, Morley set the boundaries of compromise wide. Though he would have no qualification whatever on the freedom to form an opinion, and very little on the expression of that opinion (respect for the sentiments of the majority would, he said, "weigh with all well-considering men" -- that is to say, he enjoined courtesy), he granted a need for "the very utmost sobriety, self-restraint, and accommodation" in the endeavor to realize an opinion in practice. But he wished to allot to principle the greatest possible share in setting the boundaries, and for that reason he took pains to make principle an extension of the search for a practicable solution to problems, not an enemy of it. Expediency, as Morley defines it, is the present advantage. Principle is the long-term interest -- the product of full thought and reflection. Principle not merely corrects but enlarges the scope of expediency. He put it thus:

The supposed antagonism between expediency and principle has been pressed further and further away from the little piece of true meaning that it could ever be rightly allowed to have, until it has now come to signify the paramount wisdom of counting the narrow, immediate, and personal expediency for everything, and the whole, general, ultimate, completed expediency for nothing. Principle is only another name for a proposition stating the terms of one of these larger expediencies.

It is particularly interesting to note that this is the heart of the celebrated passage which Morley deleted from the collected edition of his books when, as elder statesman, he was polishing his works for the eyes of posterity. The fact of deletion is significant, but it bears on the development of his worldly position, not on a change in his ideas. Young radical or Privy Councillor, Morley was an indefatigable moralist; he constantly examined the meaning of his experiences and rephrased his conclusions. But morality remained for him something learned, not something given.

What he was doing, in saying that it is the power of thought which gives drive and reach to principle, was making principle equivalent to intelligence. This is the unifying concept of the various chapters of "On Compromise," for the appeal to the "larger" expediency implies the necessity of deepening and widening the range of thought and imagination, and of subordinating present convenience to the completed search. The fallacy in Machiavelli's doctrine that intelligence is compounded of force and will, he said, in what is perhaps the most interesting of his shorter writings, lay precisely in the narrowness of Machiavelli's estimate of men. Like most of those who pride themselves in seeing human nature exactly as it is, Machiavelli saw only half of it: "Machiavelli and his school saw only cunning, jealousy, perfidy, ingratitude, dupery; and yet on such a foundation as this they dreamt that they could build." [i]

Morley did not pretend that his formulation was original; he was applying the ideas of the utilitarians and Mill -- the philosophy created by and for the political spirit. His special contribution is the example which he offers, during about a quarter of a century from 1883 to the First World War, of the conscious application of this theory to great events.


His rôle in these events falls into stages as if plotted by a dramatist -- the introductory act the fight for Irish Home Rule in 1886, with its climax the shattering of the Liberal Party; the second the long period as a leader of the Opposition during the era of imperialism, which at the end brought him honor and power; the third the unforeseen danger from central Europe, and sudden downfall.

The election of 1885, which overturned Salisbury and brought Gladstone into office again, was, in fact, a triumph for Chamberlain more than for Gladstone; the "three acres and a cow" of the Unauthorized Program, plus Chamberlain's new methods of political organization, were chiefly responsible for the Liberal majority. The majority was 86. But from across the Irish Sea, this first election under an extended franchise brought into Parliament precisely 86 Parnellites, and the Irish storm blew up to hurricane pitch. It is apparent now that Gladstone had hoped to achieve Irish self-government through the characteristic British method whereby a reform, seen at length to be essential, gains national sanction by being enacted by the party which has hitherto opposed it, defections from that party being made good by support from the other. Only thus, under Tory sponsorship, could a measure of Home Rule then have passed the House of Lords. Before the election, the Tories had, indeed, entered into negotiation with Parnell, and Gladstone had tacitly offered to defer a dissolution and maintain Salisbury in power if he wished to undertake this patriotic task. But the inflammable mixture of race and religion in the Irish question made the classic political manœuvre impossible, and Gladstone took the solution imperiously into his own hands. In February 1886, he announced that John Morley would be Chief Secretary for Ireland in the new Cabinet. It was the signal that he had decided to force through Home Rule.

From the time Morley left Oxford, he had addressed himself heart and mind to what he perceived was the central aspect of the deadlock over Ireland -- the education of Englishmen in the realities of their relationship with Irishmen. In speeches, in editorials, in articles, in books, he had said to his countrymen, in effect, one thing: you must extend your imagination to grasp the Irish point of view -- on the question of rent, for example, where English ideas of contract do not apply to the land usage immemorial in Ireland. (English land was improved by the landlord, but Irish land was improved by the tenant, and hence an evicted tenant was often deprived of rightful capital.) Parnell asked legislative independence, "linked to Great Britain by the bond of the Crown," in the phrase used today to describe the idea of the Commonwealth. This was then called treason. But Morley believed in Parnell, and he believed that though union by force had failed, government by consent could keep the Irish people within the Empire. It was in the British interest, he said again and again, to make the effort of understanding that would permit the working out of terms. To this realistic view, John Morley added a plain English love of fair play, and in its name he was to hold unswerving to the Irish cause up to the day in 1921 when, a bent old man in the House of Lords, he rose to bestow a scarcely-audible blessing on the treaty establishing the Irish Free State.

Farsighted as were Gladstone and Morley, however, were they wise in forcing the issue in 1886? Even before the Bill was introduced in the House, Gladstone had lost the three Liberals who, after himself, commanded the largest followings -- Hartington of the Whigs, John Bright (over Ulster), and Chamberlain. Parnell's methods of agitation had brought English feelings to a climax of exacerbation just at this moment; and, worst of all, he had committed the folly of throwing the Catholic vote in England to the Tories in the recent election, at a cost of 25 to 40 seats for the Liberals. Home Rule was defeated in the House by 30 votes. The Liberal Party was riven. The Tories took office, to hold it -- with one interlude -- for 19 years. And instead of taking up Home Rule themselves, they turned to coercion again. The events of Easter Week 1916 were inexorably in train.


Morley was left a party leader in a disrupted Opposition. It was not quite the rôle for him. He had learned much about politics since he had written scornfully, in reply to a plea of Sir W. V. Harcourt's for party harmony: "A man's party consists of those who agree with him." When he had been elected to office, he anticipated a charge of party irregularity with a statement which seems definitive on the subject: he would vote with the Liberal Party on a majority of issues, he said, because he was, in fact, a Liberal and would naturally agree with the party; he would in any case be guided by the party on matters on which he had no special competence; and if he did cast a non-party vote, he would come down to his constituents and give his reasons. The code worked close to perfectly; he was to be defeated in an election only once in the next 25 years. Nonetheless, Morley was too much of a Cobdenite and little-Englander to be able to lay down the line that would permit the opposite factions of the party in the era of imperialism -- the Cobdenite-Liberals and the Liberal-Imperialists -- to coalesce in a positive policy. Cobden, a generation earlier, holding his truth of free trade very close to his eyes, had hoped that the British colonies would simply fall away; the sooner Canada, for example, severed her "few remaining political ties" with Britain the better, he thought, since complete severance was not only rendered inevitable by Canada's commercial interest, but would spare Britain a possible war with the United States. Morley saw that the Empire was a reality; but he could not imagine its extension save as an act of sheer wickedness. "You may add a new province," he thundered, when Chamberlain and Milner were hastening to cut the knot in the Transvaal with the sword; "It will be wrong . . . it will be wrong . . . it will be wrong." But the blind forces pushing every western Power into frantic appropriation of undeveloped areas could not be dissolved by exhortation. It was Campbell-Bannerman who saw at the beginning of the Boer War that the point at issue was reconciliation, and by putting the emphasis there, translated Morley's denunciation into terms of statesmanship. These were the years when the British investment in an Opposition paid its most spectacular dividends. Campbell-Bannerman and Morley together were the positive and negative of the current which awoke the English people to a new awareness of their responsibilities and opportunities, and fastened in their minds the working principle that freedom is the strongest of bonds. The "forces" thus ceased to be blind, and the conquered Transvaal turned out not to be a province after all, to Britain's enormous advantage.

When the Liberals came into office again, united at last under Campbell-Bannerman's leadership, there was a great and honored place for John Morley. It was Indian summer for him. The coming young men were proud to be his protégés. Winston Churchill, for example, has told what it meant to find himself seated in Cabinet next to his father's friend, now his own colleague. And to young literary men, no less than to young politicians, the call on Morley, with its likely sequence of generous and discerning friendship, was almost a required pilgrimage. Morley had gone to the Lords in 1908, at his own request, and Viscount Morley was something of a lion. But it was a time of accomplishment for him, as well. With Lord Minto, the Viceroy, he introduced as Secretary for India the reforms which opened the door to self-government there. And though the new crop of radicals in the House of Commons was sometimes bitter at the measures of repression in India which the old radical now sanctioned -- in particular several instances of deportation without trial -- Morley, behind the scenes, was trading that concession (which he greatly disliked) for the inclusion of Indians in the Executive Council and the election of a few members to the legislative councils. The flow of admonitory letters to Lord Minto, now available in the "Recollections," is the thought of a man to whom J. S. Mill was still a great guide, and liberty the great good.

What letters they are -- high-minded, sagacious, suave, rich with the reflections on long experience with ministers and parliaments, full of Morley's own profound cultivation of mind and feelings, put with all his literary facility. They are, alas, the clue to the tragedy which was soon to follow. For the letters are too perfect; they seem less communications with a particular individual in India than ideal and half abstract Letters of a Secretary to a Viceroy. Consciously or unconsciously, Lord Morley was writing for publication and communing with posterity. This was the mood of these happy, triumphant, benign years.

He could have met the challenge of the German threat only by reëxamining the axioms of the Cobdenite doctrine of non-intervention in the affairs of Europe which had served him in the field of foreign affairs for half a century. But when he looked at the Europe of 1914, he seemed to see little more than the situation of 1870, or of 1859, when Palmerston and almost everyone except Richard Cobden misread Napoleon III's intentions and indulged in a preposterous invasion panic. Morley had never studied Germany carefully even in his early days, and, though he had later noted the danger of Bismarck's militarism, he had dismissed the matter as Europe's affair. In the crisis of 1914 he could only urge the 1870 policy of neutrality, and, protesting the precipitancy of it all, resign. Shall there be no one to testify for conviction? he asked sadly. The phrase explains the action. Lord Morley's response to the new situation was merely the reflex from an old one. He testified earnestly; but his mind was closed.

For a few years after the débâcle, he was filled with bitterness, but as the end of his long life approached, he achieved serenity again. Still one more generation of able young Englishmen came to him as mentor, and his old friends did not fail in respect or affection. If, by an unhappy paradox, we must write down the mistake in judgment of 1914 as the final step in the demonstration of the validity of Morley's own contention that the degree of principle in any action is in proportion to the degree of thought and awareness which lies behind it, we may also say that his life as a whole is an instance of the political spirit at its best.


The practical results of applying such a yardstick for compromise are to mark off from the field of government an area which is the special province of religion, in which compromise is not to be entertained, but to widen the boundaries of compromise in non-religious matters. The challenge of the Communist system -- a Church no less than a State -- to both religion and government in the west has tempted some men to seek to revive the ancient alliance of government and religion to bulwark both. By the criteria of the political spirit, it is a shortsighted expediency. Few men escape the realization that the crust which they ask to bear their weight on earth is very thin in places, and the knowledge that it is so tends to pull down men's eyes. But the faiths by which men succeed in lifting their heads again vary as men's natures vary, and history makes plain that men will fight for the unhampered use of the truths which serve them in this regard more quickly and more fiercely than for any other concern. A major purpose of government is to bind men together; but the political proclamation of binding religious truth has in our day, as so often in the past, been the signal for civil wars. Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, who chose the principle of separation of Church and State as the rock on which to build a peaceful society in America, were, no more than Morley, spiritually insensitive men; nor were they theoreticians in politics. There seems no evidence that warrants reversing their conclusion that both Church and State are stronger when well apart, and all too much that reinforces it.

The positive virtue of Morley's yardstick for compromise is that it makes political and economic principles subject to analysis, and thus makes possible the program of deliberate shaping of interests which can weld nation states into a community. It is precisely because such principles are articles of faith in the Communist creed that there is no meeting of minds between Russia and the west; and it is because of the resulting situation that we cannot afford to mark off any political or economic conflicts among the various western systems as beyond the bounds of adjustment. We may note from the study of Morley that compromise is by no means necessarily a matter of" splitting the difference," as is often assumed. Campbell-Bannerman's sound and principled policy in the Boer War was a compromise, but it was successful not because it represented a middle position -- the grant of self-government to the Boers was, in fact, daring -- but because his analysis of the whole situation was fresh and full of understanding, and his purpose clear. ("The policy of cultured and conscientious statesmen," wrote so great and moderate a democrat as President Masaryk of Czechoslovakia, ". . . is deliberately to pursue a clear aim, not to seek the golden mean.")

More and more it seems apparent that the growth of such a concept of deliberate shaping of national interests is the distinguishing characteristic of the development of United States foreign policy over the past 30 years. In 1918, the assumption was that the harmony of interests of sovereign states should be perceived; in 1948, that it must be constructed. The clarification of United States purposes at Dumbarton Oaks and San Francisco, the effort of 1942 to 1946 to gain mutual acceptance of a policy of live-and-let-live with the Soviet Union, the realization that the U.S.S.R. will not honor such a policy, and the turn to a positive program of adaptation of interests with the countries whose views of the necessity of conflict are not determined by doctrine, seem related steps of the emergence of this principle as a controlling idea in our conduct of foreign relations. Is it not this concept which can put our strength wholly behind the purposes of the United Nations?

There is no generalization that will tell in advance where the point of compromise should fall. But a process of welding requires that two ends be malleable.

[i] "Machiavelli," by John Morley. The Romanes Lecture, Oxford, 1897. Published in "Critical Miscellanies." Vol. IV. New York: Macmillan, 1908.

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