in consequence of feudal traditions and caste prejudices.”  The past was depicted in the blackest colours, and the nation was called upon to begin a new and glorious epoch of its history.  “We have to struggle,” it was said, “in the name of the highest truth against egotism and the puny interests of the moment; and we ought to prepare our children from their infancy to take part in that struggle which awaits every honest man.  We have to thank the war for opening our eyes to the dark sides of our political and social organisation, and it is now our duty to profit by the lesson.  But it must not be supposed that the Government can, single-handed, remedy the defects.  The destinies of Russia are, as it were, a stranded vessel which the captain and crew cannot move, and which nothing, indeed, but the rising tide of the national life can raise and float.”

Hearts beat quicker at the sound of these calls to action.  Many heard this new teaching, if we may believe a contemporary authority, “with tears in their eyes”; then, “raising boldly their heads, they made a solemn vow that they would act honourably, perseveringly, fearlessly.”  Some of those who had formerly yielded to the force of circumstances now confessed their misdemeanours with bitterness of heart.  “Tears of repentance,” said a popular poet, “give relief, and call us to new exploits.”  Russia was compared to a strong giant who awakes from sleep, stretches his brawny limbs, collects his thoughts, and prepares to atone for his long inactivity by feats of untold prowess.  All believed, or at least assumed, that the recognition of defects would necessarily entail their removal.  When an actor in one of the St. Petersburg theatres shouted from the stage, “Let us proclaim throughout all Russia that the time has come for tearing up evil by the roots!” the audience gave way to the most frantic enthusiasm.  “Altogether a joyful time,” says one who took part in the excitement, “as when, after the long winter, the genial breath of spring glides over the cold, petrified earth, and nature awakens from her deathlike sleep.  Speech, long restrained by police and censorial regulations, now flows smoothly, majestically, like a mighty river that has just been freed from ice.”

Under these influences a multitude of newspapers and periodicals were founded, and the current literature entirely changed its character.  The purely literary and historical questions which had hitherto engaged the attention of the reading public were thrown aside and forgotten, unless they could be made to illustrate some principle of political or social science.  Criticisms on style and diction, explanations of aesthetic principles, metaphysical discussions—­all this seemed miserable trifling to men who wished to devote themselves to gigantic practical interests.  “Science,” it was said, “has now descended from the heights of philosophic abstraction into the arena of real life.”  The periodicals were accordingly filled with articles on railways,