women and the old folk and the children. Many
are sure to die before they find salvation. The way to save the
greatest number is assuredly to allow the refugees to circulate freely
and find what life they can. Has not England been plastered with the
notice, "Don't pity a man; find him a job." That is something to apply
to the Russians. We cannot find them a job, but at least let us give
them a chance. There is room in Europe for these Russians, and they
would not prove long a burden once they were in the way of life.

In any case a great stagnant pool of human beings such as is found at
Constantinople, makes a dangerous place in the body politic of
humanity. Is the blood of all of us a little distempered? It comes
from foul pools and sluggish channels where conditions of health are
absent.

LETTERS OF TRAVEL

IV. FROM SOFIA

The last night at Constantinople was memorable, and it is strange to
contrast the brilliance, the clamour, the poignancy, of that time with
the quiet gloom and dirt of Sofia. Dinner with two young Russians at
the "Kievsky Ugolok"; vodka was taken as if it were part of a rite. We
were served by a beautiful woman with little hands. All the lights
were shaded and the violins crooned.

"The best of my youth gone in senseless fighting," said Count Tolstoy.
"Twenty-two to twenty-eight, think of it; surely the best years of
life, and campaigning all the while, from Insterburg to Sevastopol, and
who knows what more."

"I am going to cut it all and start afresh," said Col. S. "I don't
believe in the cause. If I could get a little farm in Canada or
California!"

"Well, you are married and have children, that makes the difference.
You are bound to them. But honour binds me to Russia--whatever
happens."

"It's a strange time."

"Yes, strange."

"Who knows what will happen next in Europe!"

"Do you think European civilization will fall?"

"I think it possible that it may."

"In my opinion also--it may happen. The fall of Russia is just a
forewarning--it will all go down."

Once more the favourite theme of conversation.

Going home at midnight, one sees the miscellaneous crowd still on the
street. From an open cafe window a gramaphone bleats out the strains
of "Pagliacci" into the street, as if "Pagliacci" also were a refugee
and was on the streets. Listening to it there came the thought that
our whole modern way of life, of which that opera is sufficiently
characteris