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of the Czech miners and steel workers of Teschen; a few examples of the mystical poetry of Otakar Březina, perhaps the greatest living poet of to-day, whose name would be in the mouths of all the literary critics of the world, if he but wrote in a language better known abroad than his own. There is again J. S. Machar, whose caustic wit and pugnaciuos character raised for him many enemies as well as admirers; there is Antonín Sova, Author:Antonín Klášterský, Karásek ze Lvovic, and Otakar Theer—prominent figures among the living Czech poets. And there are a number of examples of the art of Jaroslav Vrchlický, the great poet, who died shortly before the war and whose enormous poetical output enriched the Czech language and marked an epoch in the history of literature of his nation.

An American who will read over these examples of the present day activity of the Czech spirit will not be able to look down on the Czechoslovaks as a small nation, somewhere in the East of Europe, not deserving of special attention from the great American nation. Mr. Selver’s book quotes only a few samples of the rich intellectual life which flourishes in Prague; but that is enough to prove the high degree of development which this particular Slav nation reached long before it secured political independence.

Those who read “The Czechoslovak Review” will be particularly interested in Paul Selver’s Anthology, because Mr. Selver is to them an old friend. Americans of Czechoslovak descent ought to be grateful to the author for devoting his time and his great talents to the work of making known Czech authors to the English public, especially as the labor spent on this undertaking can never be sufficiently remunerated. The book is most cordially recommended to all who take interest in Czechoslovak life.

The case of Dr. Kramář and associates had been held in abeyance for some time. It was said new evidence had been discovered in Belgrade after its capture. It was also said that Dr. Preminger had fallen ill. It was also said that the proceedings would be stopped altogether. In those days of official silence, every event became the subject of a whole series of different versions and explanations, because a man likes to have complete ideas about a thing, and if he cannot get the actual facts, he invents them and tells them to his fellowmen so often, until he believes them himself.

The winter of that year was not severe and ended exactly according to the calendar. During a few evenings in February there were heavy and vicious winds, but one day the sun leapt into the blue sky with such warmth and radiance, that the people quivered with sheer delight and blinked their eyes at the unaccustomed lustre; crows swayed slantingly in the air on their ragged wings as if they wished to expose now their backs, now their bellies to the warmth of the sun; from the roofs fell drops of melted snow and glistened like brilliants; in the streets brooklets trickled merrily, the mud glistened, fur coats, winter costumes and ladies’ dark dresses disappeared; the streets became gay with light overcoats and cheerful colors of women’s dresses; the people rid themselves of the heavy and cautious gait they had acquired during the winter months, and strolled along displaying their contentment in dainty springtime steps; and in the parks where audacious blackbirds scurried about on the freshened grass, there appeared a crowd of nursemaids with and without perambulators, and tiny babies who had been born in the course of the winter blinked with their expressionless little eyes at the golden, radiant air.

And at the same time in the north, south, east and west, cannons, rifles, bayonets and bombs were at the work; war was being carried on upon the earth, under the earth, upon the sea, under the sea, in the air,-war was being carried on by gods and men, machines, vapours, gases, electricity and all the acquisitions of science and art (for war was also being carried on by poets, novelists, savants, philosophers, draughtsmen, painters, pamphleteers, journalists) as if mankind had come to an agreement that it was necessary to slay all those spectres which are called culture, civilization, progress, humanity, morals and religion. Homage had been done to them for centuries,—now they must fall. A few crowns were shaking upon hallowed heads, a few wearers of royal garments were homelessly wandering about Europe, the penny-a-liners who had formerly greeted them on their various visits, now pelted them with coarse jokes,—a new Iliad in which the simple heroes were silent and fell, and only types like Thersites made speeches at the back.

Everybody was tired of the war,—rulers, nations, diplomats, soldiers, but the war went on.

And the spring came with its fresh greenery, skylarks, chafers, blossoms, the first swallows appeared, flitted above the streets and darted into the air with artistic curves, but what else happened and