mean that one monstrous miscarriage of justice is enough to encourage an anarchist plot; but Belgium's levity. it is certain that the honour paid to the unsuccessful assassin quickened the hand that was already armed to strike. There are certain drugs which enable a doctor to discover a latent disease, and the enlargement of Sipido, whose hand was shaken (so to say) by the court which tried him, acted upon the political body of the world as Dr Koch's serum acts upon a consumptive frame. Instantly the disease of anarchy showed itself, and, unhappily, with fatal results. The murder of the Italian king adds one more to the list of useless crimes, and the vain attempt upon the life of the Shah proves, what indeed required no proof, that the anarchist is never inspired to his dastard's work by a just or sufficient The half-imbecile Salsou can have had no grievance against the Emperor of the East: he merely obeyed the voice of his own half-witted vanity, and had he been arrested six years ago, when he was known for a dangerous imbecile, France would have been saved a scandal, and the crazy comrades of the anarchist would have been deprived of a flagrant example.

cause.

It is clearer after each outrage that anarchy is no matter of cause and effect. As we have already pointed out, the political criminal is only impelled by vanity, hope, and cowardice. Yet the radical journalist persists in discovering a genuine attempt to redress a grievance whenever a half-witted Italian goes forth to kill. "Are there any circumstances," he asks, "in the nature or history of the country which account for it?" And he timidly answers that high taxation and dire poverty are rife in Italy. That may be so, but the dire poverty and high taxation of Italy offer no sound reason why one Italian should have murdered a President of France, or why another should have driven his dagger into the blameless heart of an Austrian Empress. The truth is that we shall never understand the causes of anarchy so

long as we seek an obvious explanation. Taxation and poverty do not affect the argument. The Anarchist is born to murder, he is not trained to vengeance; and so dangerous is his inherited complaint that governments would be wisely counselled if they shut him up as soon as they find him, lest an isolated disease should become epidemic.

The Italians have made the record, to use M. Rochefort's elegant phrase, in cutting off the heads of State. But it is not the hard circumstances of their life which encourage them. They are assassins for the same reason that Irishmen are assassins, because secret societies have always flourished in their midst. How should a country, where the camorra has long been a force, feel surprise at a stealthy murder? Anarchy grows faster by association than other crimes. The feeble hand is armed at a word, and where a dozen vain and ignorant agitators are met together there is a constant danger of assassination. Again, secret societies can impose their decisions upon the idlers who join them. Their orders have a definite sanction; the disobedient are easily removed; and the most abject cowardice may be driven to "action" by the fear of domestic punishment. Wherefore the Radical journalist is speaking at random when he declares that a modest taxation will abolish anarchy. "We may be usefully reminded," says he, "that the way to prevent an effect is to remove the cause." That is true enough, and the only way to prevent anarchy is to keep all the known anarchists of the world either in a prison or in a lunatic asylum. The Italians of Patterson, N.J., would be anarchists if they paid no taxes whatever, and all spent their lives, as some of them do, in the grand tour.

Now, it is this fallacy of " cause and effect" which has persuaded men to speak of "political crime," than which a wickeder expression was never devised. There is, and can be, no such thing as political crime, and if there were, it should be doubly punished as a crime without a palliating

Political crime.

motive. A crime is a crime, whatever train of thought suggests it. No political conviction can put a better face upon the murder of a lawful king. Bresci, chosen and armed by his compatriots, was not inspired by heroism. He was merely driven forth by a miserable vanity, a nameless love of publicity, which is no better (nay, far worse) than the greed which leads to burglary. The house-breaker who wants to fill his own pocket, the lover mad with jealousy, receive no mercy at the hands of righteous judges. The anarchist, whose pocket is generally filled by his friends, and who is often accompanied by a faithful mistress, has no better cause of action than the desire to see his name in the papers. Therefore the anarchist, whose motive is baser, should be more severely handled than the highway robber. Yet no sooner is the head of a State sacrificed than we hear the foolish catch-word-"political crime."

But there is another reason why the so-called political murderer should receive the heaviest punishment. By temperament and habit he is more likely to escape notice than the ruffian moved by hunger or jealousy. At school he is commonly the good boy of the class; as he grows up he would rather read Herbert Spencer than loaf in a public-house; and when he joins a secret society he is probably unknown to the police. Accordingly he is free to plot and suborn as he will. If halfa-dozen men meet together to rob a hen-roost, they are disturbed at the slightest breath of suspicion; but if they openly conspire to murder a king, they are politicians whose liberty is sacred. And though the police know both their habit and intent, the police is prevented by a rule of the game from arresting their bodies. When the harm is done, then punishment may follow, but until the blow be struck, the officers of the law seem powerless. Freedom of opinion is admirable enough, but freedom of opinion does not need the dagger and the bomb for its adequate expression, and it is far

better to prevent anarchy than to secure its punish

ment.

The extradition of Anarchists.

An opportunity is now given to arrest the ringleaders of an infamous conspiracy. Yet when extradition is demanded, America is content to murmur the words "political crime." We, too, have committed a similar indiscretion in the past, and though we properly punished the ineffable Most, Soho has been and still is a sheltered sanctuary of crime. At the present moment the celebrated Malatesta himself is free of our capital; yet it is commonly rumoured that his brain directs the murderer's hand, and though (maybe) he is paralysed by the strict surveillance of Inspector Melville, Europe would sleep more calmly were this dangerous madman under lock and key. But of America we have little hope. The Anarchists of Patterson, N.J., will still plot in security, and as the telegraph unites Patterson to Rome and Berlin, orders can be transmitted in a moment and with a small risk of detection. Nor is Italy the first to suffer from transatlantic notions of crime. The Fenians plotted in New York without interruption, and carried out their plots with IrishAmerican gold. More than that, the zeal of Pat Egan was rewarded by an embassy to Chili; and where we failed it is not likely that Italy will succeed. But unless all the nations unite to refuse the Anarchists asylum, "political crime" will flourish for ever, and the criminal will ask to be photographed, and will wonder what the papers say about him, until the end of time. For at present the game of governor and governed is unfairly played, and it is not the kings who load the dice.

Clifford v.
Grundy.

OCTOBER.

MRS CLIFFORD has recently received a grievous buffet of fortune. She has been the victim of such a coincidence as will often assault those who are determined to please the public. In complete ignorance of each other's enterprise, she and Mr Grundy have been busily engaged in composing the same play. The resemblance is perfect down to the smallest details, and though the motive might easily have been found by an independent dozen, a spilt cup of tea, the symbol of emotion, and an S-shaped sofa are not everybody's properties. Nor need we be surprised that the hero of each play is a barrister: on the stage, as in fiction or in real life, professions have their fleeting popularity; and waiting the rehabilitation of the dragoon, the barrister may now claim the slippers of Berlin wool, once worked by pious fingers for the curate. Nevertheless, though much may be put down. to a prevailing fashion, we are confronted by a similarity which seems to defy the laws of chance. One man and two women-these are the invariable elements of drama, unless, indeed, two men come to loggerheads over one woman. But the same scene, the same accent, the same tea-cup in the same trembling hand, and the same sofa, are an insoluble puzzle, which merely suggests the smallness of the world, the limitations of the human brain, and other platitudes. For ourselves, we should as soon presume to explain these amazing coincidences as to unravel the secret of the universal pattern, or to give a reason why the ancient Greeks told the very