shape, two centuries of storms that have swept perfectly unified countries from existence and others that have brought it to the verge of ruin, has survived formidable European coalitions to dismember it, and has steadily gained force after each; forever changing in its exact make-up, losing in the West but gaining in the East, the changes leave the structure as firm as ever, like the dropping off and adding on of logs in a raft, its mechanical union of pieces showing all the vitality of genuine national life.’

That seems to confirm and justify the prevalent Austrian faith that in this confusion of unrelated and irreconcilable elements, this condition of incurable disunion, there is strength—­for the Government.  Nearly every day some one explains to me that a revolution would not succeed here.  ’It couldn’t, you know.  Broadly speaking, all the nations in the empire hate the Government—­but they all hate each other too, and with devoted and enthusiastic bitterness; no two of them can combine; the nation that rises must rise alone; then the others would joyfully join the Government against her, and she would have just a fly’s chance against a combination of spiders.  This Government is entirely independent.  It can go its own road, and do as it pleases; it has nothing to fear.  In countries like England and America, where there is one tongue and the public interests are common, the Government must take account of public opinion; but in Austria-Hungary there are nineteen public opinions—­one for each state.  No—­two or three for each state, since there are two or three nationalities in each.  A Government cannot satisfy all these public opinions; it can only go through the motions of trying.  This Government does that.  It goes through the motions, and they do not succeed; but that does not worry the Government much.’

The next man will give you some further information.  ’The Government has a policy—­a wise one—­and sticks to it.  This policy is—­tranquillity:  keep this hive of excitable nations as quiet as possible; encourage them to amuse themselves with things less inflammatory that politics.  To this end it furnishes them an abundance of Catholic priests to teach them to be docile and obedient, and to be diligent in acquiring ignorance about things here below, and knowledge about the kingdom of heaven, to whose historic delights they are going to add the charm of their society by-and-by; and further—­to this same end—­it cools off the newspapers every morning at five o’clock, whenever warm events are happening.’  There is a censor of the press, and apparently he is always on duty and hard at work.  A copy of each morning paper is brought to him at five o’clock.  His official wagons wait at the doors of the newspaper offices and scud to him with the first copies that come from the press.  His company of assistants read every line in these papers, and mark everything which seems to have a dangerous look; then he passes final judgment