He was the greatest thinker of his day, and it is no fault of his that today his very name is synonymous with all that is black and treacherous. He was not a wicked man, unless patriotism is a sin. He was not a barbarian, but rather an historian, an ambassador and a dramatist. Indeed there were few cultural past-times in which he was not adept.

The school-boy, reading of him, is likely to imagine him a great brute of a man, whereas he was really slight, with thin lips, jet black hair, keen eyes, and a perpetually courteous air. Like Freidrich Nietzche, whom he most resembles in historical significance, he was an unhappy man. He seemed never to attain his ends, never to be near enough the throne to wield the sceptre, never able to find a champion for his cause. Patriotism devoured him, yet America had her Sam Adams whose name is far from disrepute.

There was one difference: our friend made one mistake. He was above all practical. Ideals, hollow traditions and mock morals were not for him. With gentle, piercing strokes, he painted human nature as it was then and has always been. His writings have been a mirror in which men have seen themselves as they were, and the image has not pleased them.

This morning at eleven, the Vagabond will hear Professor Whitney speak on Niccolo Machiavelli upstairs in Emerson Hall.