Defenders of Democracy

Introductory material

Reading edition

Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States. A Message. . . . vi Vice Admiral William Sowden Sims, U.S.N. A Message . . . . . . . . vii Commanding the American Naval Forces Operating in European Waters General John J. Pershing, U.S.A. A Letter. . . . . . . . . . . . . viii Commanding General American Expeditionary Force Lord Northcliffe. Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Chairman, British War Mission to the United States Theodore Roosevelt. Essential Service. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii Twenty-sixth President of the United States. Author and Statesman William Dean Howells. A Letter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiv American Author, New York, President of the American Academy of Arts and Letters Hermann Hagedorn. "How Can I Serve?" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xv American Writer, New York. President, Vigilantes, American League of Artists and Authors for Patriotic Services Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii

Contributions of Writers

Belgium

Gaston De Leval. Belgium and America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Belgian Advocate for Edith Cavell Emile Cammaerts. Good Old Bernstorff! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Belgian Poet

China

Tsa Yuan-Pei. The War in Europe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Chancellor of the Government University of Peking (Translation, Courtesy of the Chinese Minister)

A Symposium—Democracy

George Sterling. Invocation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 American Poet, California George A. Birmingham. The Test . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 (Canon James O. Hannay) Irish Clergyman and Man of Letters John Galsworthy. The New Comradship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 English Writer William J. Locke. Questionings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 English Novelist Henry Van Dyke. Democracy in Peace and War . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 American Clergyman, Diplomat and Writer

An Interlude

Harriet Monroe. Sunrise over the Peristyle . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 American Poet, Chicago

The Drama

Daniel Frohman. Reminiscences of Booth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Theatrical Manager and Writer, New York J. Hartley Manners. God of My Faith: A One Act Play . . . . . . . 24 Dramatist, New York

France

Frederick Coudert. To France . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 American Lawyer and Publicist Anatole France. Ce Que Disent Nos Morts . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 French Author. (Translation by Emma M. Pope) Rupert Hughes. The Transports (Poetical Version of Sully Prud'homme's "Les Berceaux") . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 American Writer, New York Stephane Lauzanne. La Priere du Poilu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 French Writer, Editor Le Matin. (Translation by Madame Carlo Polifeme)

Great Britain

Honourable James M. Beck. A Tribute to England . . . . . . . . . 61 American Lawyer and Publicist Lord Bryce. Unity and Peace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 English Statesman and Author Robert Hichens. Our Common Heritage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 English Novelist Stephen McKenna. Poetic Justice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 English Statesman and Novelist Lady Aberdeen. The Spell of the Kilties . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 (Wife of the Marquis of Aberdeen and Temair, K. T., Scotland) Mrs. Belloc Lowndes. Sherston's Wedding Eve . . . . . . . . . . . 87 English Novelist, London Ralph Connor. A Canadian Soldier's Dominion Day at Shorncliffe . 105 Canadian Novelist Stephen Leacock. Simple as Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 Canadian Writer, Professor McGill University, Montreal May Sinclair. The Epic Standpoint in the War . . . . . . . . . . 118 English Writer, London

Greece

Eleutherios Venizelos. The Greek Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122 (Translation, with notes, by Caroll N. Brown)

Italy

William Roscoe Thayer. Italy and Democracy. A Tribute to Italy . 127 American Historian and Poet Gabriele D'Annunzio. Al Generale Cadorna . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 Italian Poet C.H. Grangent. Sonnet (Poetical version in English of the above) . . . . . . . . . 132 Professor of Romance Languages, Harvard University Amy Bernardy. The Voice of Italy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 Italian Writer

Japan

Viscount K. Ishii. Japan's Ideals and Her Part in the Struggle . 137 Japanese Statesman, Special Ambassador to Washington, D.C., 1917

Latin America

Salomon De La Selva. Tropical Interlude . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 Nicaraguan Poet Lilian E. Elliott, F.R.G.S. Latin America and the War . . . . . . 145 Literary Editor, Pan American Magazine Salomon De La Selva. Drill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157

Portugal

Henrique Lopes De Mendonca. The People's Struggle . . . . . . . . 161 Portuguese writer. Member of Academy of Science, Lisbon Edgar Prestage. Portugal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162 English Writer, A Friend of Portugal

Roumania

Achmed Abdullah. Roumania—An Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . 166 Novelist. Of the Family of the Ameer of Afghanistan

Russia

Ivan Narodny. The Soul of Russia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 Russian Patriot and Writer. Member of the Russian Civilian Relief Committee, New York Ivan Narodny. The American Bride . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 Sergey Makowsky. The Insane Priest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 Russian Poet. (Translation by Constance Purdy)

Serbia

M. Boich. Without a Country . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190 Serbian Poet. (Translation by Professor Miloche Trivonnatz)

United States of America

Indian Prayer. To the Mountain Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192 Interpreted by Mary Austin Maurice Hewlett. To America, 4 July, 1776 . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 English Man of Letters Charles W. Eliot. The Need of Force to Win and Maintain Peace . . 195 President Emeritus of Harvard University James Cardinal Gibbons. Woman and Mercy . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 Cardinal, Baltimore, Maryland John Lewis Griffiths. Joan of Arc—Her Heritage . . . . . . . . . 199 From an address delivered in London, 1911 Dr. J.H. Jowett. Things Which Cannot Be Shaken . . . . . . . . . 201 English Clergyman, 5th Ave. Presbyterian Church, N.Y. Owen Johnson. Somewhere in France . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206 American Author Melville E. Stone. The Associated Press . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209 Journalist, General Manager of the Associated Press, N.Y. Mary Austin. Pan and the Pot-Hunter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214 American Writer, New York Robert W. Chambers. Men of the Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222 American Author, New York Arthur Guy Empey. Jim—A Soldier of the King . . . . . . . . . . 226 American. Volunteer Soldier in the British Army and Author, "Over the Top" Edna Ferber. Heel and Toe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235 American Novelist, Chicago Theodosia Garrison. Those Who Went First . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 American Poet, New Jersey Louise Closser Hale. A Summer's Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244 American Actress and Author, New York Louis Untermeyer. Children of the War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257 American Poet, New York Fannie Hurst. Khaki-Boy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258 American Novelist and Dramatist, New York Robert Underwood Johnson. Hymn to America . . . . . . . . . . . . 269 American Editor and Author, New York Amy Lowell. The Breaking Out of the Flags . . . . . . . . . . . . 270 American Poet, Cambridge, Mass. Mrs. John Lane. Our Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273 American by Birth, Author, London, England George Barr McCutcheon. Pour La Patrie . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 American Novelist, Indiana and New York Edna St. Vincent Millay. Sonnet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286 American Poet, Camden, Maine Gouverneur Morris. The Idiot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287 American Author, New York James Oppenheim. Memories of Whitman and Lincoln . . . . . . . . 299 American Poet, New York James F. Pryor. Bred to the Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304 American Lawyer and Writer Evaleen Stein. Our Defenders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 306 American Poet and Story Teller, La Fayette, Indiana Alice Woods. The Bomb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 308 American Story Writer Myron T. Herrick. To Those Who Go . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322 American Statesman, Diplomatist, Publicist, Cleveland, Ohio Amelie Rives. The Hero's Peace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324 Princess Troubetzkoy, American Novelist and Poet, Virginia

We gratefully acknowledge the privilege of reproducing the following articles:—

"The Need of Force to Win and Maintain Peace," by Dr. C. W. Elliot—"New York Times." "The Breaking Out of the Flags," by Amy Lowell—"Independent." "The Bomb," by Alice Woods—"Century Magazine." "Children of the War," by Louis Untermeyer—"Collier's Weekly."

All other contributions have been especially written for "The Defenders of Democracy."

Illustrations

Childe Hassam. Allies' Day. From the Original Painting. (Color) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece American Artist, New York Portrait. Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States . . . . vi Portrait Photograph. His Eminence Cardinal Mercier . Facing page 4 Albert Sterner. Sympathy. From the Original Drawing . . . . . . 6 American Artist, New York Photograph. "The Happy Warriors." (Marshal Joffre and General Pershing.) Courtesy of L'Illustration, Paris . . . . . . . 14 Jules Guerin. Ballet by Moonlight. (Color) From the Original Painting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 American Artist, New York Jacquier. Marshal Joffre. Drawn from life . . . . . . . . . . . 44 J. J. Van Ingen. Memory. From the Original Drawing . . . . . . . 52 American Artist, New York Portrait Photograph. The Right Honourable Arthur James Balfour . 66 Charles Dana Gibson. Her Answer. From the Original Sketch . . . 126 American Artist, New York Portrait Photograph. General Cadorna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 William De Leftwich Dodge. From the Original Paintings in Oils (1) The Consecration of the Swords . . . . . . . . . . Cover Design (2) Atlantic and Pacific. (Color) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140 (3) Gateway of All Nations. (Color) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 American Artist, New York O. E. Cesare. Russia's Struggle. From the Original Cartoon . . . 168 American Artist, New York John S. Sargent. "Big Moon" (Black Foot Chief.) From the Original Drawing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192 American Painter, Boston, Mass. John S. Sargent. A Profile. From the Original Drawing Sketch . . 194 George Barnard. Abraham Lincoln . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 American Sculptor, New York Portrait in Oil. Theodore Roosevelt. By George Burroughs Torrey 204 In the Brooklyn Museum Portrait Photograph. Melville E. Stone . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212 Penrhyn Stanlaws. Souvenir de Jeunesse. (Color) From the Original Pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220 Scotch Artist, New York Portrait Photograph. Vice Admiral William Sowden Sims . . . . . . 224 Portrait Photograph. General John J. Pershing . . . . . . . . . . 234 Walter Hale. "Once the Giant Toy of a People who Frolicked." From the Original Water Color . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244 American Artist, New York John T. McCutcheon. The Married Slacker. From the Original Drawing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268 American Artist, Indiana W. Orlando Rouland. Portrait of W. D. Howells. From the Original Painting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 274 American Artist, New York George Bellows. They Shipyard. (Color) From the Original Oil Painting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304 American Artist, New York Joseph Pennell. Dawn. From the Original Drawing . . . . . . . . 324 American Artist, New York

We are grateful to

The Beck Engraving Co., of New York and Philadelphia, for furnishing the black-and-white reproductions without charge, and the four-color plates at cost.

The Plimpton Press, of Norwood, Mass., for its cooperative assistance.

The Walker Engraving Co., of New York, for supplying the color plates for the cover at cost.

M. Knoedler & Co., of New York, for the privilege of reproducing Jacquier's drawing from life of Marechal Joffre.

Frederick Keppel & Co., of New York, for Mr. Pennell's drawing.

Belgium and America

It would be a banality to speak about the gratitude of the Belgian people toward America. Every one knows from the beginning of the war that when the Belgians were faced with starvation, it was the American Commission for Relief which saved the situation, forming all over the country, in America and elsewhere, those Committees who collected the funds raised to help the Belgians, and saw that they reached the proper channel and were utilized to the best advantage of the Belgian people.

But helping to feed the people was not enough. The Americans did more. They gave their heart. Every one of them who came into my country to act as a volunteer for the Commission for Relief, brought with him the sympathy of all the people that were behind him. Every one of these young Americans, who, under the leadership of Mr. Hoover, came into my country to watch the distribution of the foodstuffs imported by the Commission for Relief, became a sincere friend of my countrymen. He stood between us and the Germans as a vigilant sentry of the civilized world, and was able to tell when he returned to America all the sufferings and all the courage of the Belgian population.

I remember traveling in America some ten years ago, and being asked, while I was reading a Belgian paper, where this paper came from and when I answered "It came from Belgium, the next question was: "Belgium? It is a province of France, isn't it?" Now I do not think that any person in America, nor in any other part of the world, will not know where Belgium is.

The American Commission for Relief has to be credited with putting in closer contact the suffering population of my country with all persons the world over who were eager to assist it. It especially brought the sufferings of our people nearer to the heart of the American population. Every one knows that. But what every one does not know is the silent and effective work performed in Belgium by Mr. Brand Whitlock, the American Minister. He was the real man at the right place and at the right hour. No one could have better than he, with his deep humanitarian feeling, been able to understand the moral side of the sufferings of the Belgians under the German occupation. No one could better than he find, at the very moment when they were needed, the words appropriate to meet the circumstances, and to convey to the people of this stricken country the feelings which Mr. Whitlock knew were beating in the hearts of all Americans.

When the German authorities forbade the display of the Belgian Flag, and the Tri-Color so dear to our hearts had to be hauled down, the American Flag everywhere took its place. Washington's birthday and Independence Day were almost as solemn festivities to the Brussels people as the fete nationale, and thousands of persons called at the legation on those days; deputations were sent by the town and official authorities to show how deep was the Belgian feeling for the United States. America was for the Belgians "une second Patrie," because they felt that, although America was at the time remaining neutral, her sympathy was entirely on our side, and when the time would come she would even prove it on the battlefields.

It may therefore be said that although the war has had for my country the most cruel consequences, there is one consolation to it. It has shown that humility is better than the pessimist had said it was, and that money is not the only god before which the nations bow. It has revealed that all over the world, and especially in America, there is a respect for right and for duty; it has proved that the moral beauty of an action is fully appreciated. The war has revealed Belgium to America, and America to Belgium. The tie between our two countries is stronger than any tie has ever been between two far distant people, and nothing will be able to break it, as it rests not on some political interest or some selfish reason, but because it has been interwoven with the very fibers of the hearts of the people.

[signed]G. de Leval Avocat la cour d'Appel de Bruxelles, Legal advisor to the American and British Legations in Belgium.

Good Old Bernstorff!

Then entrance of America in the war has been nothing short of a miracle—perhaps, with the Marne, the most wonderful miracle, among many others, which we have witnessed since August, 1914.

I do not wish to be misunderstood. I am not necessarily referring to supernatural influences. This will remain a matter of opinion—or rather of belief. I am merely speaking from the ordinary point of view of the main in the street concerning what is likely or not likely to happen in the world.

People have very generously admired Belgium's attitude, but anybody knowing the Belgians and their King might have prophesied Liege, and the Yser battle. Others have praised the timely interference of England and the self-sacrifice of the many thousand British volunteers who rushed to arms, during the early days of the war, to avenge the wrong done to a small people whose only crime was to stand in the way of a blind and ruthless military machine. But such an attitude was too much in the tradition of British fair play to come as a surprise to those who knew intimately the country and the people. Besides, from the Government's point of view, non-intervention would have been a political mistake for which the whole nation would have had to pay dearly in the near future, as subsequent events have conclusively shown.

But America? What had America to do in the conflict? She had not signed the treaties guaranteeing Belgium's neutrality. She was not directly threatened by German Imperialism. She had never taken any part in European politics. Her moral responsibility was not engaged and her immediate interest was to preserve to the end all the advantages of neutrality and to benefit, after the war, by the exhaustion of Europe…

I had the opportunity of seeing, a few days ago, the second contingent of American troops marching through London on their way to France. The Belgian flag flew from our window and, as we cheered the men, some of them, recognizing the colors, waved their hand towards us. And as I watched their bright smile and remembered the eager interest shown by so many citizens of the States to Belgian's fate, and the deep indignation provoked beyond the Atlantic by the German atrocities and by the more recent deportations, I was inclined to think, for one moment, that I had solved the problem, and that their sympathy for Belgium had brought these soldiers to the rescue. We are so easily inclined to exaggerate the part which one country is playing!

But as I looked at the men again, I was struck by the grim expression on their faces, the almost threatening determination of their light swinging step. And I soon realized that neither their sympathy for England, France or Belgium had brought them here. They had not come merely to fight for other peoples, they had their own personal grievance. they were not there only to help their friends, but also to punish their enemies.

As I turned in to resume my work, I heard a friend of mine who whispered, rubbing his hands: "Good old Bernstorff! Kind old von Paepen! Blessed old Ludendorf!"

And I understood that Germany had been our best champion, and that her plots, her intrigues, and her U boats had done more to convert America than our most eloquent denunciations. There is no neutrality possible in the face of lawlessness and Germanism. Sooner or later we feel that "he how is not with Him is against Him." And there is no compromise, no conciliation which might prevail against such feeling.

[signed] Em. Cammaerts

The War in Europe

Translation of a part of an address by Mr. Tsa Yuan-Pei, Chancellor of the Government University of Peking and formerly Minister of Education in the first Republican Cabinet, delivered on March 3rd, 1917, at Peking before the "Wai Chiao Hou Yuan Hui," or a "Society for the Support of Diplomacy."

I am a scholar and not a practical politician. Therefore I can only give you my views as a man of letters. As I see it, the War in Europe is really one between Right and Might, or in other words, between Morality and Savagery. Our proverbs run to this effect: "Every one should sweep the snow in front of his door and leave alone the frost on the roof of his neighbor," and that "when the neighbors are fighting, close your door." These proverbs have been used by the anti-war party in China as arguments against China's entrance into the War. The War in Europe, however, is not the "frost on the roof of our neighbor," but rather the "snow right in front of our door." It is not a "fight between neighbors," but rather a quarrel within the family—the family of Nations. China therefore cannot remain indifferent. For, if Germany should eventually win the War, it would mean the triumph of Might over Right, and the world would be without moral principles. Should this occur, it would endanger the future of China. It is therefore necessary for China to cast her lot with the Right.

Courtesy of CHINESE MINISTER.

Invocation

Because of the decision of a few,— Because in half a score of haughty minds The night lay black and terrible, thy winds, O Europe! are a stench on heaven's blue. Thy scars abide, and here is nothing new: Still from the throne goes forth the dark that blinds, And still the satiated morning finds The unending thunder and the bloody dew.

Shall night be lord forever, and not light? Look forth, tormented nations! Let your eyes Behold this horror that the few have done! Then turn, strike hands, and in your burning might Impel the fog of murder from the skies, And sow the hearts of Europe with the sun!

[signed]George Sterling.

Bohemian Club, San Francisco 1915

The Test

It has been my fortune to see something of the war with the army in France, and something also of what war means for those at home who, having sent out sons and brothers, are themselves compelled to wait and watch. I have seen suffering beyond imagination, pain, hardship and misery. I have seen anxiety and sorrow which I should have guessed beforehand men could not have borne without going mad. But I have also seen the human spirit rise to wonderful heights. Men and women have shown themselves greater, nobler, stronger than in the old days of peace I thought they could be.

It would not be very astonishing if the strain of war had called forth a fresh greatness in those whose lives were already seen to be in some way great; in our leaders, our teachers, our thinkers. Or if an added nobility had appeared in our aristocracies of birth, intellect, education, wealth, or whatever other accidents set men above the mass of their fellows. Of such we expect a great response to a great demand. And we have not been disappointed. The old rule of life, NOBLESSE OBLIGE, has proved that it still possesses driving force with the most of those to whom it applies. The thing which has amazed me is the greatness of the common man.

This I in no way expected or looked for. I confess that, before the war, I was no believer in the great qualities of those who are called "the people." They seemed to me to be living lives either selfish, sometimes brutal, always sordid; or else mean, narrow, and circumscribed by senseless conventions. I believed that society, if it progressed at all, would be forced forward by the few, that the many had not in them the qualities necessary for advance, were incapable of the far visions which make advance desirable. I know now that I was wrong, and I have come to the faith that the hoe of the future is in the common people who have shown themselves great.

So, I suppose, I may contribute to a book with such a title as "The Defenders of Democracy." For now I am sure that democracy has promise and hope in it. Only I am not sure that democracy has even begun to understand itself. The common people have displayed virtues so great that those who have seen them unite in a chorus of praise. Their leaders, elected persons, guides chosen by votes and popular acclamation, have shown in a hundred ways that they will not, dare not, trust the people. Our silly censorships, our concealments of unpleasant truths, our suppression of criticism, our galling infringements of personal liberty, witness to the fact that authority distrusts the source from which it sprang; that the leaders of our democracy reckon the common people unfit to know, to think or to act. If we are defending democracy we are sacrificing liberty. Will you, in America, do better in this respect than we have done? you believed in the common people before England did. You believe in them, if we may trust your words, more completely than England does. Do you believe in them sufficiently to trust them? Or do you think that democracy can be defended only after it has been blindfolded, hand-cuffed and gagged? This is what you have got to show the world. No one doubts that you can fight. No one doubts that you will fight, with all your strength, as England is fighting. What we wonder is whether your great principle of government, by the people and for the people, will stand the test of a war like this.

[signed]James O. Hannay

The New Comradeship

Democracy is the outward and visible sign that a nation recognizes its own needs and aspirations. Democracy wells up from the very pit of things. Its value is its foundation in actuality, its concordance with the slow unending process of man's evolution from the animal he was. Democracy, for one with any comic and cosmic animal sense, is the only natural form of government, because alone it recognizes States as organisms, with spontaneous growth, and a free will of their own. Democracy is final; other forms of government are but steps on the way to it. It is the big thing, because it can and does embody and make use of Aristocracy. It is the rule of the future, because all human progress gradually tends to recognition of God in man, and not outside of him; to the establishment of the humanistic creed, and the belief that we have the future in our own hands.

In life at large, whom does one respect—the man who gropes and stumbles upward to control of his instincts, and full development of his powers, confronting each new darkness and obstacle as it arises; or the man who shelters in a cloister, and lives by rote and rules hung up for him by another in his cell? The first man lives, the second does but exist. So it is with nations.

The American and the Englishman are fundamentally democratic because they are fundamentally self-reliant. Each demands to know why he should do a thing before he does it. This is, I think, the great link between two peoples in many ways very different; and they who ardently desire abiding friendship between our two countries will do well never to lose sight of it. Any sapping of this quality of self-reliance, or judging for oneself, in either country, any undermining of the basis of democracy will imperil our new-found comradeship. You in America have before all things to fear the warping power of great Trusts; we in England to dread the paralyzing influence of Press groups. We have both to beware of the force which the pressure of a great war inevitably puts into the hands of Military Directorates. We are for the time being hardly democracies, even on the surface; the democratic machinery still exists, but is so ungeared by Censorship and Universal Service, that probably it could not work even if it wanted to. We are now in the nature of business concerns, run by Directors safe in office till General Meetings, which cannot be held till after the War. But I am not greatly alarmed. When the War is over, the pendulum will swing back; the individual conscience which is our guarantee for democracy and friendship will come into its own again, and shape our destinies in common towards freedom and humanity. The English-speaking democracies, in firm union, can and ought to be the unshifting ballast of a better world.

[signed] John Galsworthy

Questionings

I have a brilliant idea which, without any parade of modesty, I hereby commend to the notice of the American, French and British Governments. Let them get together as soon as may be and give us an authoritative definition of Democracy. Then we shall know where, collectively, we are. Of course you may say that it has been defined for all time by Abraham Lincoln. But thrilling in its clear simplicity as his slogan epigram may be, a complex political and social system cannot be fully dealt with in fifteen words. I thought I knew what it was until a tidy few millions of friends and myself were knocked silly by recent events in Russia. Here, where the privates of a regiment hold a mass meeting and discuss for hours an order to advance to the relief of sorely pressed comrades and decide not to obey it, and eventually throw down their rifles and with a meus conscia recti, proudly run away, we have Democracy with a vengeance. Not one of the Defenders of Democracy who are writing in this book would stand for it a second. Nor would they stand for the slobbering maniacs who yearn to throw themselves into the arms of the Germans, and, with the kiss of peace and universal brotherhood, kiss away their brother's blood from their blood-smeared faces. Nor would they stand entirely for those staunch democrats who, inspired with a burning sense of human wrongs but with none of proportion or humor, would sacrifice vital interests of humanity in general for the transient amelioration of the lot of a particular section of the community. For years these visionaries told us that every penny spent on army or navy was a robbery of the working-man. We yielded to him many pennies; but alas, they now have to be repaid in blood.

America has joined the civilized world in the struggle against the surviving systems of medieval barbarism in Europe that have been permitted to exist under the veneer of civilization. She sees clearly what she has to destroy. So do we. No American and Englishman can meet but that they grip hands and thank God together that they are comrades in this Holy War. They are out, like Knights of Fable, to rid the earth of a pestilential monster; and they will not rest until their foot is on his slain monster's head.

Which is, by Heaven! a glorious and soul-uplifting enterprise. In it the blood of the Martyrs, rising to God. But with this difference: the Martyrs died for a constructive scheme—that of Christianity. What is the constructive scheme for which we are dying? It is easy to say the Democratization of Mankind. It is a matter of common assent that this consummation is ardently desired by the Royal Family of England, by enlightened Indian Princes, by the philanthropists of America, by the French artist, by the Roumanian peasant, by the howling syndicalist in South Wales, by the Belgian socialist, by the eager soul in the frail body who is at the helm of storm-tossed Russia to-day, by the Montenegrin mountaineer, by the Sydney Larrikin yelling down conscription, by millions of units belonging to the civilized nations of such social and racial divergence that the mind is staggered by the conception of them all fighting under one banner. But are we sure they are all fighting for the same thing? If they're not, there will be the deuce to pay all over the terrestrial globe, even with a crushed Central European militarism.

Therefore, with the same absence of modesty I cry for an authoritative crystallization of the democratic aims of the civilized world. England and France have groped their way through centuries towards a vague ideal. America proudly began her existence by a proclamation of the equal rights of man. She proudly proclaims them now; but the world is involved in such a complicated muddle, that the utterances of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln (to say nothing of their intellectual and political ancestor Jean Jacques Rousseau) require amplification. The political thought of the older nations of Europe is tired out. It is for the fresher genius of America to lead them towards the solution of the greatest problem which has ever faced mankind:—the final, constructive and all-satisfying definition of the myriadwise interpreted word Democracy.

[signed] W. J. Locke

Democracy in Peace and War

Democracy is by nature a lover of peace. That is the state which it regards as the normal condition of human life, and in which it seeks its best rewards and triumphs by the organization of the common effort of all citizens for the common welfare.

But while democracy is pacific in its desires and aims, it is not a "pacifist." It is willing and able, though not always at the moment ready, to take up arms in self-defense. In its broadening vision of a fraternity of mankind, which shall be in the good future not only intranational but also international, it is willing also to FIGHT for the safety of its principles everywhere, and for the security of all the peoples in a true and orderly liberty. That is the position of the democracy of the United States of America to-day.

As in peace, so in war, the success of the democratic effort depends upon the fullness of the cooperation between all classes and conditions of men and women. Those men who are fit for military service on land or sea must render it willingly and to the utmost of their strength. Those who by reason of age or weakness cannot undertake that service without danger of becoming a burden to the fighting forces, must work to sustain the army and the fleet of freedom. "If any man will not work neither let him eat."

The women also must do their part, since they are citizens just as much as the men. They must undertake those tasks of industry of which they are capable and thus relieve the need of labor in all fields. Above all they must give themselves to those tasks of mercy for which they have a natural aptitude. And through all they must give sympathy, inspiration, and courage to the men who fight for Liberty and Democracy.

[signed] Henry van Dyke

Sunrise over the Peristyle

"Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."

Look! we shall know the truth—it is thy word; The truth, O Lord—shining, invincible, Unawed. And shall we love it, Lord, like this, This half-dark flushing with the wondrous hope? How can we love it more?

Sweet is the hush Brimming the dim void world, soothing the beat Of the great-hearted lake that lies unlit Beyond that silver portal. Peace is here In moony palaces that rose for her Pale, lustrous—it is well with her to dwell. The truth—will not these phantom fabrics fail Under the fierce white fire—yes, float away Like mists that wanly rise and choke the wind?

So merciless is truth—how shall we live And bear the glare? Now rosily smiles the earth, And bold young couriers climb the slope of heaven, With gaudy flags aflare. The towered clouds, Lofty, impregnable, are captured now— Their turrets flame with banners. Who abides Under the smooth wide rim of the worn world That the high heavens should hail him like a king— Even like a lover? If it be the Truth, Ah, shall our souls wake with the triumph, Lord? Shall we be free according to thy word, Brave to yield all?

Look! will it come like this— A vivid glory burning at the gate Over the sudden verge of golden waves? The tall white columns stand like seraphim With high arms locked for song. The city lies Pearled like the courts of heaven, waiting the tread Of souls made wise with joy. Why should we fear? The Truth—ah, let it come to test the dream; Give us the Truth, O Lord, that in its light The world may know thy will, and dare be free.

[signed]Harriet Monroe

Reminiscences of Booth

Few of the younger people of the present generation know, by personal experience, how nobly and incomparably Edwin Booth enriched the modern stage with his vivid portraitures of Shakespearean characters. The tragic fervor, the startling passion, and the impressive dignity with which he invested his various roles, have not been equaled, I daresay, by any actor on the English speaking stage since the days of Garrick and Kean. He had a voice that vibrated with every mood, and a mien, despite his short stature, that gave a lofty dignity to every part that he played. But Booth as himself was a simple, modest, amiable human being. Many of us younger men came to know him in a personal way, when he established in New York City the Players' Club, which he dedicated to the dramatic profession, and which is now a splendid and permanent monument to his fame and generosity.

I saw him frequently and had many chats with him. When I undertook the management of E. H. Southern, he was very much interested because he knew young Sothern's father, the original Lord Dundrery; so, when Mr. Sothern appeared in the first play under my management, "The Highest Bidder," I invited Mr. Booth to witness the performance. He expressed his delight at seeing his old friend's son doing such delightful work, and the three of us afterwards met at a little supper at the Players'. He told us that he came nearly being the Godfather of young Sothern, and that he was to have been called "Edwin" after himself; but the reason why his name was changed to "Edward," he explained, was as follows: When young Sothern was born in New Orleans, the elder Sothern telegraphed Booth, asking him to stand as Godfather to his boy, but Booth did not wish to take the responsibility, doubtless for reasons of his own, and so his name was changed to "Edward"; but he confessed that it was a matter he greatly regretted. He told us many stories of his early career as an actor, one of which I remember as a very amusing experience on the part of the elder actor when on his way to Australia. Mr. Booth had an engagement to play in that distant section, and with five members, the nucleus of a company, started from San Francisco. They had occasion to stop at Honolulu en route. The stop there being longer than originally anticipated, and the news of his arrival having spread, King Kamehameha sent a request that he give a performance of "Richard III" in the local theater. In spite of managerial difficulties, Booth (being then a young man, ardent and ambitious) sought to give a semblance with the scanty material at hand, of a fair performance. He had to secure the cooperation of members of the local amateur company. The best he was enabled to do for the part of Queen Elizabeth was an actor, short in stature, defective in speech and accent, but earnest in temperament, whom he cast for this eminent role. The other parts were filled as best he could, and the principals with him enabled Mr. Booth to give some semblance of a decent performance. In order to properly advertise the event, he secured the assistance of several Hawaiians, and furnished them with a paste made out of their native product called "poi." He discovered later, to his amazement, that not a bill had been posted, and that the "poi," being a valuable food article, had been appropriated by the two individuals, who decamped. Mr. Booth, with his colleagues, then personally posted the town with the bills of the impending performance. On the evening the house was crowded. The King occupied a seat in the wings, there being no place for him in the hall. When the throne scene was to be set for the play, word was sent to His Majesty humbly asking the loan of the throne chair, which he then occupied, for use in the scene—a favor which His Royal Highness readily granted. At the end of the performance, word was brought to Booth that the King wished to see him. Booth, shy and modest as he was, and feeling that he could not speak the language, or that His Royal Highness could not speak his, approached His Majesty timidly. The latter stepped forward, slapped the actor heartily on the back and said: "Booth, this is as fine a performance as I saw your father give twenty years ago."

The question as to whether an actor should feel his part or control his emotions, has been an argument which has interested the dramatic profession for many years, since it was first promulgated by the French writer Diderot, and afterwards ably discussed by Henry Irving and Coquelin. Of course, we all feel that no matter how violent the actor's stress of emotion is, he must control his resources with absolute restraint and poise. Sometimes, however, an actor feels he is under the sway of his part in an unusual degree and comes to the conviction, through his excitement, that he has given a greater performance than usual. So Booth, one night at his own theater, seeing his beloved daughter in a box, and desiring to impress her with his work, played with, as he felt, a degree of emotion that made him realize that he had given an unusually powerful interpretation. At the end of the play, his daughter ran back to him and said: "Why, dad, what is the matter with you?" And Booth, awaiting her approval, said: "Matter?" "Why you gave the worst performance I ever witnessed," she said. This control of one's resources and the check upon one's feelings was indicated at another time during a performance of Booth, of "Richelieu," as told to me by the actor's friend, the late Laurence Hutton, the writer. Mr. Hutton and Mr. Booth were sitting in the latter's dressing room at Booth's Theater. Booth was, as usual, smoking his beloved pipe. When he heard his cue, he arose, and walked with Hutton to the prompter's entrance, where, giving his pipe to his friend, said: "Larry, will you keep the pipe going until I come off?" Booth entered on the scene; then came the big moment in the play when the nobles and the weak King had assembled to defy the power of the Cardinal; and Richelieu launches (as Booth always did with thrilling effect) the terrifying curse of Rome—a superb bit of oratorical eloquence. At the conclusion, the house shouted its wild and demonstrative approval, and when the curtain dropped on this uproar for the last time, Booth approached Hutton at the prompter's entrance saying, in his usual quiet voice: "Is the pipe still going, Larry?"

No actor we have ever known has inspired so much genuine affection—I may say almost idolatry—as the simple Edwin Booth aroused in the hearts of his friends and his fellow-workers. In the beautiful Players' Club House, which he bequeathed to the dramatic profession, he presented also his own valuable theatrical library, numbering several thousand memorable works on the stage; and no one event greater than this gift to his fellow-players has ever occurred in the dramatic profession.

[signed]Daniel Frohman

God of My Faith

A Play for Pacifists in One Act

"If the God of my faith be a liar Who is it that I shall trust?"

The People in the Play

Nelson Dartrey

Dermod Gilruth

The action passes in Dartrey's Chambers in the late Spring of Nineteen Hundred and Fifteen.

(The lowering of the Curtain momentarily will denote the passing of several days.)

God of My Faith

The curtain discloses a dark oak room

Indeed they do not. Once they get out to America and do well they stay there and become citizens. My father did. Do you think he'd live in Ireland now? Not he. He talks all the time about Ireland and the hated Sassenachs—that's what he calls you English—and he urges the fellows at home in the old country to fight for their rights. But since he made his fortune and became an American citizen the devil a foot has he ever put on Irish soil. He's always going, but he hasn't go there yet. And as for living there? Oh, no, America is good enough for him, because his interests are there. I want to live in Ireland because my heart is there. So was my poor mother's.

(Springing up) Now I'm off. You don't know how happy you make me by promising to be my best man.

DARTREY

My dear fellow—

GILRUTH

And just wait until you see her. Eyes you lose yourself in. A voice soft as velvet. A brain so nimble that wit flows like music from her tongue. Poetry too. She dances like thistledown and sings like a thrush. And with all that she's in love with me.

DARTREY

I'm delighted.

GILRUTH

(The sound of a boy's voice calling newspapers is heard faintly in the distance; then the hoarse tones of a man shouting indistinctly; then a chorus of men and boys comes nearer and nearer calling of some calamity. Dartrey hurries out through the outer door. Gilruth stands ashamed. He does not want to leave his friend in bad blood. He would like to put things right before going. He waits for Dartrey to come back.

In a few minutes Dartrey walks through the outer doorway and into the room. He is very white, very agitated and his face is set and determined. He is reading a special edition of an evening paper with great "scare" head lines.

The sound of the voices crying the news in the street grows fainter and fainter.

Dartrey stops in front of Gilruth and tries to speak; nothing coherent comes from his lips. He thrusts the paper into Gilruth's hands and watches his face as he reads.

Gilruth reads it once slowly, then rapidly. He stands immovable staring at the news-sheet. It slips from his fingers and he cowers down, stooping at the shoulders, glaring at the floor.)

DARTRY

(Almost frenzied) Now will your country come in? Now will they fight for civilization? A hundred of her men, women and children done to death. Is that war? Or is it murder? Already men are reading in New York and Washington of the sinking of that ship and the murder of their people. What are they going to do? What are YOU going to do?

GILRUTH

(Creeps unsteadily to the door; standing himself with a hand on the lock; his back is to the room. He speaks in a strange, far-off, quavering voice)

She was on the LUSITANIA! Mona. She was on it. Mona was on it.

(Creeps out through the street door and disappears)

(Dartrey looks after him)

(The curtain falls and rises again in a few moments. Several days have elapsed. Dartrey, in full uniform, is busily packing his regimental kit. The bandage has been removed from his head. The telephone bell rings. Dartrey answers it)

DARTREY

Yes. Yes. Who is it? Oh! Do. Yes. No. Not at all. Come up. All right.

(Replaces the receiver and continues packing)

(In a few moments the door-bell rings. Dartrey opens the outer door and brings Gilruth into the room. He is in deep mourning; is very white and broken. He seems grievously ill. Dartrey looks at him commiseratingly. He is sensitive about speaking)

GILRUTH

(Faintly) Put up with me for a bit? Will you?

(Dartrey just puts his hand on the man's shoulder)

(Gilruth sinks wearily and lifelessly into a chair)

A few miles outside. I went there that night and stayed there until—until she—they found her.

(Covers his face. Dartrey puts his arm around him and presses his shoulder)

I wandered round there for days. Wasn't so bad while it was light. People to talk to. All of us on the same errand. Searching. Searching. Hoping—some of them. I didn't. I knew from the first. I KNEW. It was horrible at night alone. I had to try and sleep sometimes. They'd wake me when the bodies were brought in. Hers came toward dawn one morning. Three little babies, all twined in each others arms, lying next to her. Three little babies. Cruel that. Wasn't it?

(Waits as he thinks; then he goes on dully; evenly, with no emotion)

Fancy! She'd been out in the water for days and nights. All alone. Tossed about. Days and nights. She! who'd never hurt a soul. Couldn't. She was always laughing and happy. Drifting about. All alone. Quite peaceful she looked. Except—except—

(Covers his eyes and groans. In a little while he looks up at Dartrey and touches his left eye)

This. Gone. Gulls.

(Dartrey draws his breath in sharply and turns a little away)

In a few hours the cuts opened. The salt-water had kept them closed.

DARTREY

Cuts?

GILRUTH

(Nods) Her head. And her face. Cuts. Blood after all that time.

(He clenches and unclenches his hands nervously and furiously. He gets up slowly, walks over to the fireplace, shivers, then braces himself trying to shake off the horror of his thoughts. Then he begins to speak brokenly and tremblingly endeavoring to moisten his lips with a dry tongue)

Never saw anything to equal the kindness of those poor peasants. They gave the clothes from their bodies; the blankets from their beds. And took nothing. Not a thing. "We're all in this," they said. "We're doing our best. It's little enough." That's what they sayd. Pretty find the Irish of Queenstown. Eh?

(Dartrey nods. He does not trust himself to speak)

A monument. That's what the Irish peasants of Queenstown should have. A monument. Never slept, some of them. Wrapped the soaking woman in their shawls—and the little children. Took off their wet things and gave them dry, warm ones. Fed them with broths they cooked themselves. Spent their poor savings on brandy for them. Stripped the clothes off their own backs for them to travel in when they were well enough to go. And wouldn't take a thing. Great people the Irish of Queenstown. Nothing much the matter with them. A monument. That's what they should have. And poetry.

(Thinks for a while, then goes on)

Laid out the bodies too; just as reverently as if they were their own people. They laid her out. And prayed over her. And watched with me over her until she was put into the—. Such a tiny shell it was, too. She had no father or mother or brother or sisters. I was all she had. That's why I buried her here. Kensal Green. She'll rest easy there.

(He walks about distractedly. Suddenly he stops and with his hands extended upwards as if in prayer, he cries)

Out of my depths I cry to Thee. I call on you to curse them. Curse the Prussian brutes made in Your likeness, but with hearts as the lowest of beasts. Curse them. May their hopes wither. May everything they set their hearts on rot. Send them pestilence, disease and every foul torture they have visited on Your people. Send the Angel of Death to rid the earth of them. May their souls burn in hell for all eternity.

(Quickly to Dartrey)

and if there is a god they will. But is there a good God that such things can be and yet no sign from Him? Listen. I didn't believe in war. I reasoned against it. I shouted for Peace. And thousands of cravens like me. I thought God was using this universal slaughter for a purpose. When His end was accomplished He would cry to the warring peoples "Stop!" It was His will, I thought, that out of much evil might come permanent good. That was my faith. It has gone. How can there be a good God to look down on His people tortured and maimed and butchered? The women whose lives were devoted to Him, defiled. His temples looted, filled with the filth of the soldiery, and then destroyed. And yet no sign. Oh, no. My faith is gone. Now I want to murder and torture and massacre the foul brutes…. I'm going out, Dartrey. In any way. Just a private. I'll dig, carry my load, eat their rations. Vermin: mud: ache in the cold and scorch in the heat. I will welcome it. Anything to stop the gnawing here, and the throbbing here.

(Beating at his head and heart)

Anything to find vent for my hatred.

(Moving restlessly about)

I will. I'll be all right. In a little while I'll be along out there. I hope I server under you. (Grips his hand) Good-by.

DARTREY

Keep in touch with me.

GILRUTH

All right.

(Passes out, opens and closes the outer door behind him and disappears in the street. Dartrey resumes his preparations)

The End of the Play

[signed]J. Hartley Manners

To France

For the third time in history it has fallen to the lot of France to stem the Barbarian tide. Once before upon the Marne, Aetius with a Gallic Army stopped the Hun under Attila. Three hundred years later Charles Martel at Tours saved Europe from becoming Saracen, just as in September, 1914, more than eleven centuries later, General Joffre with the citizen soldiery of France upon that same Marne saved Europe from the heel of the Prussianized Teuton, the reign of brute force and the religion of the Moloch State. These were among the world's "check battles." Yet the flood of barbarism was only checked at the Marne, not broken; again the flood arose and pressed on to be stopped once more at Verdun—the Gateway of France—in the greatest of human conflicts yet seen.

America was a spectator, but not an indifferent one. Once again mere momentary material interest counseled abstention; precedent was invoked to justify isolation and indifference. The timid, the ignorant, the disloyal, those to whom physical life was more precious than the dictates of conscience, counseled "peace and prosperity." Many began to wonder if America had a soul and was indeed worth saving as the policy of "Terrorism" on land followed that of "Terrorism" on the high seas seemed to leave us indifferent. Yet the same spirit, as of yore, dominated the nation. The people of America at last understood that it was not any particular rule of law, but the existence of law itself, divine and human, that was involved in the Fate of France.

The task confronting this nation is a stupendous one. Let there be no illusion. The war may well be long and painful, beyond expression, but the past few weeks have taught us that the nation will bear the strain with that same courage and enduring perseverance as in the past, following the example of the Fathers and inspired by the traditions of the American Revolution, this people will stand like a stone wall with our splendid Ally of old and of to-day—France—and from Great Britain from whence came our institutions, to end forever the Hohenzollern system of blood and iron so that a better future may come to Europe and America, one in which peace may be builded upon a guaranty of justice and law—a world order in which fundamental moral postulates and human rights may never again be set at defiance at the behest of mere material force, however scientifically organized.

To France has fallen the honor of checking, to Britain the burden of containing by sea and land, to America now comes the duty of finally overthrowing that common enemy of democratic institutions and ordered liberty, the foe whose morality knows no truth, whose philosophy admits no check upon the "will to power."

In France the traveler passing along the roads to the northeast leading to Lorraine may see at every cross-road a great index finger pointing to the single word VERDUN. To many thousands, nay, hundreds of thousands of men passing over these roads in the five fateful months of critical battle, these six letters spelled mutilation and death, yet the word was an inspiration to heroism in every home of France, and from every corner of the land men followed that great index finger pointing, as it did indeed, to the modern Calvary.

To-day at every cross-road must we here in America set up a great index hand with the words "TO FRANCE." To France, land of suffering humanity, in whose devastated fields again must be saved the same principles for which Americans fought at Bunker Hill, at Saratoga, at Yorktown, at Gettysburg and in the Wilderness; to France, where the fate of the world is still pending; to France, which has again checked the Huns of the modern world as it did those of the ancient; to France, the manhood of this nation must now be directed, to save the heritage of the American Revolution and the Civil War, to preserve the dearest conquests of the Christian civilization; to France will our men go by the thousands, hundreds of thousands, if need be by the million, to prove that the soul of America is more completely intent upon battling for the right than ever before, intent that slavery in another but far subtler and more dangerous form may not prevail upon the earth.

It was Washington who gave as the watchword of the day in those soul-trying hours that preceded the birth of our nation the immortal and prophetic phrase, "America and France—United Forever."

[signed]Frederick Coudert THE END.

Ce Que Disent Nos Morts

Il n'est pas besoin de rappeler le souvenir de ceux qui nous furent chers et ne sont plus, à notre peuple qui passe, non sans raison, pour célébrer avec ferveur le culte des morts. N'est-ce pas en France, au dix-neuvième siècle, qu'est née cette philosophie qui met au rang des premiers devoirs de l'homme la reconnaissance envers les générations qui nous ont précédés dans la tombe, en nous laissant le fruit de leurs pensées et de leurs travaux? Certes la religion des ancêtres est de tous les temps et de tous les climats; elle est même chez certains peuples orientaux la religion unique; mais en quel pas les liens entre les morts et les vivants sont-ils plus forts qu'en France, les deuils plus solennels à la fois et plus intimes? Chez nous, d'ordinaire, les defunts aimés et vénérés ne quittent pas tout entiers le foyer où ils vécu; ils y respirent dans le coeur de ceux qui demeurent; ils y sont imités, consultés, écoutés.

Je me rappelle trop confusément pour en faire usage ici une scène très belle d'une vieille chanson de geste, GIRART DE ROUSILLON, je crois, où l'on voit une fille de roi contempler, la nuit, après une bataille, la plaine où gisent les guerriers innombrables tomber pour sa querelle. "Elle eut voulu, dit le poète, les embrasser tous." Et, du fond de mes très lointains souvenirs, cette royale fille m'apparait comme une image de notre France pleurant aujourd'hui la fleur de sa race abondamment moissonnée.

Aussi n'est-ce pas pour exhorter mes concitoyens à commemorer en ce jour nos morts selon un usage immémorial, que j'écris ces lignes, mais pour honorer avec notre peuple tout entier ceux qui lui ont sacrifié leur vie at pour mediter la leçon qu'ils nous donnent du fond de leur demeures profondes.

Et tout d'abord, à la mémoire des notres, associons pieusement la mémoire des braves qui ont versé leur sang sous tous les étendards de l'Alliance, depuis les canaux de l'Yser jusqu'aux rives de la Vistule, depuis les montagnes du Frioul jusqu'aux défiles de la Morava, et sur les vastes mers.

Puis, offrons les fleurs les plus nobles palmes aux innocentes victimes d'une atroce cruauté, aux femmes, aux enfants martyrs, à cette jeune infirmière anglaise, coupable seulement de générosité et dont l'assassinat a soulevé d'indignation tout l'univers.

Et nos morts, nos morts bien aimés! Que la patrie reconnaissante ouvre assez grand son coeur pour les contenir tous, les plus humbles comme les plus illustrés, les héros tombés avec gloire à qui l'on prepare des monuments de marbre et de bronze et qui vivront dans l'histoire, et les simples qui rendirent leur dernier souffle en pensant au champ paternel.

Que tous ceux dont le sang coula pour la patrie soient bénis! Ils n'ont pas fait en vain le sacrifice de leur vie. Glorieusement frappés en Artois, en Champagne, en Argonne, ils ont arrêté l'envahisseur qui n'a pu faire un pas de plus en avant sur la terre sacrée qui les recouvre. Quelques-uns les pleurent, tous les admirent, plus d'un les envie. Ecoutons les. Tendons l'oreille: ils parlent. Penchons-nous sur cette terre bouleversée par la mitraille où beaucoup d'entre eux dorment dans leurs vêtements ensanglantés. Agenouillons-nous dans le cimetière, au bords des tombes fleuries de ceux qui sont revenus dans le doux pays, et là, entendons le souffle imperceptible et puissant qu'ils mêlent, la nuit, au murmure du vent et au bruissement des feuilles qui tombent. Efforçons-nous de comprendre leur parole sainte. Ils disent:

FRERES, vivez, combattez, achevez notre ouvrage. Apportez la victoire et la paix à nos ombres consolées. Chassez l'étranger qui a deja reculé devant nous, et ramenez vos charrues dans les champs qui nous avons imbibés de notre sang.

Ainsi parlent nos morts. Et ils disent encore:

FRANÇAIS, aimez-vous les uns les autres d'un amour fraternal et, pour prevaloir contre l'ennemi, mettez en commun vos biens et vos pensées. Que parmi vous les plus grands et les plus forts soient les serviteurs des faibles. Ne marchandez pas plus vos richesses que votre sang à la patrie. Soyez tous égaux par la bonne volonté. Vous le devez à vos morts.

VOUS nous devez d'assurer, à notre exemple, par le sacrifice de vous-mêmes, le triomphe de la plus sainte des causes. Frères, pour payer votre dette envers nous, il vous faut vaincre, et il vous faut faire plus encore: il vois faut mériter de vaincre.

Nos morts nous ordonnent de vivre et de combattre en citoyens d'un peuple libre, de marcher résolument dans l'ouragan de fer vers la paix qui se levera comme une belle aurore sur l'Europe affranchie des menaces de ses tyrans, et verra renaître, faibles et timides encore, la JUSTICE et L'HUMANITE étouffées par le crime de l'Allemagne.

Voila ce qu'inspirent nos morts à un Français que le détachement des vanités et le progrès de l'age rapprochent d'eux.

[signed]Anatole France

What our Dead Say to Us

There is no need to recall to the minds of our people those who were dear to us and have passed hence, for they are celebrating—and with good cause—the anniversaries of their deaths. Was it not in France, in the 19th century, that there was born that philosophy which placed in the rank of the foremost duties of mankind gratitude towards those generations who have preceded us to the grave, and have left us the fruits of their thoughts and of their labors? Indeed, ancestral worship prevails in all climes and at all periods; in fact, with certain Oriental nations it is the only religion. But in what country is the link between the dead and the living so strong as it is in France—the rites at the same time so solemn and so intimate? With us, as a rule, our dead, beloved and venerated, never entirely depart from the homes in which they have dwelt, but take up their abode in the hearts of the living who imitate them, consult them, pay heed to them.

I recollect, too vaguely to make full use of it here, a beautiful scene from the heroic song, "Girart de Roussillon," I think it is, where one is shown a king's daughter, one night after a battle gazing across the battlefield where lay the innumerable warriors who had fallen in the fight. "She felt a desire," said the poet, "to embrace them all." And from the depths of my far-away memories this apparition of the daughter of a royal house arises before me as an image of our France to-day, weeping for the flower of our race so abundantly cut down.

My object in writing these lines is not to exhort my fellow-citizens to commemorate to-day our noble dead, according to immemorial custom, but to honor as a united people those who have sacrificed their lives for their country and to meditate upon the lesson that comes to us from their scattered burial places.

First, with the memory of our own, let us with all piety associate the memory of those brave ones who have shed their blood under all the Allies' standards, from the streams of the Yser to the banks of the Vistule; from the mountains of Frioul to the defiles of Morava, and on the vast seas.

Then, let us offer our choicest flowers of memory to the innocent victims of an atrocious cruelty, to the women, the child martyrs, to that young English nurse, guilty only of generosity, whose assassination aroused the indignation of the entire universe.

And our dead, our beloved dead! May a grateful country open wide enough its great heart to contain them all, the humblest as well as the most illustrious, the heroes fallen with glory to whom have been erected monuments of bronze and marble, who will live in history, and those simple ones who drew their last breath thinking of the green fields of home.

Blessed be all those whose blood has been shed for their country! Not in vain have they sacrificed their lives. At the glorious encounter at Artois, Champagne, and Argonne they repulsed the invader who could not advance one step farther on the ground made sacred by their fallen bodies. Some weep for them, all admire them, more than one envies them. Let us listen to them. They speak. Let us make every effort to hear them. Let us prostrate ourselves on this ground, torn up by shot and shell, where many of them sleep in their blood-dyed garments. Let us kneel in the cemetery at the foot of the flower-strewn graves of those who were brought back to their country, and there listen to the whispers, scarcely audible but powerful, which mingle through the night with the murmur of the breeze and the rustle of the falling leaves. Let us make every effort to understand their inspired words. They say:

BROTHERS, live, fight, accomplish our work. Win victory and peace for the sake of your dead. Drive out the intruder who has already retreated before us, and bring back your plows into the fields now saturated with our blood.

Thus speak our dead. And they say, further:

FRENCHMEN, love one another with brotherly love, and, in order that you may prevail against the enemy, put into common use your possessions and your ideas. Let the greatest and strongest among you serve the weak. Be as willing to give your money as your blood for your country. Be willing that perfect equality shall exist amongst you. You owe this to your dead. Because of our example, you owe us the assurance that by your self-sacrifice ours will be the triumph in this holiest of all causes. Brothers, in order to pay your debt to us you must conquer, and you must do still more: you must deserve to conquer.

Our dead demand that we shall live and fight as citizens of a free country; that we shall march resolutely through the hurricane of steel toward Peace, which shall arise like a beautiful aurora over Europe freed from the menace of her tyrants, and shall see reborn, though weak and timid, Justice and Humanity, for the time being crushed through the crime of Germany.

Thus are the French, detached from the vanities and progress of the age, drawn nearer to our dead and inspired by them.

Anatole France Translation by E. M. Pope.

The Transports

Poetical version of Sully Prud'homme's "Les Berceaux"

The long tide lifts each might boat Asleep and nodding on the dock, Of the little cradles they take no note Which the tender-hearted mothers rock.

But time brings round the Day of Good-Byes For it's women's fate to weep and endure, While curious men attempt the skies And follow wherever horizons lure.

Yet the mighty boats on that morning tide When they flee away from the dwindling lands Will feel the clutch of mother hands And the soul of the far-off cradleside.

[signed]Robert Hughes

La Prière Du Poilu

(Written in the Trenches, before Verdun, December, 1915)

Et alors, le poilu, levant la tête derrière son parapet, se mit, dans la nuit froide de décembre, à fixer une étoile qui brillait au ciel d'un feu étrange. Son cerveau commença à remeur de lointaines pensées; son coeur se fit plus léger, comme s'il voulait monter vers l'astre; ses lèvres frémirent doucement pour laisser passer une prière:

"O Etoile, murmura-t-il, je n'ai pas besoin de ta lueur, car je connais ma route! Elle a pu me paraitre sombre au début, quand mes yeux n'étaient point accoutumés à ses rudes contours; mais, depuis un an, elle est pour moi éblouissante de clarté. On a beau me l'allonger chaque jour, on n'arrivera pas à me l'obscurcir. On a beau y multiplier les ronces et les pierres, après lesquelles je laisse de ma chair et de mon sang, on n'arrivera pas à m'y arrêter. Je sais que j'irai jusqu'au bout. Je vois devant moi la victoire…. Mais, là-bas, derrière moi, il y a une foule qui parfois s'inquiète dans les ténèbres. Au moment où la vieille anné va tourner sur ses gonds vermoulus, elle repasse en son esprit agité les évènements qui la marquèrent. Elle songe aux peuplades barbares d'Orient que le Germain a entraînées derrière son char: Turcs et Bulgares, Kurdes et Malissores, et elle oublie les grandes nations qui s'enrôlèrent sous la bannière de la civilisation. Elle songe aux territoires que foule la lorde botte tudesque, et elle oublie les empires que nous détenons en gages: ici, l'ouest et l'est Africains, grands comme quatre fois toute l'Allemagne, avec leurs 5000 kilomètres de voies ferrées et leurs mines de diamants; là, ces îles d'Océanie et cette forteresse d'Asie: Kiao-Tchéou, que le kaiser avait proclamé la perle de ses colonies. Elle s'alarme de toutes les pailles que, dans sa course désordonnée, ramasse l'Allemagne et ne voit pas les poutres énormes qui soutiennent la France…. Nous autres, qui sommes la poutre, nous savons mieux, nous voyons mieux.

"O Etoile, apprends à ceux qui ne sont pas dans la tranchée la confiance!…

"Le passé est là qui enseigne l'avenir. Chaque fois qu'une armée quelconque, prise de la folie de l'espace, a voulu s'enfoncer dans les terres lointaines et abandonner le berceau où elle puisait sa force et ses vivres, elle est morte de langueur et d'épuisement, elle s'est éffritée comme la pierre qu'on arrache de l'assemblage solide des maisons, elle n'est pas plus revenue que ne reviennent les grains de poussière qu'emporte le vent…. Voici plus d'un siècle que des légions ont tenté la conquète de l'Egypte et ces légions étaient les plus magnifiques du monde. Elles avaient des chefs qui s'appelaient Desaix, Kléber et Bonaparte; mais elles n'avaient pas la maitrise de la mer et rien ne revint des sables brulants du désert. Voici un siècle aussi qu'une armée la plus formidable d'Europe, conduite par le plus fameux conquérant qu'ait connu l'univers, tenta de submerger l'immense empire russe; mais l'empire était trop grand pour la grande armée et rien ne revint des solitudes glacées de la steppe…. Puisse, de même, aller loin, toujours plus loin, l'armée allemande déjà décimée, haletante, épuisée! Puisse-t-elle pousser jusqu'au Tigre, jusqu'à l'Euphrate, jusqu'à l'Inde!…

"O Etoile, apprends à ceux qui ne sont pas dans la tranchée, l'Histoire!…

"Certes ces nuits d'hiver sont longues. Et tous tes scintillements, Etoile, ne valent pas le sourire de la femme aimée au logis. Cependant, tu as quelque chose de la femme, puisque tant d'hommes te suivent aveuglément: tu en as la grâce et l'éclat; et toi, au moins, nul couturier boche ne t'habilla jamais!… Tu possèdes même des vertus que ne possède pas toujours la femme: tu as la patience et le calme. Les nuages ont beau s'interposer entre tes adorateurs et toi, l'aurore a beau chaque matin éteindre tes feux, tu t'inclines devant la loi suprême de la nature et nulle révolte ne vint jamais de toi…. Tâche d'inspirer ta soumission à tes soeurs terrestres qui, dans les villes, attendent le retour des guerriers.

"O Etoile, apprends à celles qui ne sont pas dans les tranchées, la Discipline!…

"Que tous, que toutes sachent qu'il y a quelque chose au-dessus du Nombre, au-dessus de la Force, au-dessus même du Courage: et c'est la Persévérance…. Il y eut, une fois, un match de lutte qui restera à jamais célèbre dans l'histoire du sport: celui de Sam Mac Vea contre Joe Jeannette. Le premier, trapu, massif, tout en muscles: un colosse noir du plus beau noir. Le second, plus léger, plus harmonieux, tout en nerfs: un métis jaune du plus beau cuivre. Le combat fut épique: il se poursuivit pendant quarantedeux rounds et dura trois heures. Au troisième round, puis au septième, Sam Mac Vea jetait Joe Jeannette à terre et sa victoire ne paraissait plus faire de doute. Cependant, Joe Jeannette peu à peu revint à la vie, se cramponna, se défendit, vécut sur ses nerfs, puis attaqua à son tour. Au quarante-deuxième round, épaule contre épaule, haletants, ruisselants de sang, ils se portaient les derniers coups; mais le ressort de Sam Mac Vea était cassé et, devant l'assurance de son adversaire, il se sentit vaincu… Alors on vit le grand géant noir lever les bras et s'écrouler en disant: I GUESS I CAN NOT…. (Je crois que je ne peux pas…) Ainsi, bientôt peut-être, verrons-nous s'écrouler l'Allemagne, en avouant: "Je ne peux pas…."

"O Etoile, apprends à ceux qui ne sont pas dans la tranchée, la Boxe!…"

[signed]Stéphane Lauzanne

The Prayer of "Le Poilu"

Then "Le Poilu" standing, in the cold December night, behind the breastworks, fixed his gaze upon a star that was shining with a strange brilliance in the sky above. His mind was stirred with thoughts of far away things. His heart grew lighter, as though it yearned to reach the star; his lips trembled, and softly he breathed a prayer.

"O Star," he murmured, "I need not thy glimmering light, for I know my way. The road may have appeared dark at first when my eyes were unaccustomed to its sharp turns, but for a year it has been divinely illumined for me. Even if it grew longer each day, it will never seem dark again. Although torn by thorns and cut by stones, nothing can make me turn back. I know that I shall go on, steadfast to the end. I behold before me Victory…. But there,—behind me, is a multitude sorely troubled in the darkness.

"Now, as the old year revolves on its rusty hinges, those who wait at home live over in their troubled hearts the events which marked its passing. They think of the barbarous hordes of the Orient which the German has caught in his train; Turks and Bulgarians, Kurds and Malissores, and they overlook the great nations enrolled under the banner of civilization. They brood over lands ground under the iron heel of the Teuton and overlook the Empires that we hold; here, West and East Africa, four times as large as all Germany, with their thousands of miles of railroads and their diamond mines; there, the Islands of Oceania and the fortress of Asia: Kiao-Tcheou, which the Kaiser has proclaimed the pearl of his colonies. They are alarmed at the chaff that Germany gathers in her lawless course and they do not see the mighty girders that stay France. But we who are the girders, we know better, we see farther.

"O Star, teach those who are not in the trenches…. Confidence!

"By the light of the past we behold the future. Whenever an army, seized with the frenzy of conquest, has forced its way into a far land, abandoning the cradle whence it drew its life and strength, it has wasted away, it has perished from utter exhaustion. Like stones loosened from a solid wall, it has disintegrated. Like the grain of dust which the wind has blow away, it has vanished never to return.