The Defenders of Democracy: Contributions from representative men and women of letters and other arts from our allies and our own country (President's Edition)
Edited by The Gift Book Committee of The Militia of Mercy
"The kinship of blood between nations may grow weaker, but the kinship of ideals and purposes constitutes a permanent bond of union." John Lewis Griffiths
The net proceeds of the sale of this book will be used in aiding the needy families of the men of the Naval Militia who have been called to the defense of liberty.
To our sailors, soldiers, and nurses in appreciation of their heroism and sacrifice in the cause of Liberty and Democracy.
"Oh, land of ours be glad of such as these." Theodosia Garrison.
"To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are, and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness, and the peace which she has treasured. God helping her, she can do no other." Woodrow Wilson.
A Message From Vice Admiral William Sowden Sims, U.S.N., Commanding the American Naval Forces Operating in European Waters
In such an hour as that with which we are now confronted, when so much depends upon the individual efforts, our hearts swell with pride as we learn of the thousands of America's best, staunch and true men who are so willingly forgetting their own personal welfare and linking their lives and all that they are with the cause of liberty and justice, which is so dear to the hears of the American people. All honor to those who are giving themselves as such willing sacrifices, and may God grant that their efforts may be speedily rewarded by a world condition which will make them realize that their efforts have accomplished the desired result, and that the world is better and happier because of them.
[signed] Wm. S. Sims
American Expeditionary Force Office of the Commanding General
August 4th, 1917
I am very pleased to have an opportunity to say a word in praise of the Militia of Mercy.
Unless our women are imbued with Patriotic sentiments, there will be little to hope for in our life. A nation is only as great as its womanhood; and, as are the women, so are the sons. All praise to the women of America!
Please accept my very best wishes for the success of your organization.
[signed] John J. Pershing.
I have seldom yielded so willingly to a request for my written views as I do in this instance, when my valued friend, the master journalist, Melville E. Stone, has asked me, on behalf of the Book Committee, to write an introduction for "The Defenders of Democracy." Needless to say, I comply all the more readily in view of the fact that the book in which these words will appear is planned by the ladies of the Militia of Mercy as a means of increasing the Fund the Society is raising for the benefit of the families of "their own men" on the battle-line.
And what a theme! It demands a volume from any pen capable of doing it justice. For the present purposes, however, I approve strongly of a compilation which shall express the reasoned opinions of writers representing the allied nations, while it is a real pleasure to turn for a few minutes from the day's anxieties and consider the one great force which supplies the leaven to a war-sodden world. Are men to live in freedom or as slaves to a soulless system?—that is the question which is now being solved in blood and agony and tears on the battlefields of the Old World. The answer given by the New World has never been in doubt, but its clarion note was necessarily withheld in all its magnificent rhythm until President Wilson delivered his Message to Congress last April. I have no hesitation in saying that Mr. Wilson's utterance will become immortal. It is a new declaration of the Rights of Man, but a finer, broader one, based on the sure principles of Christian ethics. Yet, mark how this same nobility of thought and purpose runs like a vein of gold through the rock of valiant little Belgium's defiance of the Hun, of President Poincare's firm stand, and of Mr. Lloyd George's unflinching labors in the Sisyphean task of stemming the Teutonic avalanche. Prussia's challenge to the world came with the shock of some mighty eruption undreamed of by chroniclers of earthquakes. It stunned humanity. Nowhere was its benumbing effect more perceptible than in these United state, whose traditional policy of non-interference in European disputes was submitted so unexpectedly to the fierce test of Right versus Expediency. And how splendidly did President, Senator, Congress and the People respond to the test! Never for one instant did America's clear judgment falter. The Hun was guilty, and must be punished. The only issue to be solved was whether France, Britain, Italy and Russia should convict and brand the felon unaided, or the mighty power of the Western World should join hands with the avengers of outraged law. Well, a purblind Germany settled that uncertainty by a series of misdeeds which no nation of high ideals could allow to pass unchallenged. I do believe most firmly that President Wilson gave the criminal such chances of reform as no court of law in the world would grant. But, at last, his patience was exhausted. Whether the enslavers of Germany thought, in that crass ignorance of other men's minds they have so often displayed, that America meant to keep out of the war at all costs, or were merely careless of consequences so long as the immediate end was attained, is now immaterial. From the welter of Teutonic misdeeds and lies arises the vital, the soul-inspiring spectacle of a union of all democracies against the common foe.
And right here, as the direct speech of New York has it, I want to pay tribute to the sagacity, the clarity of vision, the sure divination of the truth amidst a fog of deceit, which has characterized almost the whole Press of the United States since those feverish days at the end of July, 1914, when the nightmare of war was so quickly succeeded by its dread reality. Efforts which might fairly be described as stupendous were put forth by the advocates of Kultur to win, if not the approval, at least the strict neutrality of America. That the program of calculated misrepresentation failed utterly was due in great part to the leading newspapers of New York, Chicago, Philadelphia and the other main centers of industry and population. Never has the value of a free Press been demonstrated so thoroughly. The American editor is accustomed to weigh the gravest problems of life on his own account without let or hindrance from tradition, and it can be affirmed most positively that, excepting the few instances of a suborned pro-German Press, the newspapers of the United States condemned the Hun and his methods as roundly and fearlessly as the "Independence Belge" itself whose staff had actually witnessed the horrors of Vise and Louvain. These men educated and guided public opinion. Republican or Democrat it mattered not—they set out to determine from the material before them what was Right and what was Wrong. Once convinced that the Hun was a menace they made their readers understand beyond cavil just what that menace meant. So I claim that the editors of the United States are entitled to high rank among the Defenders of Democracy. When the history of the war, or rather a just analysis of its causes and effects, comes to be written I shall be much mistaken if the critical historian does not give close heed and honorable mention to the men who wrote the articles which kept the millions of America thoroughly and honestly informed. Think what it would have meant had their influence been thrown into the scale against the Allies! By that awesome imagining alone can the extent of their service by measured.
If I have wandered a little from my theme, since our veritable "Defenders" are the men who are giving their life's blood at the front, and the band of noble women who are tending them in hospital, it will surely be understood that, if I name them last they are first in my heart. I have seen much of the war. I know what your soldiers, sailors and nurses are called on to endure. I rejoice that in dedicating this book to them, you honor them while they live. Never let their memory fade when they are dead. They gave their lives for their friends, and greater love than that no man hath.
"I wish all success to 'The Defenders of Democracy.' The men who are in this war on the part of the United States are doing the one vitally important work which it is possible for Americans to do at this time. Nothing else counts now excepting that we fight this war to a finish. Those men are thrice fortunate who are given the chance to serve under arms at the front. They are not only rendering the one essential service to this country and to mankind, but they are also earning honor as it cannot otherwise be earned by any men of our generation. As for the rest of us, our task is to back them up in every way possible."
Kittery Point, Me., October 14, 1917
I am never good at messages or sentiments, but perhaps if Mr. Rouland's portrait of me were literally a speaking likeness it would entreat you to believe that I revere and honor in my heart and soul, the noble ideals of the Militia of Mercy.
[signed]W. D. Howells.
[The following is written in long hand] How Can I Serve?
There are strange ways of serving God You sweep a room or turn a sod, And suddenly to your surprise You hear the whirr of seraphim And ?uid you're under God's own eyes And building palaces for him.
There are strange, unexpected ways Of going soldiering these days It may be only census-blanks You're asked to conquer with a pen, But suddenly you're in the ranks And fighting for the rights of men!
For the Militia of Mercy August 15, 1917.
The Editors gratefully acknowledge the rich contributions to this book which it has been their privilege to arrange. The generous spirit which has accompanied each gift permeates the pages, and its genial glow will be felt by all of our readers.
The book is only a fire-side talk on the ideals and purposes held in common by those who belong to the friendly circle of the Allies, and is not intended to have diplomatic, economic or official significance. The Editors, however, have been honored by the approval of their plan, and have received invaluable assistance from diplomatists, statesmen and men of affairs in securing contributions otherwise inaccessible at the present time.
We wish to acknowledge (although we cannot adequately express our appreciation) the gift from the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES of his portrait, and his kind recognition of our desire to render an international service.
We are especially indebted to VISCOUNT ISHII, Special Ambassador from Japan to Washington, D. C., and to LORD NORTHCLIFFE, Chairman of the British War Mission, for their thoughtful and sympathetic articles written during days crowded with official duties.
We owe a debt of thanks to HIS EXCELLENCY, the ITALIAN AMBASSADOR, for the privilege of publishing for the first time in America, D'ANNUNZIO'S sonnet to GENERAL CADORNA; to THEIR EXCELLENCIES, the PORTUGUESE, GREEK, and CHINESE MINISTERS, for helpful suggestions and translations; to MR. WILLIAM PHILLIPS, ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF STATE; to MR. JOHN HAYS HAMMOND; to MR. JOHN LANE, MR. W. J. LOCKE, MRS. THEODORE McKENNA, all of London, England, who assembled our rich English contributions for us; to MR. WILLIAM DE LEFTWICH DODGE for the cover design, a rare and beautiful tribute to our defenders; to MR. MELVILLE E. STONE, without whose personal influence we could not have secured contributions from all of our Allies in so short a time; to MR. J. JEFFERSON JONES and MR. WILLIAM DANA ORCUTT, who have devoted time and thought without stint to the making of the book, and have given the committee the advantage of their technical knowledge and distinguished taste entirely as a patriotic service; to MISS LILIAN ELLIOTT for her many translations from Portuguese and Spanish writers; to MISS LA MONTAIGNE, CHAIRMAN of THE CARDINAL MERCIER FUND; to MR. TALCOTT WILLIAMS, MR. ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON, MR. DANIAL FROHMAN; to THE BRITISH WAR MISSION, THE FRIENDS OF FRANCE AND HER ALLIES COMMITTEE, and to THE RUSSIAN AND SERBIAN CIVIL RELIEF COMMITTEES. To ALL we give our heartfelt thanks.
This beautiful book is the expression of the eager desire of all of the gifted men and women who have contributed to it and of the members of the Militia of mercy to render homage to our sailors, soldiers, nurses and physicians who offer the supreme sacrifice to free the stricken people of other lands and to protect humanity with their bodies from an enemy who has invented the name and created the thing "welt-schmerz"—world anguish. But we want it do more than extol their heroism and sacrifice, we want The Defenders of Democracy to help them win the war. It has been the thought of those who planned the book to meet three things needful, not only to the army at the front, but to that vaster army at home who watch and work and wait (and perhaps we need it more than they who have the stimulus of action)—to strengthen the realization that our soldiers of sea and land, though far away, are fighting for a cause which is vitally near the heart of every man and every woman, and the soul of every nation—human freedom; "to forge the weapon of victory by fanning the flame of cheerfulness," and to be the means of lifting the burden of anxiety from those who go, lest their loved ones should suffer privation, bereft of their protecting care. So truly is this an Age of Service, that the response to the scope and spirit of our work was immediate and within four months from the day we sent our first request for co-operation in carrying out our plans, we had received the rich contributions contained in this book from men and women of letters and other arts, not only from our own generous country, but from our allies.
Perhaps the most difficult task fell to those who were asked not to write of the war but to practice the gentle art of cheering us all up—an art so easily lost in these days of sorrow, suspense and anxiety—yet we have received many delightful contributions in harmony with this request, and so the cheerful note, the finer optimism, recurs again and again, and is sustained to the last page.
Such a book is historic. It is a consecration of the highest gifts to the cause of human freedom and human fraternity. The Militia of Mercy, in expressing its gratitude to the men and women so greatly endowed who have made this book possible, trust they will find a rich reward in the thought that it will give both spiritual and material aid to those who are fighting in the great war.
The book will be sold for the benefit of the families of the men of the Naval Militia now in the Federal Service and taking part in sea warfare. John Lane Company have published the book at cost, so that the publisher's profits, as well as our own, will be given to the patriotic work of the Militia of Mercy.
It has been repeatedly said during the past year that America had not begun to feel the war. If America has not, how many Americans there are who have! We all know that the responsibilities and inequalities of war were felt first by our sailors. The whole outlook on life changed for many families of the Naval Militia the day after diplomatic relations with Germany were severed. Husbands, fathers and sons were called to service without any opportunity to provide for current expenses or to arrange for the future welfare of their loved ones. The burden of providing for the necessities of life fell suddenly, without warning, upon the wives and mothers of the civilian sailors. The world knew nothing of these cases, but the members of the Militia of Mercy who have visited the needy families, realize with what heroism, courage and self-sacrifice the women have done and are doing their part.
For those of us who look on, to help them is not charity, but opportunity for patriotic service to give a VERY LITTLE to those who are giving ALL THEY CHERISH and ALL THEY HOLD DEAR for the sake of human Liberty and Democracy.
Table of Contents
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
Gaston De Leval. Belgium and America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Belgian Advocate for Edith Cavell Emile Cammaerts. Good Old Bernstorff! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Belgian Poet
Tsa Yuan-Pei. The War in Europe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Chancellor of the Government University of Peking (Translation, Courtesy of the Chinese Minister)
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
Harriet Monroe. Sunrise over the Peristyle . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 American Poet, Chicago
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
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)
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
Eleutherios Venizelos. The Greek Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122 (Translation, with notes, by Caroll N. Brown)
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
Viscount K. Ishii. Japan's Ideals and Her Part in the Struggle . 137 Japanese Statesman, Special Ambassador to Washington, D.C., 1917
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
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
Achmed Abdullah. Roumania—An Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . 166 Novelist. Of the Family of the Ameer of Afghanistan
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)
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."
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.
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!
Bohemian Club, San Francisco 1915
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
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.
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.
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
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
NELSON DARTREY is seated at a writing table studying maps. He is a man in the early thirties, prematurely worn and old. His face is burned a deep brick color and is sharpened by fatigue and loss of blood. His hair is sparse, dry and turning gray. Around the upper part of his head is a bandage covered largely by a black skull-cap. Of over average height the man is spare and muscular. The eye is keen and penetrating: his voice abrupt and authoritative. An occasional flash of humor brings an old-time twinkle to the one and heartiness to the other. He is wearing the undress uniform of a major in the British army.
The door bell rings.
With an impatient ejaculation he goes into the passage and opens the outer door. Standing outside cheerfully humming a tune is a large, forceful, breezy young man of twenty-eight. He is DERMOD GILRUTH. Splendid in physique, charming of manner, his slightly-marked Dublin accent lends a piquancy to his conversation. He has all the ease and poise of a traveled, polished young man of breeding. Dartrey's face brightens as he holds out a welcoming hand.
(Saluting him as he laughs genially) May I come into officers' quarters?
I'm glad to have you. I'm quite alone with yours on my hands. (He brings Gilruth into the room and wheels a comfortable leather arm chair in front of him) Sit down.
Indeed I will not. Look at your desk there. I'll not interrupt your geography for more than a minute.
(Forces him into the chair) I'm glad to get away from it. Why, you look positively boyish.
And why not? I am a boy. (Chuckles)
What are you so pleased with yourself about?
The greatest thing in the world for youth and high-spirits. I'm going to be married next week.
(Incredulously) You're not?
I tell you I am.
Don't be silly.
What's silly about it?
Oh, I don't know.
Of course you don't know. You've never tried it.
I should think not.
Well, I'm going to and I want you to father me. Stand up beside me and see me through. Will you?
If you want me to.
Well, I do want you to.
You don't mind now?
My dear chap. It's charming of you to think of me.
I've known you longer than any one over here. And I like you better. So there you are.
(Laughing) Poor old Dermod! Well, well!
There's nothing to laugh at, or "well, well" about.
Do I know the—-?
(Shakes his head) She's never been over before. Everything will be new to her. I tell you it's going to be wonderful. I've planned out the most delightful trip through Ireland—she's Irish, too.
But, like me, born in America. She's crazy to see the old country.
She couldn't have a better guide.
(Enthusiastically) She's beautiful, she's brilliant: she's good—she's everything a man could wish.
That's the spirit. Will you make your home over here?
No. We'll stay till the autumn. Then I must go back to America. But some day when all this fighting is over and people talk of something besides killing each other I want to have a home in Ireland.
I suppose most of you Irishmen in America want to do that?
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.
My dear fellow—
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.
I want her to meet you first. A snug little dinner before the wedding. She's heard so much against the English I want her to see the best specimen they've got.
(Dartrey laughs heartily) I tell you if you pass muster with her you have the passport to Kingdom come. (Laughing as well as he grips Dartrey's hand) Good-by.
(As they walk to the door) When will it be?
Next Tuesday. I'll ring you up and give you the full particulars.
Church! Cathedral! His Eminence will officiate.
Well, you see, we Irish only marry once. So we make an occasion of it.
Splendid. I'll look forward to it.
(Looking at the bandage) Is your head getting all right?
Oh, dear, yes. It's quite healed up. I'll have this thing off in a day or two. (Touching the bandage) I expect to be back in a few weeks.
If ever a man had done his share, you have.
They need me. They need us all.
The third time.
There are many who have done the same.
(Shudders) How long will it last?
Until the Hun is beaten.
It looks like it. We've hardly begun yet. It will take a year to really get the ball rolling. Then things will happen. Tell me. How do they feel in America? Frankly.
All the people who matter are pro-Ally.
Are you sure?
Are you? Come, now.
Why, of course I am.
They may be pro-Ally, but they're not pro-English.
That's true. Many of them are not. But if ever the test comes, they will be.
(Shakes his head doubtfully) I wonder. It seems a pity not to bury all the Bunker-Hill and Boston-tea-chest prejudices.
You're right there.
Why your boys and girls are taught in their school-books to hate us.
In places they are. Now that I know the English a little I have been agitating to revisit them. It all seems so damned cheap and petty for a big country to belittle a great nation through the mouth of children.
There's no hatred like family hatred. After all we're cousins, speaking the same tongue and with pretty much the same outlook.
There's one race in America that holds back as strongly as it can any better understanding between the two countries, and that's my race—the Irish. And well I know it. I was brought up on it. There are men to-day, men of position too, in our big cities who have openly said they want to see England crushed in this war.
So I've heard. It would be a sorry day for the rest of civilization, and particularly America, if we were.
You can't convince them of that. They carry on the prejudices and hatred of generations. I have accused some of them of being actively pro-German; of tinkering with German money to foster revolution in Ireland.
Do you believe that?
I do. Thank God there are not many of them. I have accused them of taking German money and then urging the poor unfortunate poets and dreamers to do the revolting while they are safely three thousand miles away. I don't know of many who are willing to cross the water and do it themselves. Talking and writing seditious articles is safe. Take my own father. He says frankly that he doesn't want Germany to win because he hates Germans. Most Irishmen do. Besides they've done my father some very dirty tricks. But all the same he wants to see England lose. All the doubtful ones I know, who don't dare come out in the open, speak highly of the French and are silent when English is mentioned. I blame a great deal of that on your Government. You take no pains to let the rest of the world know what England is doing. You and I know that without the British fleet America wouldn't rest as easy as she does to-day, and without the little British army the Huns would have been in Paris and Calais months ago. We know that, and so do many others. But the great mass of people, particularly the Irish, cry all the time, "What is England doing?" Your government should see to it that they know what she's doing.
It's not headquarters' way.
I know it isn't. And the more's the pity. Another thing where you went all wrong. Why not have let Asquith clear up the Irish muddle? Why truckle to a handful of disloyal North of Ireland traitors? If the Government had court martialed the ring-leaders, tried the rest for treason and put the Irish Government in Dublin, why, man, three-quarters of the male population of the South of Ireland would be in the trenches now.
Don't let us get into that. I was one of the officers who mutinied. I would rather resign my commission than shoot down loyal subjects.
(Hotly) Loyal? Loyal! When they refused to carry out their Government's orders? When they deny justice to a long suffering people? Loyal! Don't prostitute the word.
(Angrily) I don't want to—-
(Going on vehemently) It's just that kind of pig-headed ignorance that has kept the two countries from understanding each other. Why shouldn't Ireland govern herself. South Africa does. Australia does. And when you're in trouble they leap to your flag. Yet there is a country a few miles from you that sends the best of her people to your professions and they invariably get to the top of them. Irishmen have commanded your armies and Ireland has given you admirals for your fleet and at least one of us has been your Lord Chief Justice. Yet, by God, they can't be trusted to govern themselves. I tell you the English treatment of Ireland makes her a laughing-stock of the world.
(Opens the door, then turns and looks straight at Gilruth) My head bothers me. Will you kindly—-
(All contrition) I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to blaze out. Do forgive me like a good fellow. It's an old sore of mine and sometimes it makes me wince. It did just now. Don't be mad with me.
(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.)
(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?
(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)
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)
(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)
She is buried.
(Nods) She is buried. In Kensal Green. Half an hour ago.
(In a whisper) They found her?
(Nods again) Picked up by some fishermen.
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.
(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'm going through Ireland first. Every town and village. It's our work now. It's Irishmen's work. All the Catholics will be in now. No more "conscientious-objecting." They can't. It's a war on women and little children. All right. No Irish-Catholic will rest easy; eat, sleep and go his days round after this. The call has gone out. America too. She'll come in. You watch. She can't stay out. She's founded on Liberty. She'll fight for it. You see. It's clean against unclean. Red blood against black filth. Carrion. Beasts. Swine.
(Drops into a chair mumbling incoherently. Takes a long breath; looks at Dartrey)
I'm selling out everything back home.
I'm not going back. I'm bringing everything over here. England, France, Russia, Belgium, Serbia—they can have it. All of it. They've suffered. Only now do I know how much. Only now.
(Fiercely) I want to tear them—tear them as they've torn me. As they mangled her.
(Grits his teeth and claws with his fingers) Tear them—that's what I want to do. May I live to do it. May the war never end until every dirty Prussian is rotting in his grave. Then a quick end for me, too. I've nothing now. Nothing.
(Gets up again wearily and dejectedly; all the blazing passion burnt out momentarily)
This was to have been my wedding-day; our wedding-day. Now she's lying there, done to death by Huns. A few days ago all youth and freshness and courage and love. Lying disfigured in her little coffin. I know what you meant now by wanting to go back for a third time. I couldn't understand it the other day. It seemed that every one should hate war. But you've seen them. You know them. And you want to destroy them. That's it. Destroy.... The call is all over the world by now. Civilization will be in arms.... To hell with your Pacifists. It's another name for cowards. They'd lose those nearest them: the honor of their women; the liberty of their people—and never strike a blow. To hell with them. It's where they should be. I was one of them. No more. Wherever I meet them I'll spit in their faces. They disgrace the women they were born of; the country they claim.... To hell with them.
(Tries to soothe him) You must try and get some grip on yourself.
(His fingers ceaselessly locking and unlocking) I'll be all right. It's a relief to talk to you. (Sees the preparations for Dartrey's departure) Are you off?
I envy you now. I wish I were going. But I will soon. Ireland first. I must have my say there. What will the "Sinn Feiners" say to the LUSITANIA murder? I want to meet some of them. What are our wrongs of generations to this horror? All humanity is at stake here. I'll talk to them. I must. They'll have to do something now or go down branded through the generations as Pro-German. Can a man have a worse epitaph? No decent Irishman will bear that; every loyal Irishman must loathe them.... I'll talk to them—soul to soul.... Sorry, Dartrey. You have your own sorrow.... Good of you to put up with me. Now I'll go....
(Goes to the door, stops, takes out wallet)
Just one thing. If it won't bother you.
(Tapping some papers)
I've mentioned you here.... If I don't come through—see to a few things for me. Will you? They're not much. Will you?
Of course I will.
(Simply) Thank you. You've always been decent to me.... Dartrey. To-day! You would have been my best man—and she's—
(Shaking him by the shoulders) Come, my man. Pull up.
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.
Keep in touch with me.
(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
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, a notre peuple qui passe, non sans raison, pour celebrer avec ferveur le culte des morts. N'est-ce pas en France, au dix-neuvieme siecle, qu'est nee cette philosophie qui met au rang des premiers devoirs de l'homme la reconnaissance envers les generations qui nous ont precedes dans la tombe, en nous laissant le fruit de leurs pensees et de leurs travaux? Certes la religion des ancetres est de tous les temps et de tous les climats; elle est meme 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 a la fois et plus intimes? Chez nous, d'ordinaire, les defunts aimes et veneres ne quittent pas tout entiers le foyer ou ils vecu; ils y respirent dans le coeur de ceux qui demeurent; ils y sont imites, consultes, ecoutes.
Je me rappelle trop confusement pour en faire usage ici une scene tres belle d'une vieille chanson de geste, GIRART DE ROUSILLON, je crois, ou l'on voit une fille de roi contempler, la nuit, apres une bataille, la plaine ou gisent les guerriers innombrables tomber pour sa querelle. "Elle eut voulu, dit le poete, les embrasser tous." Et, du fond de mes tres lointains souvenirs, cette royale fille m'apparait comme une image de notre France pleurant aujourd'hui la fleur de sa race abondamment moissonnee.
Aussi n'est-ce pas pour exhorter mes concitoyens a commemorer en ce jour nos morts selon un usage immemorial, que j'ecris ces lignes, mais pour honorer avec notre peuple tout entier ceux qui lui ont sacrifie leur vie at pour mediter la lecon qu'ils nous donnent du fond de leur demeures profondes.
Et tout d'abord, a la memoire des notres, associons pieusement la memoire des braves qui ont verse leur sang sous tous les etendards de l'Alliance, depuis les canaux de l'Yser jusqu'aux rives de la Vistule, depuis les montagnes du Frioul jusqu'aux defiles de la Morava, et sur les vastes mers.
Puis, offrons les fleurs les plus nobles palmes aux innocentes victimes d'une atroce cruaute, aux femmes, aux enfants martyrs, a cette jeune infirmiere anglaise, coupable seulement de generosite et dont l'assassinat a souleve d'indignation tout l'univers.
Et nos morts, nos morts bien aimes! Que la patrie reconnaissante ouvre assez grand son coeur pour les contenir tous, les plus humbles comme les plus illustres, les heros tombes avec gloire a 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 benis! Ils n'ont pas fait en vain le sacrifice de leur vie. Glorieusement frappes en Artois, en Champagne, en Argonne, ils ont arrete l'envahisseur qui n'a pu faire un pas de plus en avant sur la terre sacree 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 bouleversee par la mitraille ou beaucoup d'entre eux dorment dans leurs vetements ensanglantes. Agenouillons-nous dans le cimetiere, au bords des tombes fleuries de ceux qui sont revenus dans le doux pays, et la, entendons le souffle imperceptible et puissant qu'ils melent, la nuit, au murmure du vent et au bruissement des feuilles qui tombent. Efforcons-nous de comprendre leur parole sainte. Ils disent:
FRERES, vivez, combattez, achevez notre ouvrage. Apportez la victoire et la paix a nos ombres consolees. Chassez l'etranger qui a deja recule devant nous, et ramenez vos charrues dans les champs qui nous avons imbibes de notre sang.