Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

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

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.

DARTREY

Hello, Gil.

GILRUTH

(Saluting him as he laughs genially) May I come into officers' quarters?

DARTREY

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.

GILRUTH

Indeed I will not. Look at your desk there. I'll not interrupt your geography for more than a minute.

DARTREY

(Forces him into the chair) I'm glad to get away from it. Why, you look positively boyish.

GILRUTH

And why not? I am a boy. (Chuckles)

DARTREY

What are you so pleased with yourself about?

GILRUTH

The greatest thing in the world for youth and high-spirits. I'm going to be married next week.

DARTREY

(Incredulously) You're not?

GILRUTH

I tell you I am.

DARTREY

Don't be silly.

GILRUTH

What's silly about it?

DARTREY

Oh, I don't know.

GILRUTH

Of course you don't know. You've never tried it.

DARTREY

I should think not.

GILRUTH

Well, I'm going to and I want you to father me. Stand up beside me and see me through. Will you?

DARTREY

If you want me to.

GILRUTH

Well, I do want you to.

DARTREY

All right.

GILRUTH

You don't mind now?

DARTREY

My dear chap. It's charming of you to think of me.

GILRUTH

I've known you longer than any one over here. And I like you better. So there you are.

DARTREY

(Laughing) Poor old Dermod! Well, well!

GILRUTH

There's nothing to laugh at, or "well, well" about.

DARTREY

Do I know the---?

GILRUTH

(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.

DARTREY

Is she?

GILRUTH

But, like me, born in America. She's crazy to see the old country.

DARTREY

She couldn't have a better guide.

GILRUTH

(Enthusiastically) She's beautiful, she's brilliant: she's good--she's everything a man could wish.

DARTREY

That's the spirit. Will you make your home over here?

GILRUTH

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.

DARTREY

I suppose most of you Irishmen in America want to do that?

GILRUTH

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

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.

DARTREY

(As they walk to the door) When will it be?

GILRUTH

Next Tuesday. I'll ring you up and give you the full particulars.

DARTREY

In church?

GILRUTH

Church! Cathedral! His Eminence will officiate.

DARTREY

Topping.

GILRUTH

Well, you see, we Irish only marry once. So we make an occasion of it.

DARTREY

Splendid. I'll look forward to it.

GILRUTH

(Looking at the bandage) Is your head getting all right?

DARTREY

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.

GILRUTH

(Anxiously) Again?

DARTREY

Yes.

GILRUTH

If ever a man had done his share, you have.

DARTREY

They need me. They need us all.

GILRUTH

The third time.

DARTREY

There are many who have done the same.

GILRUTH

(Shudders) How long will it last?

DARTREY

Until the Hun is beaten.

GILRUTH

Years, eh?

DARTREY

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.

GILRUTH

All the people who matter are pro-Ally.

DARTREY

Are you sure?

GILRUTH

I'm positive.

DARTREY

Are you? Come, now.

GILRUTH

Why, of course I am.

DARTREY

They may be pro-Ally, but they're not pro-English.

GILRUTH

That's true. Many of them are not. But if ever the test comes, they will be.

DARTREY

(Shakes his head doubtfully) I wonder. It seems a pity not to bury all the Bunker-Hill and Boston-tea-chest prejudices.

GILRUTH

You're right there.

DARTREY

Why your boys and girls are taught in their school-books to hate us.

GILRUTH

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.

DARTREY

There's no hatred like family hatred. After all we're cousins, speaking the same tongue and with pretty much the same outlook.

GILRUTH

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.

DARTREY

So I've heard. It would be a sorry day for the rest of civilization, and particularly America, if we were.

GILRUTH

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.

DARTREY

Do you believe that?

GILRUTH

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.

DARTREY

It's not headquarters' way.

GILRUTH

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.

DARTREY

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.

GILRUTH

(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.

DARTREY

(Angrily) I don't want to---

GILRUTH

(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.

DARTREY

(Opens the door, then turns and looks straight at Gilruth) My head bothers me. Will you kindly---

GILRUTH

(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.)

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)

She is buried.

DARTREY

What?

GILRUTH

(Nods) She is buried. In Kensal Green. Half an hour ago.

DARTREY

(In a whisper) They found her?

GILRUTH

(Nods again) Picked up by some fishermen.

DARTREY

Queenstown?

GILRUTH

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'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.

DARTREY

Why?

GILRUTH

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.

DARTREY

(Tries to soothe him) You must try and get some grip on yourself.

GILRUTH

(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?

DARTREY

Yes. To-night.

GILRUTH

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?

DARTREY

Of course I will.

GILRUTH

(Simply) Thank you. You've always been decent to me.... Dartrey. To-day! You would have been my best man--and she's--

DARTREY

(Shaking him by the shoulders) Come, my man. Pull up.

GILRUTH

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.