advance toward assured peaceful relations between nations.'

With this sea of sentiment billowing about us, and with Nobel prizes dropping like gentle rain from Heaven upon thirsty peace-lovers, how should we read the signs of war, written in the language of artillery? It is true that President Nicholas Murray Butler, speaking in behalf of the Carnegie Peace Foundation, observed musingly in November, 1913, that there was no visible interest displayed by any foreign government, or by any responsible foreign statesman, in the preparations for the Third Hague Conference, scheduled for 1915; but this was not a matter for concern. It was more interesting to read about the photographs of 'educated and humane men and women,' which the 'World Conferences for Promoting Concord between all Divisions of Mankind' (a title that leaves nothing, save grammar, to be desired) proposed collecting in a vast and honored album for the edification of the peaceful earth.

II

And all this time England - England, with her life at stake - shared our serene composure. Lord Salisbury, indeed, and Lord Roberts cherished no illusions concerning Germany's growing power and ultimate intentions. But then, Lord Roberts was a soldier; and Lord Salisbury, though outwitted in the matter of Heligoland, had that quality of mistrust which is always so painful in a statesman. The English press preferred, on the whole, to reflect the opinions of Lord Haldane. They were amiable and soothing. Lord Haldane knew the Kaiser, and deemed him a friendly man. Had he not cried harder than anybody else at Queen Victoria's funeral? Lord Haldane had translated Schopenhauer, and could afford

to ignore Treitschke. None of the German professors with whom he was on familiar terms were of the Treitschke mind. They were all friendly men. It is true that Germany, far from talking platitudes about peace, has for years past defined with amazing lucidity and candor her doctrine that might is right. She is strong, brave, needy, she has what is called in urbane language 'the instinct for empire,' and she follows implicitly

The good old rule, the simple plan, That they should take, who have the power, And they should keep, who can. It was forlornly amusing to see a month or two ago our book-shops filled with cheap copies of General von Bernhardi's war-inspiring volume; to open a newspaper, and find column upon column of quotation from it; to read a magazine, and hear all the critics discussing it. That book was published in 1911, and the world (outside of Germany, which took its text to heart) remained 'more than usual calm.' Its forcible and closely knit argument is defined and condensed in one pregnant sentence: "The notion that a weak nation has the same right to live as a powerful nation is a presumptuous encroachment on the natural law of development.'

This is something different from the babbling of peace-day orators; and being now on the safe side of prophecy we wag our heads over the amazing exactitude with which General von Bernhardi outlined Germany's impending war. But there was at least one English student and observer, Professor J. A. Cramb of Queen's College, London, who gave clear and unheeded warning of the fast-deepening peril, and of the life-or-death struggle which England would be compelled to face. Step by step he traced the expansion of German nationalism, which since 1870 has never swerved from its stern mili

- not one

tary ideals. A reading people, the Germans. Yes, and in a single year they published seven hundred books dealing with war as a science, of them written for a prize! If the weakness of Germany lies in her assumption that there is no such thing as honor or integrity in international relations, her strength lies in her reliance on her own unaided and carefully measured efficiency. Her contempt for other nations has kept pace with the distrust she inspires.

The graceful remark of a Prussian official to Matthew Arnold, 'It is not so much that we dislike England, as that we think little of her,' was the expression of a genuine Teutonic sentiment. So, too, is General von Bernhardi's characteristic sneer at the childlike' confidence reposed by Mr. Elihu Root and his friends in the Hague High Court of International Justice, with public opinion at its back. Of what worth, he asks, is law that cannot be converted by force into government? What is the weight of opinion, unsupported by the glint of arms? Professor Cramb, seeing in Bernhardi, and in his great master, Treitschke, the inspiration of their country's high ambition, told England in the plainest words he could command that just as the old German Imperialism began with the destruction of Rome, so would the new German Imperialism begin with the destruction of England; and that if Englishmen dreamed of security from attack, they were destined to a terrible and bloody awakening. Happily for himself, since he was a man too old and ill to fight, he died nine months before the fulfillment of his prophecy.

Now that the inevitable has come to pass, now that the armaments are being put to the use for which they were always intended, and the tale of battle is too terrible to be told, press and pul

pit are calling Christianity to account for its failure to preserve peace. Ethical societies are reminding us, with something which sounds like elation, that they have long pointed out 'the relaxed hold of doctrine on the minds of the educated classes.' How they love that phrase, 'educated classes,' and what, one wonders, do they mean by it? A Jewish rabbi, speaking in Carnegie hall, laments, or rejoices, it is hard to tell which, that Christian Churches are not taken, and do not take themselves, seriously. Able editors comment in military language upon the inability of religious forces to 'mobilize' rapidly and effectively in the interests of peace; and turn out neat phrases like 'anti-Christian Christendom,' which are very effective in editorials. Popular preachers, too broadminded to submit to clerical authority, deliver 'syndicated sermons,' denouncing the creeds of the Dark Ages,' which still, in these electricity-lighted days, pander to war. Worse than all, troubled men, seeing the world suddenly bereft of justice and of mercy, lose courage, and whisper in the silence of their own sad hearts, 'There is no God.'

Meanwhile, the assaulted churches take, as is natural, somewhat conflicting views of the situation. Roman Catholics seem disposed to think that the persecutions of the Church in France are bearing bitter fruit; and at least one American Cardinal has spoken of the war as God's punishment for this offence. But if the Almighty appointed Belgium to be the whipping boy for the sins of France, we shall have to revise our notions of divine justice and beneficence. Belgium is the most Catholic country in Europe. Hundreds of the priests and nuns expelled from France found shelter within its frontiers. But if it were as stoutly Lutheran or Calvinistic, it would be none the

less innocent of France's misdemeanors. Moreover, it is worthy of note that French priests, far from moralizing over the situation, have rallied to their country's call. The bugbear, 'clerical peril,' has dropped out of sight. In its place are confidence on the one side, and unstinted devotion on the other. Exiled monks have returned to fight in the French army. Abbés have served as sergeants and ensigns, dying as cheerfully as other men in the monotonous carnage on the Aisne. Wounded priests have shrived their wounded comrades on the battlefield. Everywhere the clergy are playing manly and patriotic parts, forgetting what wrong was done them, remembering what name they bear.

England, with more precision, outlined her views in the manifesto issued September 29, and designed as a reply to those German theologians who had asked English 'Evangelical Christians' to hold back their hands from bloodshed. The manifesto was signed by Bishops and Archbishops of the Church of England, and by leading Nonconformists, all of whom found themselves for once in heartfelt amity. It is a plainspoken document, declaring that truth and honor (it might have added safety) are better things than peace; and that Christian England endorses without reservation the rightness of the war. One of the signers, the Bishop of London, is chaplain to the London Rifle Brigade. No doubt about his sentiments. The words of another, the Archbishop of York, are simple, sincere, and pleasantly free from patronage of the Almighty. 'I dare to say that we can carry this cause without shame or misgiving into the presence of Him who is the Judge of the whole earth, and ask Him to bless it.'

As for Germany, it may be, as some enthusiasts assert, that her 'creative power in religion,' keeping pace with

her 'genius for empire,' will turn her out a brand-new faith, the 'world-faith' foreseen by Treitschke, a religion of valor and of unceasing effort. Or it may be that the God of her fathers will content her, seeing that she leaves Him so little to do. Like Cromwell, who was a religious man (his thanksgiving for the massacre at Drogheda was as heartfelt as any offered by the Kaiser, or by the Kaiser's grandfather), Germany keeps her powder dry.

Christianity and war have walked together down the centuries. How could it be otherwise? We have to reckon with humanity, and humanity is not made over every hundred years. Science has multiplied instruments of destruction, but the heart of the soldier is the same. It is an anachronism, this human heart, just as war is an anachronism, but it still beats. Nothing sacred and dear could have survived upon the earth had men not fought for their women, their homes, their individual honor, and their national life. And while men stay men, they must give up their lives when the hour strikes. How shall they believe that, dying on the frontiers of their invaded countries, or at the gates of their besieged towns, they sin against the law of Christ?

Heroism is good for the soul, and it bears as much practical fruit as lawmaking. It goes further in moulding and developing the stuff of which a great nation is made. "There is a flower of honor, there is a flower of chivalry, there is a flower of religion.' So SainteBeuve equips the spirit of man; and the soldier, no less than the civilian, cherishes this threefold bloom. Because he 'lives dangerously,' he feels the need of God. Because his life is forfeit, there is about him the dignity of sacrifice. Anna Robeson Burr, in her volume on The Autobiography, quotes an illustrative passage from the Commentaries of

that magnificent fighter and admirable commentator, Blaise de Monluc, maréchal de France. 'Que je me trouve, en voyant les ennemis, en telle peur que je sentois le cœur et les membres s'affoiblir et trembler. Puis, ayant dit mes petites prières latines, je sentois tout-à-coup venir un chaleur au cœur et aux membres.'

'Petites prières latines!' A monkish patter. And this was a man belonging to the 'educated classes,' and a citizen of the world. Sully in his memoirs tells us that at the siege of Montmélian, a cannon shot struck the ground close to the spot where he and the king were standing, showering upon them earth and little flint stones; whereupon Henry swiftly and unconsciously made the sign of the cross. 'Now I know,' said the delighted Sully, — himself an unswerving Protestant, now I know -'now I know that you are a good Catholic.'

We must always reckon with humanity, unless, indeed, we are orators, living in a world of words, and marshaling unconquerable theories against unconquered facts. The French priest at Soissons who distributed to the Turcos little medals of the Blessed Virgin may not have been an advanced thinker, but he displayed a pleasant acquaintance with mankind. There was no time to explain to these unbelievers the peculiar efficacy of the medals; for that he trusted to Our Lady; but their presentation was a link between the Catholic soldier and the Moslem, who were fighting side by side for France. Perhaps this priest remembered that close at hand, in the hamlet of St. Médard, lie the relics of Saint Sebastian, Christian gentleman and martyr, who was an officer in the imperial bodyguard of Diocletian, rendering to Cæsar the service that was Cæsar's, until the hour came for him to render to God the life that was always God's.

Testament affords no vindication of war, which is natural enough, not being penned as a manual for nations. But Catholic theology, having been called on very early to pronounce judgment upon this recurrent incident of life, has defined with absolute exactitude what, in the eyes of the Church, justifies, and what necessitates, war. From a mass of minute detail, - laws laid down by Saint Thomas Aquinas and other doctors of the Church, I venture to quote two salient points, the first dealing with the nature of a right, the second with the nature of a title.

'Every perfect right, that is, every right involving in others an obligation in justice of deference thereto, if it is to be an efficacious, and not an illusory power, carries with it as a last appeal the subsidiary right of coercion. A perfect right, then, implies the right of physical force to defend itself against infringement, to recover the subjectmatter of right unjustly withheld, or to exact its equivalent, and to inflict damage in the exercise of this coercion, wherever coercion cannot be exercised without such damage.'

"The primary title of a state to go to war is, first, the fact that the state's rights are menaced by foreign aggression not otherwise to be prevented than by war; second, the fact of actual violation of right not otherwise reparable; third, the need of punishing the threatening or invading power for the security of the future. From the nature of the proved right, those three facts are necessarily just titles, and the state whose rights are in jeopardy is itself the judge thereof.'

I am aware that theology is not popular, save with theologians; but after reading Treitschke and Bernhardi on the one hand, and the addresses delivered at 'peace demonstrations' on the other, it is inexpressibly refreshing to

crooked thought, or words that hold no thought at all. I am also aware that Catholic wars have not always been waged along the lines laid down by Catholic theology; but this is beside the point. The Mosaic law was not the less binding upon the Jews because they were always breaking it. Nor are we prepared to say that they would have been as sound morally without a law so constantly infringed. It is well to know that, even in the spirit, there is such a thing as justice and admitted right.

To prate about the wickedness of war without drawing a clear line of demarcation between aggressive and defensive warfare, between violating a treaty and upholding it, is to lose our mental balance, to substitute sentiment for truth. The very wrongness of the one implies logically the rightness of the other. And whatever is morally right is in accord with Christianity. To speak loosely of war as unchristian is to ignore not only the Christian right, but the Christian duty, which rests with every nation and with every man to protect that of which nation and man are lawful protectors. Even aggressive warfare is not necessarily a denial of the Christianity it affronts. Crooked thinking comes naturally to men, and the power of self-deception is without bounds. God is not deceived; but the instinctive desire of the creature to hoodwink the Creator, to induce Him for a consideration to compound a felony, is revealed in every page of history, and under every aspect of civilization. The necessity which man has always felt of being on speaking terms with his own conscience built churches and abbeys in the days of faith, and endows educational institutions in this day of enlightenment; but it very imperfectly controlled, or controls, the actions of men or of nations. If our confidence in the future were not

based upon ignorance of the past, we should better understand, and more courageously face, the harsh realities of life.

III

Two lessons taught by the war are easily learned. There is no safety in talk, and there is no assurance that the world's heritage of beauty, its triumphs of art and of architecture, will descend to our children and our grandchildren. We never reckoned on this loss of our common inheritance. We never thought that the gracious gifts made by the far past to the dim future could be so gleefully destroyed, and that a single day would suffice to impoverish all coming generations. What can the pedantry, the 'culture,' of the twentieth century give to compensate us for the loss of Rheims Cathedral? The deficit is too heavy to be counted. Not France alone, but the civilized world, has been robbed beyond measure and beyond retrievement. Life is less good to all of us, and will be less good to those who come after us, because this great sacrilege has been committed. As for culture, — the careful destruction of the University of Louvain proves once and forever that scholarship is no more sacred than art or than religion when the tide of invasion breaks upon a doomed and helpless land.

This affords food for thought. Italy, for example, is the treasure-house of the world. She is the guardian of the beauty she created, and to her shrine goes all mankind in pilgrimage. How long would her cathedrals, her palaces, her galleries, survive assault? What would be left of Venice after a week's bombardment? What of Florence, or of Rome? Nor can Italy dare to hope for protection in neutrality, that neutrality which is in itself an offense. Attacked, she must either make craven