repeatedly and violently condemned by Americans as American traits. The insertion of an r before a vowel, as in the expressions 'the lawr of the land,' 'the idear of it,' has been described as an American fault. The teachers of the New York schools have found this 'unhistoric r' flourishing among the rising generation; there has been frequent notice and complaint of it in the metropolitan newspapers; and the outcry has become general. But, as is often the case in matters of language, the outcry is loudest among those who are totally ignorant of the reasons for the origin and spread of this sound, and consequently most incompetent to suggest any means of eradicating it.

The first references to this rhotacism consist of attacks upon the extension of the practice in England in the early part of the last century. Its rise was contemporaneous with that of the weakening of r before a consonant, and though at first regarded as a vulgarism, it generally became so wide-spread that in 1891 a well-known phonetician wrote: 'As far as I can observe among educated Southerners [in England, of course], about nine tenths of the men and half of the women introduce this r.' The most defamatory of critics could not bring the same accusation against the United States. It may well be remarked that 'drawering' and 'I sawr it' are rarely, if ever, used by persons who do not at the same time rhyme 'morn' with 'dawn.' The phenomenon is precisely similar to that by which the h is inserted promiscuously in cockney English after the correct sense of it has been lost by omitting it where it rightfully belongs. Whether this intruder will remain a permanent visitor and spread to more than one section of the country, depends entirely on our ability to distinguish between ah and r, and to avoid the confusion which has followed upon its banishment from its

rightful domain. And if we succeed in this in America, it will be only because the appearance of this r is much later, and its prevalence much less general, in this country than in England.

Even more cacophonous to some ears than this insertion of r is the omission of h in such words as when, where, and while. One severe critic classes wen along with gal and bilin', as Americanisms having a 'distinct odor of tobacco-chewing about them.' Doubtless each one of us can think of respectable persons of both sexes who consistently omit the h in when and are nevertheless far from using the 'vile weed' as a means of maxillary exercise. Whether it be regarded as an odious vulgarism or as a natural phonetic development, it cannot properly be designated an American fault. Even in the late eighteenth century the h was generally silent in England.. To-day the pronunciations hwen and hwere are so uncommon among educated Englishmen as to be often considered harsh or dialectal. If Englishmen are to be held up as models because of their freedom from laxity of speech, it is certainly strange that the very errors which have been ignorantly condemned as peculiarly American should happen to be those in which England herself is the worst offender.

IV

When one reads Henry James on The Question of Our Speech, one despairs of our American pronunciation. The novelist appears to have exhausted his vocabulary of uncomplimentary epithets (and it is a very large one) in describing it. One imagines that the American people treat the English language with as much pernicious unconcern as the English treat it with circumspection. It is therefore surprising and somewhat comforting to find in a treatise On the Present State of English

Pronunciation by the newly appointed poet-laureate a severe criticism of the growing slovenliness in pronunciation and the general decadence of pure speaking in England. If the influx of vast hordes of foreigners is wholly accountable for the corruption of the language in this country, it is remarkable that a condition of affairs quite as disturbing has arisen in England without their assistance. Now, it would be unwise to assert that we speak the English tongue with as much perfection as we might or ought to speak it. But the remedy surely does not lie in endeavoring to anglicize our pronunciation, because the faults as well as the merits of the two countries are different.

Still another argument might be brought forward for adopting such British pronunciations as differ from our own. If any one language should ever become universally used as a medium of intercourse, none, seems more likely to attain that position than that which we possess in common. No other language has had so extraordinary a growth. From a scant five million in 1500 it has become the language of over one hundred and twenty-five million people. Unquestionably one of the greatest dangers to a further extension of English would be a lack of uniformity in the two powerful nations speaking it. But when reformers of pronunciation urge us to embrace unnatural pronunciations because they believe the present differences sufficient to develop into a hindrance to the universality of English, they forget two things. One, which they never remember, is the utter impossibility of making such revolutionary changes at will. The other is the very important fact that, after all, the greatest difference between English and American speech is not a matter of pronunciation but of intonation. It is a difference much more difficult to define, but it is nev

ertheless that which contributes most of all to the strangeness of the English 'accent,' as it is popularly called. Unfortunately for the seekers after linguistic unity and concord, it is almost impossible for an individual to imitate these speech-tones. No one has, as yet, made so absurd a proposal as that of forcing them upon a nation. It is unlikely that any one will. But in view of the possibility, it may be well to suggest that it would be somewhat less absurd, though more heretical, for the English to conform to our mode of speech than for the larger nation to conform to that of the smaller.

The most fervent of Anglomaniacs have scarcely demanded that we accept in every particular the pronunciations which prevail in England. On the contrary, the method of most has been so eclectic that they might be suspected of sheltering behind the bugbear of an English standard the pronunciations approved by their own caprice. If English bean seems to them more richly euphonious than the simple American bin, nothing will vindicate their position more than the declaration that the speech of England is necessarily the standard of America. The time will come when such dogmatic assertions will no longer be received with reverent submission. Of course the majority of educated Americans have never, and will never, consciously imitate the English. They have nevertheless been taught that in not doing so they are violating the purity of the language.

Perhaps there will always be people so uninformed as to desire to adopt a foreign standard of pronunciation. But those of us who prefer not to make so complete a change in our mode of speech may at least have the satisfaction of knowing that we have an unquestionable right to the pronunciation natural to ourselves.

I

WHEN the war began, certain writers, notably Mr. H. G. Wells, exhilarated by the romance of great events, and yet believing themselves to be lovers of peace, invented the theory that this was 'a war to end war.' Both in England and in Germany, men who have professed a horror of war, but who do not wish it thought that they oppose this war, have argued that their own country is notorious for its love of peace, of which it has given repeated proofs laying it open to the charge of weakness; but that it has been attacked by unscrupulous enemies, and must quell their ruthless pride before the world can be relieved from the dread of war. This language is not insincere, but is the result of a very superficial analysis of the events and passions which led up to the conflict. Such an analysis, if allowed to pass unchallenged, is dangerous, since it leaves untouched all the misjudgment, suspicion, and pride out of which future wars, equally devastating, may be expected to grow in the course of the years. Something more than the mere victory of one party is necessary for a secure peace, and something deeper than a belief in the enemy's wickedness is necessary if the nations are to move toward that goal. I shall attempt first an analysis of the causes of modern war, and then a discussion of means of preventing future wars between civilized states.

The present war springs from the rivalry of states. And the rivalry of

states springs from certain erroneous beliefs, inspired and encouraged by pride and fear, and embodied in a political machinery intended to make the power of a state quick, effective, and terrible. If wars between civilized states are to cease, these beliefs must be seen to be mistaken, pride must take a different form, fear must become groundless, and the machinery of international relations must no longer be designed solely for rivalry.

In surveying the larger causes of the war, we may leave altogether out of account the diplomacy of the last fortnight in July. Since the conclusion of the Anglo-French entente in 1904 the war had been on the point of breaking out, and could have been avoided only by some radical change in the temper of nations and governments. The annexation of Alsace-Lorraine had caused a profound estrangement between France and Germany. Russia and Germany became enemies through the PanSlavist agitation, which threatened the Austrian influence in the Balkans and even the very existence of the Austro-Hungarian State. Finally, the German determination to build a powerful navy drove England into the arms of Russia and France. Our differences with those two countries were suddenly discovered to be unimportant, and were amicably arranged without any difficulty. By a treaty whose important articles were kept secret, the French withdrew their opposition to our occupation of Egypt, and we undertook to support them in acquiring Morocco,

a bargain which, from our own point of view, had the advantage of reviving the hostility between France and Germany at a time when there seemed a chance of its passing away. As regards Russia, our deep-rooted suspicions of its Asiatic designs were declared groundless, and we agreed to the independence of Tibet and the partition of Persia, in return for an acknowledgment of our suzerainty in Afghanistan. Both these arrangements show that, if good-will and reason presided over international affairs, an adjustment of differences might have been made at any time; as it is, nothing but fear of Germany sufficed to persuade us of the uselessness of our previous hostility to France and Russia.

No sooner had this grouping of the European powers been brought about than the Entente and the Alliance began a diplomatic game of watchful manoeuvring against each other. Russia suffered a blow to her pride in the Austrian annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina; Germany felt humiliated by having to acknowledge, though with compensation, the French occupation of Morocco. The first Balkan War was a gain to Russia; the second afforded some consolation to Austria. And so the game went on, with recurring crises and alternate diplomatic victories, first for one side, then for the other.

In all this struggle, no one on either side thought for a moment of the welfare of the smaller nations which were the pawns in the struggle. The fact that Morocco appealed to Germany for protection against French aggression was not held to put England and France in the wrong. The fact that the Persians the intellectual aristocracy of the Moslem world had freed themselves from the corrupt government of the Shah and were becoming liberal and parliamentary, was not regarded as any reason why their northern

prov

inces should not be devastated by Cossacks and their southern regions occupied by the British. The fact that the Turks had for ages displayed a supremacy in cruelty and barbarism by torturing and degrading the Christians under their rule was no reason why Germany should not, like England in former times, support their tottering despotism by military and financial assistance. All considerations of humanity and liberty were subordinated to the great game: first one side threatened war, then the other; at last both threatened at once, and the patient populations, incited cynically by lies and claptrap, were driven on to the blind work of butchery.

A world where such cruel absurdities are possible is not to be put right by a mere treaty of peace. War between civilized states is both wicked and foolish, and it will not cease until either the wickedness or the folly is understood by those who direct the policy of nations. Most men do not mind being wicked, and the few who do have learned ways of persuading themselves that they are virtuous. But, except in moments of passion, men do mind being foolish. There is more hope of preventing war in future by persuading men of its folly than by urging its wickedness. To a dispassionate observation its folly is evident, but most observation is not dispassionate: unconsciously men tend to adopt the opinions which will justify them in indulging their passions. Just as a libertine, in order to excuse himself, comes to think that the women have no deep feelings, so a militant patriot comes to think that the interests of his country are vitally opposed to those of some other country, in order that he may have an opportunity to indulge pride, the desire for triumph, and the lust of dominion. What the pacifist has to contend against is a system of false beliefs,

inspired by unrecognized evil passions which are thought to be justified by the beliefs. If the beliefs are seen to be false, there is some hope that the passions may be recognized as evil. And the falsehood of the belief in the essential conflict of interests between nations is easily recognized by any candid mind.

Among men, as among all gregarious animals, there are two kinds of economic relation: coöperation and competition. There is coöperation when the activities which the one undertakes in his own interest tend to benefit the other; there is competition when they tend to injure the other. Neither coöperation nor competition need be conscious; it is not even necessary that either should be aware of the existence of the other. But in so far as they are conscious, they bring into play quite different sets of feelings. On the one side we have affection, loyalty, gratitude; on the other, fear, hatred, triumph. The emotions out of which war springs result from a combination of the two groups: they are the emotions appropriate to coöperation against a common competitor. In the modern world, where men are grouped by states, these conditions are summed up in patriotism.

Coöperation and competition have governed the lives of our ancestors since the days before they were human, and in the course of the struggle for existence our emotional nature has developed so as to respond deeply and instinctively to these ancient stimuli. There is in all men a disposition to seek out occasions for the exercise of instinctive feelings, and it is this disposition rather than any inexorable economic or physical fact, which is at the bottom of enmities between nations. The conflicts of interest are invented to afford an excuse for feelings of hostility; but as the invention is unconVOL. 115-NO. 3

scious, it is supposed that the hostility is brought about by some real conflict of interest.

The cause of this absence of harmony between our instincts and our real needs is the modern development of industry and commerce. In a savage community, where each family lives by its own labor, there is no occasion for peaceful coöperation in any group larger than the family. But there is often occasion for warlike coöperation: if all the members of some other tribe can be killed, it is possible to appropriate their hunting-grounds and their pastures. In such a state of things, war is profitable to the victors, and the vanquished leave no descendants. The human race is descended from a long line of victors in war; for, although there have been just as many vanquished, they failed in early days to leave any posterity. The feelings which men now have on the subject of war and international relations are feelings which were in agreement with facts, so far as the victors were concerned, in those primitive internecine combats of savage tribes. But in the modern world our economic organization is more civilized than our emotions, and the conflicts in which we indulge do not really offer that prospect of gain which lets loose the brute within us. The brute within us refuses to face this disappointing fact, and turns upon those who bring it forward with savage accusations of unmanliness or lack of patriotism. But it remains a fact none the less.

The international character of our economic organization is due to division of labor, taking partly the form of exchange, partly the form of multiplying stages in production. Consider some quite simple example: say a loaf of bread baked in Holland from Argentine wheat grown by the help of English agricultural machinery made from