complete and insufficiently supplied. Japan cannot much longer bear the burden of large armaments without courting bankruptcy. If Japan ever is to challenge this nation on the crucial issues that lie between them, this to her seems to be a Godsent occasion.

There is a peaceful party in Japan, of course, which from conviction or timidity or caution or doubt is disinclined or hesitates to take such a plunge, with the consequent risk. This party has consistently opposed the nation's extraordinary armament program, and advocates a national policy based on trade and international mutuality. But this party has lost every test of strength with the imperial militarists. It does not control the policy of the Government at present, and it does not represent the inner sentiment of the Japanese nation.

Thinking Americans must begin to perceive that hereafter a policy of international isolation for our nation will be neither possible nor desirable. Our geographical isolation has been destroyed by time and science; our political and diplomatic isolation therefrom inevitably ceases, too. Since we cannot escape the effects of forces loose in the world, we must in self-interest, if no higher obligation is invoked, take part in regulating them. This means that no major international alliance or entente can hereafter be formed without it directly affecting our national interests and security; and a corollary of this proposition is that we probably will be forced into alliances or ententes ourselves. That condition should be squarely faced, and whatever we do or do not do by way of armaments should be predicated in some coördination of practical conditions in the world with our own national position and ambitions.

For instance, Americans cannot be unconcerned about the Anglo-Japanese Alliance and what it really means, for recent experience has again enforced the lesson that treaties may mean anything except what is written in them. There is much in constructions put by both nations on that alliance in the last few years to cause

uneasiness to the United States. Yet I do not especially blame Great Britain for that. If an American reproaches a British subject with having sacrificed principles to certain expediencies of the Anglo-Japanese alliance, the Britisher can reply, with justice, that in the far East the refusal or failure of the United States to supply its quota of police power, and its consistent diplomatic support to a definite entente organized to sustain the open door in China and to suppress trouble-making ambitions of some nations there, have driven Great Britain to make what combinations she could. In the eyes of other powers the United States has been trying to avoid her share of responsibility and expense for policing the outlying districts of the world, while at the same time claiming a full share of the benefits and equal rights of participation. There is no such thing as disinterested friendship in international affairs, and moral responsibility remains nothing but a phrase unless it is translated into practical effort.

He

Phrases, whether embodied in treaties and communiqués or uttered in after-dinner speeches, will not solve any of the problems of the Pacific or abate the danger to America from that direction. I am sure foreigners who visit the United States on political missions are often rather dazed at our failure to understand or to be interested in what they come to say to us. Baron Shibusawa recently visited this country. He came for a purpose. had something to communicate. In trying to do this, he was constrained by etiquette and custom to adopt the language of diplomacy, to say very important things by indirection and inference. He must have been astonished that most of his hearers did not know what he was talking about, so after a few attempts he fell back on the usual "hot air," always sure of applause. That would get attention while his serious utterances passed uncomprehended.

Baron Shibusawa himself enunciated, in his speeches and interviews while here, his mission among us, euphemistically expressed. Put plainly, he came to try to

win over leading American financial interests to support Japan's policy in China. As Baron Shibusawa publicly put it, "America and Japan should coöperate in developing China." Let us see what he really means by that. Taking advantage of circumstances, Japan wrung from China last May an agreement whereby Japan, unless prevented by outside influence, can compel China to do whatever Japan wishes, under menace of force. China needs foreign capital and foreign knowledge to aid in developing her wonderful resources on modern lines, and she wants this assistance, too; but she wants it to enter China under conditions that will not qualify or limit China's sovereignty or injuriously exploit China. In In that China is right. Entering China in certain forms, foreign capital is an actual menace to her national existence. Now Japan, having an "agreement" exacted from China by compulsion, virtually makes this proposition:

China will not, except under compulsion, grant preferential facilities in her territory to foreign investments and enterprises or give guaranties such as some foreign investors desire. Great Britain and the United States, the nations to which China naturally looks for foreign advice and capital, are inhibited by their ideals from putting such compulsion on China. Japan is in a convenient position to overawe China and exact the desired terms from her, and Japan is willing to use her power for these ends. But Japan herself cannot finance large enterprises in China. Therefore an ideal combination would be for Japan to exercise police power in China, to regulate her, and the United States and England provide the capital.

This proposition, I am reliably informed, was carried to London within a month after Japan got her so-called "agreement" signed at Peking last May; but it was coldly received, for the British foreign office fully understands what it would mean, and is not yet willing or forced to pay that price. Put sententiously, Japan's proposal means:

We will do the dirty work, and coerce

China, while England and America furnish the money to exploit her.

Any one can see how this scheme would provide an attractive temporary opportunity for a small group of British and American financiers, which in the next decade or so could "clean up" a big profit at a minimum of political risk, provided their own governments would countenance the deal. But it also would mean a permanent injury to other and larger groups of British and American commerce and industry. It would mean the betrayal of China. It would, for the sake of an immediate and easy profit to a few financiers, mean the establishment of Japan in a position completely to dominate China politically and commercially, to the handicap of trade and enterprises of other foreign nations. It would mean using American capital to finance Japan's competing commercial campaign in China, instead of financing our own trade there. What has happened in Manchuria, in Korea, and is now happening in Shan-tung would happen in China as a whole. It would mean the eventual destruction of the position of Christian religious and educational work in China such as is now taking place in Korea. And, by giving Japan a virtual suzerainty over China, recognized or acquiesced in by America and Great Britain, it would in time create a real Yellow Peril, especially for us.

Baron Shibusawa's suggestion, except in isolated instances, apparently did not make much of an impression on the financial world of America, which probably does not see why it should ask Japan's permission to do dishonorably what may be done. honestly and independently. But it serves to direct attention to certain circumstances of the far-Eastern situation created by the war, and to the urgent need for constructive effort to save international principles which have been considered by every American statesman of importance who has studied them to be essential to permanent peace in those regions. Those principles, and with them the interests and security of our nation, are in danger of being sacrificed to the unforeseen exigencies of this

THE

HE air was filled with the scent of incense and with the sound of glorious music. Vespers were all but over in the convent of the Benedictines. Perched high on the spur of a great mountain, wrapped in snow for several months in the year, visited more often by belated travelers than by any other persons, the convent was nevertheless celebrated for its valuable collection of stringed instruments and for the musical gifts of its community.

Outside, the short wintry twilight had faded, but the chapel was brilliantly lighted; the final bars of a hymn of praise were being played by one of the monks on his own last earthly treasure, a genuine Stradivarius violin. In Brother Bruno's great blue eyes shone a strange look of mingled anguish and ecstasy, on his cheek were hectic spots of color; his bent, emaciated figure spoke eloquently of failing health, possibly of the endurance of some long-continued austerity.

On rush-bottomed chairs, near the entrance of the chapel, two strangers were seated side by side. The younger man, who might have been about fifty years of age, looked like a person of some consequence, though he wore a shabby overcoat and his hair badly needed brushing; during the last half-hour he had been running his fingers through it impatiently enough till in some places the thick, short locks stood nearly on end.

The other man, white-haired, swarthycomplexioned, inclined to be stout, wrapped to the chin in a coat of Russian sable, shivered occasionally. Two small holes showed above him in the roof, through which flakes of snow were drift

ing. Of ventilation, indeed, the building had plenty and to spare.

The younger man's attention was given to the blue-eyed monk; the eyes of the second traveler lingered hungrily on the violin itself, noting every flawless line and curve of a perfect instrument and the exquisite, golden sheen of the varnish. The "golden Stradivarius" it had been called long ago, and the name had stayed with it always, though death had passed the violin on from hand to hand as the inexorable centuries went by.

The music at an end and the blessing given, the monks filed out in the direction of the sacristy without once raising their eyes; so far as they were concerned the chapel might have been empty.

Count Spirini leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily. He had been present at the entire service without taking much part in it, while the man at his side had not only followed the prayers in a muffled undertone, but had crossed himself with curious frequency. Herr Goldstein was a very religious person, according to his friends; Count Spirini, a man of action. and a well-known explorer of wild and savage places, was more versed in the scientific use of fire-arms and in the silent assistance of a good rapier than in any formal call to prayer. So, at any rate, said the world.

"To think," said the count, suddenly, pulling off one shabby glove and rubbing his benumbed fingers with it-"to think of a man like Brother Bruno dying up here by inches of a barren asceticism when he might be one of the first musicians of his time."

Goldstein smiled, screwing his eyelids

together till the pupils of his eyes were all but invisible.

"The monk?" said he. "One monk more or less, what does it matter? But the violin, my dear sir, that is a different affair altogether; it is virtually my violin."

He spoke in broken Italian with a strong guttural accent, and half put out a too familiar hand, but drew it back again. The man at his side might be a stranger to him, might be wearing a battered silver watch on a still more battered chain, might be wearing clothes obviously ancient; but Goldstein, an enormously wealthy man himself, and of the earth, earthy, yet knew good blood when he came across it. Like his father and his grandfather before him, he had been a moneylender in his younger days; now in his old age the collecting of violins had become his hobby, almost, one might say, his ruling passion, had he not generally tired of his purchases, and sold them again at a large profit after a few years.

Count Spirini turned in his chair with a movement swift enough to suggest the sudden drawing of a rapier.

"The violin yours?" said he. "How do you make that out?"

Goldstein smiled again.

"Well, I made an offer to the prior for it a fortnight ago, and, as you see, I am here to-day. The violin is virtually mine, I do assure you."

"How about Brother Bruno? The violin belongs to him, not to the prior."

Goldstein yawned without putting a hand to his lips.

"The monk? I dare say; but up here, my dear sir, I imagine the monks hold all their goods in common. And the chapel, as you see," he pointed one fat, beringed finger at the roof,-"the chapel is badly in need of a little restoration. The good prior seemingly cares very little for music, but he has one vanity left, that good man: he cares much, very much, for his chapel, and he can bargain, too, as well as any one I ever came across." He took a pinch of snuff and offered some to his companion, who shook his head and put his chilled hands into his pockets. "And so

Brother Bruno is a dying man?" he suggested interrogatively; but went on without waiting for an answer: "There are other violins here. What can a monk want with one more than another? This particular instrument will be the keystone of my collection. As we have been here together," he drew out a scented leather case with a rampant monogram,—“allow me to offer you my card. You pulled me out of a snow-drift last night when I was all but choked. I shall be very glad at any time to show you the contents of my music-room. Believe me, I am not ungrateful."

Spirini took the card, scarcely looking at it. When he spoke again there was a touch of insistence in his voice.

"Brother Bruno has had that violin since he was a boy. It has been in his family for seven generations. By his looks I should imagine that he has not two months to live. Could you not be content with it afterward?"

Goldstein crossed himself.

"A violin from the hand of a dead man! Well, my dear sir, it might add an interest to the history of it. All my violins have a story of some sort attached to them, true or adapted; but, then, on the other hand, a violin secured is worth two in a convent any day, and it might be unlucky -afterward." He rose as he spoke, and yawned again more wearily than before. "This monk-you knew him formerly?" "Surely," said Spirini. "He married my daughter."

A sudden flash of curiosity showed itself on Goldstein's face.

"Married-married your daughter?" "She died," said Spirini, curtly. "But there is a child, who should by right inherit that violin."

Goldstein shrugged his shoulders. Those who had known him well formerly, elderly men with mortgaged estates, gamblers who had gambled neither wisely nor well, younger sons in difficulties, one and all had seen this gesture, and had learned to dread it. The Goldstein shrug was famous. It meant refusal when it did not mean something vastly worse.