With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened

power,

To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move,

only practical way of solving this problem is by removing, so far as possible, the causes which have created it. My further contention is that the attempt to solve the problem of peace in this

The demoralization attending the present war is as appalling as the physical ruin that it has wrought, but we are none the less awed and abashed in the presence of the spiritual transformations which it is effecting in the lives of individual men, and even of nations. Probably no phenomenon connected with the war has been so impressive as the spiritualization of France.

Whenever a moral movement has reached the stage at which it becomes a problem the fact may be accepted as evidence of its vitality. Problems do not vex declining causes. It is the function of a problem to deepen and strengthen the movement which it arrests, provided it is understood and treated as a problem. It is not well to try to force the issue which it raises by the stress of moral passion, or to attempt to smother it by sentiment. A problem is not solved in that way. The problem of peace cannot be solved by intensifying the crusade against war. What very many wish to know before enlisting in the cause of universal peace is the full moral purport of the peace movement: what is its attitude toward the supreme issues of the present war; what its relation to the causes of the social strife; what its provision for the satisfaction of things fundamental in human nature. The popular distrust of the peace movement, growing out of the present uncertainty, constitutes, as it seems to me, the immediate problem of peace; and my contention is that the

en the peace movement at the point where it most needs depth and strength. The peace movement cannot be said to be lacking in respect of means for the accomplishment of its purpose, many of which bear the marks of constructive statesmanship. What it most lacks is motive power, due to its failure to reach down into those deep undercurrents of popular conviction, which, when once reached, carry a movement on to its conclusion.

Evidently the most effective step that can be taken toward removing the causes of distrust is to define peace: to put forward, to begin with, a definition which shall declare unmistakably its full moral bearing upon present conditions. Such a definition should attempt to show, not simply how peace may be achieved, but what kind of peace is to be striven for, what to be accepted, what to be rejected. It is confessedly difficult to define peace apart from its relations at any given time to existing conditions. The sentiment of peace lends itself to vague generalizations, or to aphorisms which crumble before specific moral tests. The familiar aphorism of Franklin, "There never was a good war or a bad peace,' has been passed along the peaceful generations on the strength of Franklin's reputation for political sagacity. It was quickly forgotten, if indeed it was ever generally known, how vehemently the saying was repudiated by its author when he was confronted by the possible application of it to a treaty of peace between the Colonies and Great Britain which might impugn their loyalty to their allies. Writing to his English friend, David Hartley, un

der date of February 2, 1780, he said, 'If the Congress have entrusted to others, rather than to me, the negotiations for peace, when such shall be set on foot, as has been reported, it is perhaps because they may have heard of a very singular opinion of mine, that there hardly ever existed such a thing as a bad peace, or a good war, and that I might therefore be easily induced to make improper concessions. But at the same time they and you may be assured, that I should think the destruction of our whole country, and the extirpation of our whole people, preferable to the infamy of abandoning our allies.'1 The creed of peace should be aggressive; it should also be defensible aggressively defensible. It should anticipate and challenge all doubts and suspicions. With this intent the creed of peace for to-day should start out of the reaffirmation of the great loyalties. If justice and liberty are to be transferred from the guardianship of war to the guardianship of peace, the acceptance of the trust should be announced in no uncertain terms. It is quite useless to evade or even to defer the announcement, for the time is at hand when the attitude of the peace movement to the issues of the war must be made evident by its attitude to the terms of settlement. The present ambiguity must soon end. Whenever it ends, the position then taken will determine the fortune of the cause of universal peace in the mind of this generation. I can conceive of no greater setback to the cause than the acceptance, in the name of peace, of a 'peace' which should celebrate the triumphs of militarism. I can conceive of no greater betrayal of the cause than the acceptance, in the name of peace, of a 'peace' which should make the violation of Belgium the tragedy of the twentieth century, as the partition of Poland became the

tragedy of the eighteenth century. The time may come when the long-delayed protest in behalf of Belgium must be made to save the cause of peace, if it cannot save Belgium. How much more significant and how much more effective than a protest, the timely avowal in the creed of peace of the supreme allegiance of peace to liberty!

Next to a clear definition of peace in its relation to the moral issues of the war, as an aid in removing popular indifference to the peace movement, I put the expression of active sympathy with efforts to abate the social strife. This does not imply a diversion of purpose or a dissipation of energy. Sympathy between related moral causes is always to be expected. It is to be expected that sympathy will be active where causes are closely identified. The relation of the social strife to war is evident. No less evident is the reason for sympathetic if not mutual struggle for the suppression of each. The advocates of peace, as has been suggested, may well regard industrialism as an elementary school for the practice of the methods of peace. Insistence upon the use of this opportunity at the present time may be deemed inopportune, but it cannot be regarded as inopportune for the peace movement to come into far closer sympathy than is now apparent with what is known distinctively as the social movement.

And further still, if a radical change is to be effected in the popular attitude toward the peace movement, peace itself must be made more representative of the positive elements of human nature. War is the perversion of a very great and a very noble instinct, the desire to conquer. A great deal that is best in human endeavor takes that form. The instinct for conquest is latent in all strenuous work, in the closest investigation and research, and in the struggle for moral reform. To-day it

has an unlimited range for activity in the sphere of industry, of science, and of religion. It is an instinct which must be recognized to the full if we are to continue the struggle for the conquest either of nature or of human nature. Whatever may be the apparent claims of consistency in our advocacy of peace, I believe that we must make it clear above all dispute that we hold fast to one great reservation, the reservation of the right and of the duty of moral conflict, including the liabilities which conflict may involve. So far as we can look into the future, the permanency of peace must rest upon the courageous exercise of this reserved right and duty.

At the beginning of this article I avowed my belief in the practicability of universal peace. In full view of what has been written I renew the avowal of my faith. But the peace to which I subscribe is not merely the cessation of war. A variety of causes may operate to bring about the cessation of the present war, not one of which may be to the honor of peace. The cessation from war may be prolonged for a century. through causes not one of which may be to the honor of peace. The time is past, in the interest of peace, for bal

ances of power and concerts of nations. The peace for which the world waits will rest upon the securities which peace has to offer in its own right, under its own name, guaranteed by its loyalties to the inalienable rights of men, and enforced, if need be, by the powers under its authority. The significant and encouraging fact about peace is that the higher its aim and the broader its scope, the more practicable it seems. The one reason for its present claim to practicality lies in its claim to universality. Put this claim aside, and the question may be asked of the men of peace in this generation, 'What do ye more than others?' Having made this daring advance, it behooves us to see to it that we do not weaken it by those unreasonable demands for quick results which characterize the spirit of our generation. The essential part of our task in this great business of peacemaking seems to me to lie in the attempt to give peace the requisite moral standing in the eyes of the world. It is beyond our power to give those assurances that must have the sanction of time, but we may at least hope to remove those suspicions and distrusts which embarrass us in our work, and which, if not removed, must embarrass all future workers for peace.

It was a warm summer's day in late August. No men were visible in the Belgian hamlet. The women reaped in the fields; the insects hummed in the dry warm air; the house doors stood open. On a bed in a room in one of the cottages lay a woman. Beside her sat a small boy. He was still, but alert. His eyes followed the buzzing flies. With a bit of paper he drove the intruders from the bed. His mother slept. It was evident from the pale, drawn face that she was ill.

Suddenly the dreaming, silent summer day was broken by the sound of clattering hoofs. Some one was riding hurriedly through the town.

The woman moved uneasily. Her eyes opened. She smiled at the little boy.

'What is it, dear?'

The boy went to the window. Women were gathering in the street. He told his mother and hurried from the room. Her eyes grew troubled. In a few minutes the child was back, breathless and excited.

'O, mother, mother, the Germans are coming!'

The woman braced herself against the shock. At first she hardly grasped the news. Then her face whitened, her body quivered and became convulsed. Pain sprang to her eyes, driving out fear; beads of perspiration stood on her forehead; a little animal cry of pain broke from her lips. The boy gazed at her paralyzed, horrified; then he flung himself down beside the bed and seized his mother's hand.

'What is it, mother, what is it?'

The paroxysm of pain passed; the woman's body relaxed, her hand reached for the boy's head and stroked it. 'It's all right, my son.' Then as the pain began again, ‘Quick, sonny, bring auntie.'

The boy darted from the room. Auntie was the woman doctor of B. He found her in the Square. The townspeople were wildly excited. The Germans were coming. But the boy thought only of his mother. He tugged at auntie's sleeve. His frenzied efforts at last caught her attention. She saw he was in need and went with him.

Agonizing little moans issued from the house as they entered. In an instant the midwife understood. She wanted to send the boy away, but she must have help. Who was there to fetch and carry? The neighbors, terrified at their danger, were making plans for departure. She let the boy stay.

Through the succeeding hour a whitefaced little boy worked manfully. His mother's cries wrung his childish heart. Why did babies come this way? He could not understand. Would she die? Had his birth given such pain? If only she would speak! And once, as if realizing his necessity, his mother did speak.

'It's all right, my son; it will soon be over.'

That message brought comfort; but his heart failed when the end came. He rushed to the window and put his little hands tight over his ears. It was only for a moment. He was needed. His

mother's moans had ceased and a baby's cry broke the stillness.

The drama of birth passed, the midwife grew restless. She became conscious of the outer world. There were high excited voices; wagons clattered over stones; moving day had descended on the town. She turned to the window. Neighbors with wheelbarrows and carts piled high with household possessions hurried by. They beckoned to her.

For a moment the woman hesitated. She looked at the mother on the bed, nestling her babe to her breast; then the panic of the outside world seized her. Quickly she left the room.

The small boy knelt at his mother's bedside, his little face against hers. Softly he kissed the pale cheek. The boy's heart had become a man's. He tried by touch and look to speak his love, his sympathy, his admiration. His mother smiled at him as she soothed the baby, glad to be free from pain. But presently the shouted order of the departing townspeople reached her ears. She stirred uneasily. Fear crept into her eyes. Passionately she strained her little one to her.

'How soon, little son, how soon?'

The lad, absorbed in his mother, had forgotten the Germans. With a start, he realized the danger. His new-born manhood took command. His father was at the front. He must protect his mother and tiny sister. His mother was too ill to move, but they ought to get away. Who had a wagon? He hurried to the window, but already even the stragglers were far down the road. All but three of the horses had been sent to the front. Those three were now out of sight with their overloaded wagons. The boy stood stupefied and helpless. The woman on the bed stirred.

'My son,' she called. 'My son.'
He went to her.

'You must leave me and go on.'
'I can't, mother.'

The woman drew the boy down beside her. She knew the struggle to come. How could she make him understand that his life and the baby's meant more to her than her own. Lovingly she stroked the soft cheek. It was a grave, determined little face with very steady eyes.

'Son, dear, think of little sister. The Germans won't bother with babies. There is n't any milk. Mother has n't any for her. You must take baby in your strong little arms and run — run with her right out of this land into Holland.'

But he could not be persuaded. The mother understood that love and a sense of duty held him. She gathered the baby in her arms and tried to rise, but the overtaxed heart failed and she fell back half-fainting. The boy brought water and bathed her head until the tired eyes opened.

'Little son, it will kill mother if you don't go.'

The boy's shoulders shook. He knelt by the bed. A sob broke from him. Then there came the faint far-distant call of the bugle. Frantically the mother gathered up her baby and held it out to the boy.

'For mother's sake, son, for mother.' In a flash, the boy understood. His mother had risked her life for the tiny sister. She wanted the baby saved more than anything in the world. He dashed the tears from his eyes. He wound his arms about his mother in a long passionate embrace.

'I'll take her, mother; I'll get her there safely.'

The bugle grew louder. Through the open window on the far-distant road could be seen a cloud of dust. There was not a moment to lose. Stooping, the boy caught up the red squirming baby. Very tenderly he placed the lit