Standard Selections Part 43

The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation, the music of boisterous drums, the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of a.s.semblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those a.s.semblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers.

We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and kisses--divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms--standing in the sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves; she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war; marching down the streets of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood, in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by b.a.l.l.s and torn with sh.e.l.ls, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief.

The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash; we see them bound hand and foot; we hear the strokes of cruel whips; we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable! Outrage infinite! Four million bodies in chains--four million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting sh.e.l.l. The broken fetters fall. These heroes die. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty; they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars; they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living and tears for the dead.

FOOTNOTE:

[59] By permission of the publisher, C. P. Farrell.

WAR IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY[60]

EDWIN D. MEAD

It is a great mistake to think, as many are apt to do when some terrible war overwhelms some part of the world, that war is on the increase among men and that we are probably on the eve of a portentous new era of it.

The temptation to think so is strong when two or three such wars come at the same time, waged by enlightened nations which we had fondly trusted had got beyond such wickedness and folly. But there is no warrant for the belief. There is seldom real warrant for any fear that the world generally is going backward, although it would be stupid not to see that there come many days which are far behind many yesterdays in insight, in ideals, and in conduct. The long view is the encouraging view, the view of progress.

We have entered a new century. As one looks back over the nineteenth century, which has closed, as one reads perhaps some brief historical survey of the century, it is worth while to ask oneself whether one would rather live in 1800 or in 1900, in the world pictured in the first pages of the book or that pictured in the last pages. The serious man can give but one answer. The England and France and Germany and Italy and Spain of the end of the century were, when every deduction has been made on particular points, vastly more habitable, better places to live in, than the same countries at the beginning of the century. The brilliant historian of the administration of Jefferson paints a masterly picture of the life of our own people in 1800. Every aspect of the social and intellectual life of the time is treated with marvelous fullness of detail and in the most graphic and impressive way; and there is an element of hope and buoyancy, of prophecy and promise, pervading the pages, which is at once inspiring and sobering. Yes, surely one would rather live in the United States at the beginning of the twentieth century than at the beginning of the nineteenth. The century has been on the whole emphatically a period of progress. The same was true of the century before, and of the century before that.

What has been true concerning progress in general during the last few centuries has been especially true of progress out of the habit of war toward the habit of peace. Events at the close of the nineteenth century have been indeed deplorable; they were also deplored--and this is the significant thing--more than such events were ever deplored before. The body of protest against unnecessary and unrighteous wars becomes steadily larger, bolder, and more outspoken; the public conscience is more troubled by them; more and more men perceive their wastefulness and wrong, and discern the more excellent way; and to-morrow the total of protesting insight and morality shall be great enough to tip the balance and hold the tempted, ruffling nation to self-restraint, respect for others, and respect for civilization. There was much less war in Christendom during the nineteenth century than during the eighteenth, and there will be less during the twentieth century than during the nineteenth. The steady and sure progress of the world is toward the supplanting of the ways of greed and violence among nations by the methods of reason, legality, and mutual regard. As one travels over Europe, one is never far from some great battle-field. In Scotland one remembers how half a dozen centuries ago one clan was continually fighting with another, this group of clans warring with that, or all were leagued together against one Edward or another advancing with his archers from beyond the Tweed. The English armies fighting at Falkirk and Bannockburn and Halidon were straightway--they or their successors--in France fighting at Crecy and Poitiers and Agincourt. The wars between England and France were interminable; and so were the wars between France and other nations. There were civil wars and religious wars and wars of succession; seven-years wars and thirty-years wars and hundred-years wars. War was the regular vocation of nations, the profession of arms the chief profession, peace merely an occasional respite, in no sense to be reckoned on or presumed to endure as the natural condition of things.

All this has been fundamentally changed. Europe bends under the burden of her great armies and multiplies her costly battleships, and we say that it is wasteful and barbarous; but the soldiers and ships are almost never used. We grieve and blush at the shameful wars of subjugation in our own time; but these wars were anachronisms, sporadic survivals of courses common and universally approved three hundred years ago, when men did not blush for them, but not typical of the tendencies and civilization of the present age. The true exponent of the world's best judgment and increasing purpose and policy, as the twentieth century begins, is not the warring in Luzon and the Transvaal, but the Hague Tribunal. For a century the states in the United States, because we have had a Supreme Court, have settled there, and not by combat, their boundary disputes and other quarrels, graver often than many which have plunged European nations into war, while most of us have not known even of the fact of litigation. To-day, because an International Tribunal exists, the Venezuelan imbroglio is referred to it, which else might have gone on to the dread arbitrament of arms. Such references will multiply; the legal way instead of the fighting way will become easy, will become common, will become instinctive, will become universal; war will hasten after the duel, to be loathed and to be laughed at, and to cease to be at all; the cannon will follow the rack to the chamber of horrors; and nations when they disagree will not go into battle, but into court. This is the sure end of the process which the broad survey of history reveals. The critical student of war becomes the sure prophet of peace.

FOOTNOTE:

[60] By permission of the author.

GEORGE WASHINGTON[61]

CHARLES PHILLIPS

It matters very little what immediate spot may be the birth-place of such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country can appropriate him; the boon of providence to the human race, his fame is eternity and his residence creation. Though it was the defeat of our arms and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered and the earth rocked, yet when the storm pa.s.sed how pure was the climate that it cleared; how bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet which it revealed to us!

In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if nature were endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual instances no doubt there were; splendid exemplifications of some single qualification. Caesar was merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, and like the lovely _chef d'oeuvre_ of the Grecian artist, to exhibit in one glow of a.s.sociated beauty the pride of every model and the perfection of every master. As a general he marshaled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience; as a statesman he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive system of general advantage; and such was the wisdom of his views and the philosophy of his counsels that to the soldier and the statesman he almost added the character of the sage. A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of treason; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity stained it, victory returned it.

If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to a.s.sign him, whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having emanc.i.p.ated a hemisphere, resigned his crown and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created?

"How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage?

All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, Far less than all thou hast forborne to be!"

Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be accused of partiality in his estimate of America. Happy, proud America! the lightnings of heaven yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not seduce your patriotism!

I have the honor, sir, of proposing to you as a toast,

"The immortal memory of George Washington."

FOOTNOTE:

[61] Delivered at a dinner on Dinas Island, Lake Killarney, Ireland, given in honor of Mr. O. H. Payne (afterward Senator Payne) of Ohio.

IV

GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC

A BOY'S MOTHER[62]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

My mother she's so good to me Ef I was good as I could be, I couldn't be as good--no, sir!

Can't any boy be good as her!

She loves me when I'm glad er mad; She loves me when I'm good er bad; An' what's a funniest thing, she says She loves me when she punishes.

I don't like her to punish me; That don't hurt, but it hurts to see Her cryin'--nen I cry; an' nen We both cry--an' be good again.

She loves me when she cuts and sews My little cloak and Sunday clothes; An' when my pa comes home to tea, She loves him most as much as me.

She laughs an' tells him all I said.

An' grabs me up an' pats my head; An' I hug her, an' I hug my pa, An' love him purt' nigh much es ma.

FOOTNOTE:

[62] Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. From "Rhymes of Childhood," copyright, 1900.