Honor to all in peril or in pain
Who make no terms with evil, but sustain
The right dispassionately for all men's
gain.

Honor the meek, whose lives with

prayer's endeavor

Follow their loves-whose home-fond feet shall never

Come home forever.

Honor the dead, and them that slowly die;

Honor ourselves; and honor still the gleam

That lives in all men's hearts, whate'er they seem,

That move uncaring 'neath the comely sky.

Honor this land that, 'mid a world's downcasting,

Yields unto death her love's irradiant flower,

That, grieving, took with pride her tragic hour,

True to the Everlasting.

Oh, Thou, to Whom all honor is, to Whom Strange deaths and births are subject

ceaselessly,

Unto the goal of days under the gloom Sustain Thy servants in their agony, These living lamps that, steadfast, burn from Thee

'Mid war's wild dark and doom. Close the sick ears of them that slewand slay

In dreams delirious many nights and days.

Shut the sad eyes of them that walk today

In Golgotha, and cannot turn away, But gaze, and gaze, and gaze. Oh, Thou, Who on all life's battlethundering coasts

Art lord of ghostly hosts, Judge not the blind words Thy rude

heroes cry

In the red hour of death, for under heaven

Drawn down the days or driven
As torments chase or fly,

The soul hath various tongues, and rash and wild

Is earth's bemazèd child,

And darkly wins his way
Unto Thy lighter day.

Oh, Thou, Who lent to death Thy deity,
Pity Thy brave that hie

Less meekly to the throes of Calvary,
That, weak with anger, cry
Crudely beneath the sky.
Who die for love, unfearful of the price,
And for a dream fling all the earth

away

These touch diviner issues. Say not Nay

To Thy rude saints in their self-sacrifice.

Ye true that stand in conscience sternly strong,

That work, and watch, and wait, and hope so long,

Keep silence cheerful; yea, with zeal endure;

Pursue the quest with purpose proud and pure.

And you, grown grave, that, pale with sudden sorrow,

Wait life's more mute tomorrow, Weep patiently, yea, suffer to the end With royal patience. He hath fate for friend

Who, faithful, follows the eternal lure

In his own soul, whose loves are that high brood

Faith, wisdom, temperance, mercy, fortitude.

To Heaven be praise, Whose cause in honor stands,

For shining hearts, and sad and eager hands;

For lives, that moved on soft luxurious floors,

That bravely break on adamantine doors;

For heads, that knew but down, that sleep on stones;

For delicate feet that speed where anguish moans;

languid breath,

death;

The Poetry Review.

James A. Mackereth.

In recent weeks a bright light has been shining in the west of a world of sorrow and of glory. Its brilliance increases. It has seemed like a heavenly fire, and its effulgence has spread over the earth, lightening obscure paths upon which harassed men in search of a great ideal have been arduously pressing their way. It has needed but a little imagination on the part of those who have perceived this shining light, its significance and its splendor, to see also a scintillating halo flashing round the head of that noble statue of "Liberty Enlightening the World" that towers up at the entrance to New York harbor, to see the fire of justice and truth burning from the torch that the figure of Liberty holds aloft. I think that, perhaps more than the Americans themselves, all who have visited the United States must be led at this present moment to profound reflection on the significance of that great statue, the old significance and the new. It is tremendous. In the days of peace the visitor to those hospitable American shores could hardly look upon that work for the first time without experiencing a deep emotion. There is something that thrills about that view of Liberty at the gates of the freest people. And today we cannot fail to recall that the statue was France's gift to the United States. That is something to remember now, one of the little crumbs of history about which three years ago perhaps not one person in four or five on the deck of an ingoing liner knew or seemed to

"

care. Those were careless days, if happy in their way. Now we see that at the first moments of her entry into the war the United States thinks first of all of the civilization of the world and her own situation and responsibility in regard to it; next she thinks of France, then of the other Allies and Britain with them. She is right in this order of thinking, although there may be a few of the more superficial egotists in our islands who may wonder as usual why Britain does not come first, since it is on her that the burden of the war is now chiefly falling. But certainly America is right. If you spend a little while in any part of that great country that stands between the Atlantic and the Pacific you will come to a new understanding of the affection that it has for France and all that is French; and then if you will read only a little of the elementary history that has been forgotten, and consider anew the nature of these people now, you will see why it is so. The significance of this marvelous statue increases with every thought. It is America as nothing else has ever indicated her; and now it is the new America that leaps from isolation in her own western continent and flings herself afar upon the enemies of the old world from which she rose. I remember well the subtle emotion that crept within me the first time that I saw this work. It was not in the sunlight of morning or in the blue dusk of an American evening, as I had hoped, for I was looking forward to the view. I saw

it through the torrents of a storm, with the wind screeching through the fittings of my ship, and furious rain ricocheting on the deck planks, and water-mists blurring everything around. From this fury and chaos the figure of Liberty came slowly out, better defined at each murmur of our engines. Just in time the gale seemed to abate for a moment, as if by, or in obedience to, that force of Liberty, and as we sailed by we had a fair view of the noble form and face, of the strong right arm (which I may tell you is forty-two feet in length!) holding on high the flaming torch. My clothing was soaking wet as I turned away, Liberty fading into the storm again; but I had gained a great impression, and, wonderful as they are, the sight of the tall buildings that seem to kiss the sky failed in its effect as we steamed through placid waters to our harbor berth.

How splendid is the statue's situation! Auguste Bartholdi, the French sculptor, had a fine inspiration when he chose this little Bedloe's Island for the site. The French people had decided half a century ago to make a gift to their true friends of the great republic across the seas, to commemorate the centenary of their independence and the long-established warmth of feeling between the two nations. They sent Bartholdi to New York to study the project and prepare for it. As his ship sailed through the Narrows and on towards Manhattan, he went on deck like the others to strain his gaze, with a curious wonder, towards the shores of this new world, now seen for the first time. Bartholdi was impressed with this general eagerness to look upon the country, and when, gazing and wondering like the rest, his eyes fell upon Bedloe's Island in the middle of the upper bay, he knew he had found his true site ere he landed. It was perfect. He would, LIVING AGE, VOL. VII, No. 320.

with the help of God and his own true genius, make a statue that should be fit for it, an indication of America and her meaning that should be presented to the view of expectant visitors and emigrants as they approached the country. On the threshold of America this Liberty should be seen holding high her lighted torch as an emblem of freedom and opportunity in this new world. Bartholdi did his work in a splendid way. Completed in 1884, it was erected on the chosen site two years later, there to commemorate forever the first centenary of American independence and the French Government's affectionate interest therein, their joy that in this new land there should be Liberté éclairant le mande. The Tablet has on it the date, "July 4, 1776." It may well be impressive, apart from its meaning and the effect of that meaning upon all history, for this is the greatest colossus in the world. Its pedestal rests firmly upon a foundation which is a monolith of concrete declared to be the largest artificial single stone that has ever been made. The figure is of copper hammered to its shape, fastened to form by rivets and supported within by an iron framework which was designed by the engineer Eiffel, the same who made the tower in Paris. It is a scientific affair, as it needed to be, since here it is alone with the water and the wind, and there is more than three hundred feet of it from the foundation to the torch, the Liberty herself being well over a hundred feet, her hand sixteen and her finger eight, a finger-nail veritably a matter of thirteen inches by ten. There are allowances and contrivances made for expansion and contraction by heat and cold, and there is asbestos packing to insulate the copper from the iron and prevent the corrosion which would otherwise be caused by the effect of electricity in

duced by the salt air. If, as we are thinking of Liberty, the joy of free peoples, and the nobility of ideals, there may seem for a moment to be something a little unsuitably materialistic in the mention of these details, it is not so; for here are foresight and mechanical perfection, strength and permanence, and these things are of America even as Liberty is. If I heard that this statue shook, that Liberty's torch fell down, that this majestic pile collapsed and sank into the waters of the bay, then I might fear indeed that the cause of freedom in the world was about to be lost, and that criminal Germany might be victorious and so spoil the whole scheme of creation and the world. It would be such a mighty and overwhelming portent. But we know that this Liberty, so strong, so sure, will not fall down. On the night of Victory might not the Government of the United States, partner in it, order that real fire and flames shall sparkle from that torch and signal to heaven that the work is done! Meanwhile it is symbolical of determination and serenity of confidence. There is a beautiful, a benevolent calm on the countenance of this figure. Bartholdi, I was told, modeled the features from those of his dear mother. Now he is dead. It is thirteen years since he passed away, just about the time when Germany was beginning the first preparations for her grand attack upon the liberty of the world. There was some Italian blood in this Bartholdi, yet he was utterly and passionately French. He was an Alsatian; Colmar was his birthplace.

Even though the news was expected, how wonderful was the thrill that spread through the fighting Allies when they heard they were joined at last by the United States of America, the strongest and freest people, the people who had nothing to gain! Some

mysterious significance of this momentous event seemed to strike with a quick shock of exhilaration upon the very soul of mankind. Much of the meaning and the possibility were understood, and yet there was something beyond, uplifting, strengthening, which belonged to the instinct and the spirit, and could not be explained. America, the new land, the new world, the country and the nation that had begun life over again, separate and distinct and far away from the old scenes of the world-much of the system of which she disliked and even abhorred-had been moved to the most active sympathy with the fighters for right, to the most active anger against their enemies, and she would fight with France and Britain and Italy, and with that new-born Russia come through trials to its freedom. America would abandon her isolation and take her turn in the crisis of old-world affairs with which every continent was at last closely concerned; she was definitely and intimately to associate herself with the cause and effort of the Grand Allies. With all its generosity and its boundless capacity, this richest and ablest of nations was to come to the support of the brave peoples struggling so desperately with the foe. It was a splendid act. It will bind the free peoples together in such love and harmony as could never have been without this grand decision. It gives a more magnificent hope for the world than the uttermost optimist could have cherished before. The war is a vast and appalling thing; we who live through it know that we are witnessing the most stirring, tremendous, and effective epoch in the history of the world, something so enormous in its character and its consequence that one almost feels that the heavens themselves, the other planets, must have regard to what is happening here

and be affected by it. But, great as is the war as we have known it, it is not greater than the American entry into this struggle.

It has been interesting to observe the development of a certain change of attitude and opinion towards the citizens of the United States and their President by the people of this country. There have been suggestions of admission that old judgments have been incorrect and need revision, that facts and circumstances which exist and are of ponderous importance had been but imperfectly understood and appreciated. Now, it is said, the real difficulties of the United States, as they have been, are perceived, and the character of the people is known. Certain withdrawals in regard to the President have been ungrudgingly made; his wisdom and his heart, his statesmanship and his conscience, have the most handsome and spontaneous tributes paid to them. It is well that this should be so. The complete belligerent in these days is not in the best position for a calm judgment upon the motives and the quality of neutrals. He would need to be superhuman if his judgment were to be unaffected and unbiased. No doubt it has been hard for some of our people to realize the terrible truth of our own sacrifices, and to behold another nation, with much of our own blood in its veins, speaking our own tongue, at peace, becoming enormously rich through its neutrality, and being, as it seemed, willing to bear punishment itself from the Germans without retaliating. were too proud, it was thought, to ask the help of anyone; but there were things that were thought. Certainly, also, it was believed that the President was weak, that he was careless of the national honor, and that he was too willing to agree with any of his countrymen who might suggest that the

We

true course for the United States was one of peace at any price. Now it is agreed that many of these judgments were wrong. There may be some opportunism in this revision, and yet there is a deep and joyful sincerity also. Our people are being taught a war lesson once again, and they realize better than before that they are given to a considerable superficialness of thinking and of speaking. Even now they must understand that if America has "come in," she has not done so entirely from respect and love for Britain, though she likes us. Herself and her principles have been the first consideration; her affection for France has clearly been the second. In our new enthusiasm let us not lose sight of the true values, in a national egotism that has often led us sadly astray. We shall henceforth be far better friends with the Americans than in the past, and at the outset, in wondering upon the marvelous preparations of our cousins, their splendid generosity in financial affairs, and their amazing display of order, method, and efficiency, superior by far to the best efforts of our enemies in this respect, let us come to a real appreciation of all the circumstances.

Too many British people seem to labor under the fancy that America is jealous of us, and that, with our blood in her, she is like an ungrateful child. They do not seem to understand how and why America has come to be, and what it is. They seem to have forgotten the Mayflower, and the great Puritan emigration of so much that was best in the bodies and brains of our countrymen that speedily followed; how and why that strong and splendid colony was built up in Massachusetts. In those years when the shores of North America were only just being discovered, they did not leave their native land for the mere love of adventure and change.