Chapter 3

I have a brilliant idea which, without any parade of modesty, I hereby commend to the notice of the American, French and British Governments. Let them get together as soon as may be and give us an authoritative definition of Democracy. Then we shall know where, collectively, we are. Of course you may say that it has been defined for all time by Abraham Lincoln. But thrilling in its clear simplicity as his slogan epigram may be, a complex political and social system cannot be fully dealt with in fifteen words. I thought I knew what it was until a tidy few millions of friends and myself were knocked silly by recent events in Russia. Here, where the privates of a regiment hold a mass meeting and discuss for hours an order to advance to the relief of sorely pressed comrades and decide not to obey it, and eventually throw down their rifles and with a meus conscia recti, proudly run away, we have Democracy with a vengeance. Not one of the Defenders of Democracy who are writing in this book would stand for it a second. Nor would they stand for the slobbering maniacs who yearn to throw themselves into the arms of the Germans, and, with the kiss of peace and universal brotherhood, kiss away their brother's blood from their blood-smeared faces. Nor would they stand entirely for those staunch democrats who, inspired with a burning sense of human wrongs but with none of proportion or humor, would sacrifice vital interests of humanity in general for the transient amelioration of the lot of a particular section of the community. For years these visionaries told us that every penny spent on army or navy was a robbery of the working-man. We yielded to him many pennies; but alas, they now have to be repaid in blood.

America has joined the civilized world in the struggle against the surviving systems of medieval barbarism in Europe that have been permitted to exist under the veneer of civilization. She sees clearly what she has to destroy. So do we. No American and Englishman can meet but that they grip hands and thank God together that they are comrades in this Holy War. They are out, like Knights of Fable, to rid the earth of a pestilential monster; and they will not rest until their foot is on his slain monster's head.

Which is, by Heaven! a glorious and soul-uplifting enterprise. In it the blood of the Martyrs, rising to God. But with this difference: the Martyrs died for a constructive scheme--that of Christianity. What is the constructive scheme for which we are dying? It is easy to say the Democratization of Mankind. It is a matter of common assent that this consummation is ardently desired by the Royal Family of England, by enlightened Indian Princes, by the philanthropists of America, by the French artist, by the Roumanian peasant, by the howling syndicalist in South Wales, by the Belgian socialist, by the eager soul in the frail body who is at the helm of storm-tossed Russia to-day, by the Montenegrin mountaineer, by the Sydney Larrikin yelling down conscription, by millions of units belonging to the civilized nations of such social and racial divergence that the mind is staggered by the conception of them all fighting under one banner. But are we sure they are all fighting for the same thing? If they're not, there will be the deuce to pay all over the terrestrial globe, even with a crushed Central European militarism.

Therefore, with the same absence of modesty I cry for an authoritative crystallization of the democratic aims of the civilized world. England and France have groped their way through centuries towards a vague ideal. America proudly began her existence by a proclamation of the equal rights of man. She proudly proclaims them now; but the world is involved in such a complicated muddle, that the utterances of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln (to say nothing of their intellectual and political ancestor Jean Jacques Rousseau) require amplification. The political thought of the older nations of Europe is tired out. It is for the fresher genius of America to lead them towards the solution of the greatest problem which has ever faced mankind:--the final, constructive and all-satisfying definition of the myriadwise interpreted word Democracy.

[signed] W. J. Locke

Democracy in Peace and War

Democracy is by nature a lover of peace. That is the state which it regards as the normal condition of human life, and in which it seeks its best rewards and triumphs by the organization of the common effort of all citizens for the common welfare.

But while democracy is pacific in its desires and aims, it is not a "pacifist." It is willing and able, though not always at the moment ready, to take up arms in self-defense. In its broadening vision of a fraternity of mankind, which shall be in the good future not only intranational but also international, it is willing also to FIGHT for the safety of its principles everywhere, and for the security of all the peoples in a true and orderly liberty. That is the position of the democracy of the United States of America to-day.

As in peace, so in war, the success of the democratic effort depends upon the fullness of the cooperation between all classes and conditions of men and women. Those men who are fit for military service on land or sea must render it willingly and to the utmost of their strength. Those who by reason of age or weakness cannot undertake that service without danger of becoming a burden to the fighting forces, must work to sustain the army and the fleet of freedom. "If any man will not work neither let him eat."

The women also must do their part, since they are citizens just as much as the men. They must undertake those tasks of industry of which they are capable and thus relieve the need of labor in all fields. Above all they must give themselves to those tasks of mercy for which they have a natural aptitude. And through all they must give sympathy, inspiration, and courage to the men who fight for Liberty and Democracy.

[signed] Henry van Dyke

Sunrise over the Peristyle

"Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."

Look! we shall know the truth--it is thy word; The truth, O Lord--shining, invincible, Unawed. And shall we love it, Lord, like this, This half-dark flushing with the wondrous hope? How can we love it more?

Sweet is the hush Brimming the dim void world, soothing the beat Of the great-hearted lake that lies unlit Beyond that silver portal. Peace is here In moony palaces that rose for her Pale, lustrous--it is well with her to dwell. The truth--will not these phantom fabrics fail Under the fierce white fire--yes, float away Like mists that wanly rise and choke the wind?

So merciless is truth--how shall we live And bear the glare? Now rosily smiles the earth, And bold young couriers climb the slope of heaven, With gaudy flags aflare. The towered clouds, Lofty, impregnable, are captured now-- Their turrets flame with banners. Who abides Under the smooth wide rim of the worn world That the high heavens should hail him like a king-- Even like a lover? If it be the Truth, Ah, shall our souls wake with the triumph, Lord? Shall we be free according to thy word, Brave to yield all?

Look! will it come like this-- A vivid glory burning at the gate Over the sudden verge of golden waves? The tall white columns stand like seraphim With high arms locked for song. The city lies Pearled like the courts of heaven, waiting the tread Of souls made wise with joy. Why should we fear? The Truth--ah, let it come to test the dream; Give us the Truth, O Lord, that in its light The world may know thy will, and dare be free.

[signed]Harriet Monroe

Reminiscences of Booth

Few of the younger people of the present generation know, by personal experience, how nobly and incomparably Edwin Booth enriched the modern stage with his vivid portraitures of Shakespearean characters. The tragic fervor, the startling passion, and the impressive dignity with which he invested his various roles, have not been equaled, I daresay, by any actor on the English speaking stage since the days of Garrick and Kean. He had a voice that vibrated with every mood, and a mien, despite his short stature, that gave a lofty dignity to every part that he played. But Booth as himself was a simple, modest, amiable human being. Many of us younger men came to know him in a personal way, when he established in New York City the Players' Club, which he dedicated to the dramatic profession, and which is now a splendid and permanent monument to his fame and generosity.

I saw him frequently and had many chats with him. When I undertook the management of E. H. Southern, he was very much interested because he knew young Sothern's father, the original Lord Dundrery; so, when Mr. Sothern appeared in the first play under my management, "The Highest Bidder," I invited Mr. Booth to witness the performance. He expressed his delight at seeing his old friend's son doing such delightful work, and the three of us afterwards met at a little supper at the Players'. He told us that he came nearly being the Godfather of young Sothern, and that he was to have been called "Edwin" after himself; but the reason why his name was changed to "Edward," he explained, was as follows: When young Sothern was born in New Orleans, the elder Sothern telegraphed Booth, asking him to stand as Godfather to his boy, but Booth did not wish to take the responsibility, doubtless for reasons of his own, and so his name was changed to "Edward"; but he confessed that it was a matter he greatly regretted. He told us many stories of his early career as an actor, one of which I remember as a very amusing experience on the part of the elder actor when on his way to Australia. Mr. Booth had an engagement to play in that distant section, and with five members, the nucleus of a company, started from San Francisco. They had occasion to stop at Honolulu en route. The stop there being longer than originally anticipated, and the news of his arrival having spread, King Kamehameha sent a request that he give a performance of "Richard III" in the local theater. In spite of managerial difficulties, Booth (being then a young man, ardent and ambitious) sought to give a semblance with the scanty material at hand, of a fair performance. He had to secure the cooperation of members of the local amateur company. The best he was enabled to do for the part of Queen Elizabeth was an actor, short in stature, defective in speech and accent, but earnest in temperament, whom he cast for this eminent role. The other parts were filled as best he could, and the principals with him enabled Mr. Booth to give some semblance of a decent performance. In order to properly advertise the event, he secured the assistance of several Hawaiians, and furnished them with a paste made out of their native product called "poi." He discovered later, to his amazement, that not a bill had been posted, and that the "poi," being a valuable food article, had been appropriated by the two individuals, who decamped. Mr. Booth, with his colleagues, then personally posted the town with the bills of the impending performance. On the evening the house was crowded. The King occupied a seat in the wings, there being no place for him in the hall. When the throne scene was to be set for the play, word was sent to His Majesty humbly asking the loan of the throne chair, which he then occupied, for use in the scene--a favor which His Royal Highness readily granted. At the end of the performance, word was brought to Booth that the King wished to see him. Booth, shy and modest as he was, and feeling that he could not speak the language, or that His Royal Highness could not speak his, approached His Majesty timidly. The latter stepped forward, slapped the actor heartily on the back and said: "Booth, this is as fine a performance as I saw your father give twenty years ago."

The question as to whether an actor should feel his part or control his emotions, has been an argument which has interested the dramatic profession for many years, since it was first promulgated by the French writer Diderot, and afterwards ably discussed by Henry Irving and Coquelin. Of course, we all feel that no matter how violent the actor's stress of emotion is, he must control his resources with absolute restraint and poise. Sometimes, however, an actor feels he is under the sway of his part in an unusual degree and comes to the conviction, through his excitement, that he has given a greater performance than usual. So Booth, one night at his own theater, seeing his beloved daughter in a box, and desiring to impress her with his work, played with, as he felt, a degree of emotion that made him realize that he had given an unusually powerful interpretation. At the end of the play, his daughter ran back to him and said: "Why, dad, what is the matter with you?" And Booth, awaiting her approval, said: "Matter?" "Why you gave the worst performance I ever witnessed," she said. This control of one's resources and the check upon one's feelings was indicated at another time during a performance of Booth, of "Richelieu," as told to me by the actor's friend, the late Laurence Hutton, the writer. Mr. Hutton and Mr. Booth were sitting in the latter's dressing room at Booth's Theater. Booth was, as usual, smoking his beloved pipe. When he heard his cue, he arose, and walked with Hutton to the prompter's entrance, where, giving his pipe to his friend, said: "Larry, will you keep the pipe going until I come off?" Booth entered on the scene; then came the big moment in the play when the nobles and the weak King had assembled to defy the power of the Cardinal; and Richelieu launches (as Booth always did with thrilling effect) the terrifying curse of Rome--a superb bit of oratorical eloquence. At the conclusion, the house shouted its wild and demonstrative approval, and when the curtain dropped on this uproar for the last time, Booth approached Hutton at the prompter's entrance saying, in his usual quiet voice: "Is the pipe still going, Larry?"

No actor we have ever known has inspired so much genuine affection--I may say almost idolatry--as the simple Edwin Booth aroused in the hearts of his friends and his fellow-workers. In the beautiful Players' Club House, which he bequeathed to the dramatic profession, he presented also his own valuable theatrical library, numbering several thousand memorable works on the stage; and no one event greater than this gift to his fellow-players has ever occurred in the dramatic profession.

[signed]Daniel Frohman

God of My Faith

A Play for Pacifists in One Act

"If the God of my faith be a liar Who is it that I shall trust?"

The People in the Play

Nelson Dartrey

Dermod Gilruth

The action passes in Dartrey's Chambers in the late Spring of Nineteen Hundred and Fifteen.

(The lowering of the Curtain momentarily will denote the passing of several days.)

God of My Faith

The curtain discloses a dark oak room

NELSON DARTREY is seated at a writing table studying maps. He is a man in the early thirties, prematurely worn and old. His face is burned a deep brick color and is sharpened by fatigue and loss of blood. His hair is sparse, dry and turning gray. Around the upper part of his head is a bandage covered largely by a black skull-cap. Of over average height the man is spare and muscular. The eye is keen and penetrating: his voice abrupt and authoritative. An occasional flash of humor brings an old-time twinkle to the one and heartiness to the other. He is wearing the undress uniform of a major in the British army.

The door bell rings.

With an impatient ejaculation he goes into the passage and opens the outer door. Standing outside cheerfully humming a tune is a large, forceful, breezy young man of twenty-eight. He is DERMOD GILRUTH. Splendid in physique, charming of manner, his slightly-marked Dublin accent lends a piquancy to his conversation. He has all the ease and poise of a traveled, polished young man of breeding. Dartrey's face brightens as he holds out a welcoming hand.

DARTREY

Hello, Gil.

GILRUTH

(Saluting him as he laughs genially) May I come into officers' quarters?

DARTREY

I'm glad to have you. I'm quite alone with yours on my hands. (He brings Gilruth into the room and wheels a comfortable leather arm chair in front of him) Sit down.

GILRUTH

Indeed I will not. Look at your desk there. I'll not interrupt your geography for more than a minute.

DARTREY

(Forces him into the chair) I'm glad to get away from it. Why, you look positively boyish.

GILRUTH

And why not? I am a boy. (Chuckles)

DARTREY

What are you so pleased with yourself about?

GILRUTH

The greatest thing in the world for youth and high-spirits. I'm going to be married next week.

DARTREY

(Incredulously) You're not?

GILRUTH

I tell you I am.

DARTREY

Don't be silly.

GILRUTH

What's silly about it?

DARTREY

Oh, I don't know.

GILRUTH

Of course you don't know. You've never tried it.

DARTREY

I should think not.

GILRUTH

Well, I'm going to and I want you to father me. Stand up beside me and see me through. Will you?

DARTREY

If you want me to.

GILRUTH

Well, I do want you to.

DARTREY

All right.

GILRUTH

You don't mind now?

DARTREY

My dear chap. It's charming of you to think of me.

GILRUTH

I've known you longer than any one over here. And I like you better. So there you are.

DARTREY

(Laughing) Poor old Dermod! Well, well!

GILRUTH

There's nothing to laugh at, or "well, well" about.

DARTREY

Do I know the---?

GILRUTH

(Shakes his head) She's never been over before. Everything will be new to her. I tell you it's going to be wonderful. I've planned out the most delightful trip through Ireland--she's Irish, too.

DARTREY

Is she?

GILRUTH

But, like me, born in America. She's crazy to see the old country.

DARTREY

She couldn't have a better guide.

GILRUTH

(Enthusiastically) She's beautiful, she's brilliant: she's good--she's everything a man could wish.

DARTREY

That's the spirit. Will you make your home over here?

GILRUTH

No. We'll stay till the autumn. Then I must go back to America. But some day when all this fighting is over and people talk of something besides killing each other I want to have a home in Ireland.

DARTREY

I suppose most of you Irishmen in America want to do that?

GILRUTH

Indeed they do not. Once they get out to America and do well they stay there and become citizens. My father did. Do you think he'd live in Ireland now? Not he. He talks all the time about Ireland and the hated Sassenachs--that's what he calls you English--and he urges the fellows at home in the old country to fight for their rights. But since he made his fortune and became an American citizen the devil a foot has he ever put on Irish soil. He's always going, but he hasn't go there yet. And as for living there? Oh, no, America is good enough for him, because his interests are there. I want to live in Ireland because my heart is there. So was my poor mother's.

(Springing up) Now I'm off. You don't know how happy you make me by promising to be my best man.

DARTREY

My dear fellow--

GILRUTH

And just wait until you see her. Eyes you lose yourself in. A voice soft as velvet. A brain so nimble that wit flows like music from her tongue. Poetry too. She dances like thistledown and sings like a thrush. And with all that she's in love with me.

DARTREY

I'm delighted.

GILRUTH

I want her to meet you first. A snug little dinner before the wedding. She's heard so much against the English I want her to see the best specimen they've got.

(Dartrey laughs heartily) I tell you if you pass muster with her you have the passport to Kingdom come. (Laughing as well as he grips Dartrey's hand) Good-by.

DARTREY

(As they walk to the door) When will it be?

GILRUTH

Next Tuesday. I'll ring you up and give you the full particulars.

DARTREY

In church?

GILRUTH

Church! Cathedral! His Eminence will officiate.

DARTREY

Topping.

GILRUTH

Well, you see, we Irish only marry once. So we make an occasion of it.

DARTREY

Splendid. I'll look forward to it.

GILRUTH

(Looking at the bandage) Is your head getting all right?

DARTREY

Oh, dear, yes. It's quite healed up. I'll have this thing off in a day or two. (Touching the bandage) I expect to be back in a few weeks.

GILRUTH

(Anxiously) Again?

DARTREY

Yes.

GILRUTH

If ever a man had done his share, you have.

DARTREY

They need me. They need us all.

GILRUTH

The third time.

DARTREY

There are many who have done the same.

GILRUTH

(Shudders) How long will it last?

DARTREY

Until the Hun is beaten.

GILRUTH

Years, eh?

DARTREY

It looks like it. We've hardly begun yet. It will take a year to really get the ball rolling. Then things will happen. Tell me. How do they feel in America? Frankly.

GILRUTH

All the people who matter are pro-Ally.

DARTREY

Are you sure?

GILRUTH

I'm positive.

DARTREY

Are you? Come, now.

GILRUTH

Why, of course I am.

DARTREY

They may be pro-Ally, but they're not pro-English.

GILRUTH

That's true. Many of them are not. But if ever the test comes, they will be.

DARTREY

(Shakes his head doubtfully) I wonder. It seems a pity not to bury all the Bunker-Hill and Boston-tea-chest prejudices.

GILRUTH

You're right there.

DARTREY

Why your boys and girls are taught in their school-books to hate us.

GILRUTH

In places they are. Now that I know the English a little I have been agitating to revisit them. It all seems so damned cheap and petty for a big country to belittle a great nation through the mouth of children.

DARTREY

There's no hatred like family hatred. After all we're cousins, speaking the same tongue and with pretty much the same outlook.

GILRUTH

There's one race in America that holds back as strongly as it can any better understanding between the two countries, and that's my race--the Irish. And well I know it. I was brought up on it. There are men to-day, men of position too, in our big cities who have openly said they want to see England crushed in this war.

DARTREY

So I've heard. It would be a sorry day for the rest of civilization, and particularly America, if we were.

GILRUTH

You can't convince them of that. They carry on the prejudices and hatred of generations. I have accused some of them of being actively pro-German; of tinkering with German money to foster revolution in Ireland.

DARTREY

Do you believe that?

GILRUTH

I do. Thank God there are not many of them. I have accused them of taking German money and then urging the poor unfortunate poets and dreamers to do the revolting while they are safely three thousand miles away. I don't know of many who are willing to cross the water and do it themselves. Talking and writing seditious articles is safe. Take my own father. He says frankly that he doesn't want Germany to win because he hates Germans. Most Irishmen do. Besides they've done my father some very dirty tricks. But all the same he wants to see England lose. All the doubtful ones I know, who don't dare come out in the open, speak highly of the French and are silent when English is mentioned. I blame a great deal of that on your Government. You take no pains to let the rest of the world know what England is doing. You and I know that without the British fleet America wouldn't rest as easy as she does to-day, and without the little British army the Huns would have been in Paris and Calais months ago. We know that, and so do many others. But the great mass of people, particularly the Irish, cry all the time, "What is England doing?" Your government should see to it that they know what she's doing.

DARTREY

It's not headquarters' way.

GILRUTH