Questions for Pacifists

I

THE propaganda for universal peace has been one of the prominent worldmovements of our time. Until recently it was apparently making substantial headway. A literature of immense volume, much of it of high intellectual quality, had developed; a great number of peace societies had been organized; ‘foundations,’ dedicating many millions of dollars to the cause, had been established; international conferences, embracing a wide variety of subjects, had been held, the most important being the historic Hague Conferences; arbitration treaties in increasing numbers had been entered into; and a powerful body of public opinion averse to war had been developed in all lands. There had indeed been warnings of impending danger, and there had been caution against trusting to theories which were liable to prove more visionary than practical; but on the whole the movement had met with amazing success, and many earnest minds had come to believe that such a thing as a general war among the nations was not a probability of the future.

In the midst of this summer sunshine of confidence and hope burst the terrible cyclone of the present war. As we look back upon those fateful days of July and August, 1914, how impossible and unreal seemed the drama then forming! How earnestly, to the last, men clung to the belief that it could not be! How incredible it seemed that such a ‘crime,’ as it was universally stigmatized, could be committed! It came to pass, nevertheless. Irresistibly it has gone on developing, until it has become the most stupendous of man’s performances since history began. In following day by day with burning eagerness the course of events, we are overwhelmed on the one hand with the proof of man’s collective power to do great things, and dismayed on the other at his impotence to deflect in the slightest degree the inscrutable course of fate. We have been undergoing an education — in geography, in history, in knowledge of races, of government, and of the times in which we live, and above all in the complexity of motives which control the affairs of men. Except among extremists, the cheerful assurance with which theories of public policy on these matters were set up and expounded only yesterday is less in evidence to-day. The problem of war and peace stands out in all its perplexing intricacies as has never been the case before, and men frankly confess that they know not whether to face the future with confidence or with despair.

Nevertheless, enlightened opinion on the subject of war has not changed in any essential respect as a result of the catastrophe which has befallen the world. It still holds that, in our civilization, war has become an anachronism; that some better way must be found; that, as man has met and overcome, or is surely overcoming, the scourges of pestilence, famine, and flood, so he must overcome this greatest of human scourges; and that, in particular, the gnawing canker of armed peace must in some way be purged from the body politic. Public feeling on this subject has been greatly intensified by the experience which the world is now undergoing, and the best minds of the age are studying the problem as never before. Peace organizations the world over, pacifist writers and speakers, and even trained political observers, have put forth, with greater confidence than prudence, perhaps, their particular theories for its solution. Here are a few taken at random from as many published programmes : ‘world-state,’ ‘supreme court of nations,’ ‘confederacy of European states,’ ‘league of peace,’ ‘international police force,’ ‘national disarmament,’ ‘nationalization of armament manufacture,’ ‘abolition of secret diplomacy,’ ‘elimination of economic causes of war,’ ‘no war indemnities,’ ‘no changes of territory without consent of inhabitants,’ and so forth.

It is the purpose of this article to examine as closely as may be in so brief a space some of these tenets of the peace propagandists; to estimate their value as practical working hypotheses; and to inquire if their almost negative record of achievement thus far is to be taken as a reasonable prognostication of their future success.

II

In the medley of purposes outlined above, one idea stands prominently forth, — that, namely, of a world-organization which shall take over and handle these complicated international problems. The model which is generally in mind, particularly here in America, is the federal system of the United States, in which matters of interstate concern are managed by the individual states; and in which there is a judicial tribunal for the determination of controversies between the states. Inasmuch, however, as such a consummation is admittedly a matter of the distant future, lesser ends of more immediate promise, but stepping stones to the ultimate goal,are proposed. Among these are the world-court, the league of peace, and the international police force, just referred to. They all partake in some degree of world-authority, and imply some surrender of individual state authority. It is therefore desirable, at the outset, to inquire what are the chief obstacles liable to be encountered in applying to the problem in hand this fundamental principle which to the pacifist seems so logical and so ideal.

The distinctive characteristic of the state is its sovereignty. It recognizes no higher authority than itself. Some states have greater power than others, and are able, by its arbitrary exercise, to impose their will upon weaker states; but there is no such acknowledged right. Now to bring into existence any form of world-organization, or to recognize an international police force, is to surrender pro tanto this sovereignty. It would be in itself a complete revolution in human affairs. It is difficult to estimate what this means, particularly to strong and vigorous states, proud of their nationality, intent on working out their separate destiny, biding their time, and watching their opportunity for greater development. Nothing is more repugnant to such a state than the thought of surrendering any of its prerogatives. It has been one of the most difficult things to accomplish,even on a relatively small scale. Our own country is an example. To-day we can scarcely appreciate the reluctance, the dread and suspicion with which our little original states gave up a part of their sovereignty to form a union, and their unwillingness to subject themselves to the possibility of compulsion; and how for two generations, until quenched in a mighty war, the claim of the right to assert this sovereignty persisted. The history of the long process of merging the many German states into a single empire is full of examples of this unwillingness to give up any portion of independence. How much stronger must this feeling be where states are so much more unrelated than in the examples cited, — often of different races, languages, systems of religion and government, and estranged by historic antagonisms and prejudices! One cannot expect such a consummation among such states except as a result of slow evolution. It may come — it would seem that ultimately it must come in some form — but it will not be to-day or to-morrow or at the close of the present war.

It is impossible to exaggerate the force of this consideration. It is the one which embraces all others. Special objections to this or that feature of the general scheme invariably come back to the objection that the sacrifice of a great principle is being made; that ideals are being surrendered. The guiding spirits of most of the great powers, while they may not take the extreme view of Treitschke that ‘ the idea of a world-state is odious,’ do nevertheless feel that, however beautiful as an ideal, it is not yet a practical ideal.

Of the lesser measures to which reference has been made, the world-court comes least into conflict with the principle of sovereignty, and may be looked to as a promising development of the near future. A strong movement for its advocacy has already been organized in this country. Even if resort to such a court be entirely voluntary, and without any infringement of state sovereignty, increasing use and the winning of public confidence may gradually develop it into a powerful agency for peace. Akin to this method in principle is that of arbitration, which is already firmly established in practice and which will continue until the growth of the world-court shall absorb its functions.

The defect of these methods is the very quality which recommends them as initial measures, — their voluntary character. There is nowhere any superauthority to compel states to resort to them and to abide by their decrees. They are the voice of persuasion rather than the voice of command. They undoubtedly promote peace, but they have no power to prevent war. Moreover, so long as national rivalry in military strength continues unchecked, it would seem that neither method can bring much relief from the burden of armed peace. To accomplish these ends the power of coercion must reside somewhere, and this recognized necessity is the raison d’être of the muchtalked-of league of peace. Its fundamental purpose is to enforce peace among states by the use of military force, if failure of pacific methods makes it necessary. The future organization of such a league is as yet inchoate and only dimly discerned. The nearest approach to a definite proposition which has fallen under the writer’s observation is contained in a recent pamphlet issued by the American Society for the Judicial Settlement of International Disputes. It makes the concrete suggestion that the league should embrace ‘all or nearly all’ of the progressive states, but not the non-progressive; that it should be executive in character, leaving the determination of controversies to some form of court, and confining itself to enforcement of the court’s decisions and to the maintenance of order; and that its police force (which should be both army and navy) ‘should be a federal force, supported and controlled by the league . . . and overwhelmingly stronger than the military and naval forces of any one member of the league.’ What the nature of the compact forming this league is to be, or how its powers, resources, and obligations are to be defined, there is nowhere vouchsafed any suggestion, for the reason, no doubt, that no one has yet succeeded in devising a workable plan.

With a caution born of long experience, Great Britain’s distinguished Premier recently referred to this subject as follows: ‘It [the result of the war] ought to mean, perhaps, by a slow and gradual process, the substitution for force, for the chaos of competition, for groupings and alliances and a precarious equipoise—the substitution for all these things of a real European partnership, based on the recognition of equal rights, and established and enforced by a common will.’ But Mr. Asquith does not enlighten us as to how this ‘European partnership’ will differ, except in the numbers embraced, from the alliances and ententes which it is intended to replace. As to this supremely important matter we are everywhere left in the dark.

It must, we think, be assumed that, to start with, the proposed league of peace would be strictly in the nature of an alliance among its members, subject to the weakness and uncertainties of such alliances. If it were considered indispensable that all the great powers be members, the project would no doubt be so emasculated by mutual concessions necessary to unanimous consent as to lose all force and vitality from the outset. If the league were limited to such of the powers as could agree on a reasonably efficient working plan, the question of the extent of its activities would at once assume serious importance. It is suggested by some that its functions be limited to the preservation of peace among its own members. This might fall far short of effective results, particularly if it excluded those nations which are the chief disturbers of the peace. If, as some others suggest, it assumed police power over non-members, it might succeed with non-progressive and lawless states, and utterly fail with a highly efficient military power. In any case, attempted coercion, whether against members or against outsiders, would mean war pure and simple, probable invasion of territory, and all the accompanying evils of armed strife. It is doubtful if any league could stand the strain of such a situation. The more one attempts to figure out in detail how such a scheme could be made to work practically, the more one’s doubts of its feasibility increase.

Let us now pass to a consideration of the agency or means by which the league of peace is to carry its purposes into effect. It is apparent at the outset that the ultimate reliance of such a league must be physical force — coercion. It will, if necessary, make war to maintain peace. Recalcitrant states are to be held in line by military force, if conciliation fails. An international police force is therefore an indispensable agency of the league, and its probable organization becomes interesting to examine. The idea itself is backed by very high authority, and indeed something of this kind appears to be necessary to the existence and efficiency of the league itself. But the moment we descend from generalities to particulars we land in serious difficulty. How would such a force be made up? If of already organized units — vessels of war, regiments, and so forth—contributed by the several states, there would be the complicated question of command, with its fruitful sources of friction; the liability, if not certainty, of defection of any contingent whose state might be the subject of coercion; and other embarrassments which readily suggest themselves. If, on the other hand, the force should be an entirely new and self-contained organization, ‘supported and controlled by the league,’ there would have to be an independent sovereign power in the league itself to bring it into existence at all. This is important, in view of the discussion in the paragraphs immediately preceding, as showing to what lengths the league organization must go before it would have the power to create an international police. Assuming that it had progressed far enough for that purpose, the force would presumably be recruited from all the world, certainly from all the states constituting the league; but even then, differences of language and custom would necessitate organizing the units by nationality, with the risks and uncertainties just pointed out.

On whom would such a force rely for munitions of war and all the vast equipment necessary to make it efficient? To whom would it look for funds? If dependent upon contributions and without power to enforce them, its existence would be precarious. Where would be its rendezvous, or base of operations? Surely not scattered among the different states, and no state would consent that it be located in any other. Some independent situation would have to be provided. Would such a force be military and naval? Or naval only? How strong would it be? If ‘ overwhelmingly stronger than the military and naval forces of any one member of the league,’ — and this is indeed a logical conclusion, if the force is to be really effective, — we can imagine what it would mean if Great Britain and Germany, with their normal establishments, were members. Is it not certain that the burden of armed peace would be greatly increased? Such a result must necessarily follow unless a way is found to curtail materially existing military and naval establishments. This brings us directly to that feature of the problem which is the most difficult and complicated of all, yet the most important and the one on which the success of the whole movement depends, — a substantial reduction of existing armaments.

III

The writer should perhaps state his grounds for the opinion just expressed, that the armament question is the most important in the whole war-and-peace problem. War itself is of short duration; it produces results, and relief and recuperation follow. But armed peace is a never-ceasing loss, and the hopeless feature of it is that it never arrives. It is a constant outlay without commensurate return. With the utmost that can be done, the relative strengths of states are changed but slightly if at all. Possibly the weaker states profit by this preparation as compared with their more powerful neighbors, but even this is doubtful. It may in some cases tend to preserve peace; in others it certainly makes for war. It does one or the other according to its purpose and the strenuosity with which it is carried on. When war-preparation is purely from a defensive motive, and not aggressive, as may truthfully be said of nations like the United States and Switzerland, it certainly has a tendency to deter aggression and to make for peace. But when such preparation is made with war as an object of national policy, or to keep up a rivalry of military or naval power, its tendency is to arouse suspicion of motive, to foster the belief that such preparation means war, and thus directly to lead to the likelihood of war.

The impossible feature of the situation lies in the absence of any criterion or mutual understanding among the powers as to the lengths to which each may go. Indeed, such an understanding seems supremely difficult to arrive at. Fear, suspicion, and the imperative duty of self-defense cause each rival state to meet every move of its neighbor, and if possible to surpass it. Unrestrained rivalry constantly sets new standards, and leads onward from one excess to another, until there seems no end except in the capacity of genius to devise and of national wealth to construct. It is a sort of mathematical series with infinity as its limit. It grows by its own growth. A departure or addition at one point provokes one at another. Rival nations, in their strenuous efforts to outdo one another, keep up a mad race which has no attainable goal.¹ Implements of war, which, when built, were considered the last word in their line, suddenly become antiquated through some new discovery and achievement, and have to be superseded. The ‘obsolete’ contingent in national armaments is something stupendous, not so much because armament wears out as because it is outgrown by newer devices. To no other subject is the ingenuity of the race so incessantly and intensely applied. The drain itself is perpetual and enormous. If it achieved results things would be different, but it does not, for it leaves the nations relatively where they were before.

It is not intended to argue that this system should be done away with simply for the relief of the taxpayer. No greater mistake could be committed by a state than to make that an object of policy. Every citizen should sacrifice something for the public good — it is really for his own good. A few less entertainments, circuses, drinks, and cigars would more than cancel the burden, and the individual himself would be better off. The toll of the ‘movies’ last year is given by a high authority as $275,000,000, or more than the annual cost of the American army and navy. The great misfortune is that no strictly national purpose except defense seems adequate to call forth these efforts. The Panama Canal came nearest it. It is not the burden itself of armed peace, but the uselessness of it, that the writer condemns. There may be some compensations (apart from the very necessary ones of self-defense and proper standing with other powers), such as the discipline and education of universal military service in Europe, and the reflected advantage to industrial life of scientific discoveries for military purposes; but on the whole it is without adequate compensation, or anything approaching it, and some degree of relief from it should be a primary object of statesmanship.

It is not surprising, in view of the magnitude of the evil aimed at, that all peace programmes demand a reduction of armament and armed forces. It is surprising that none of them is specific as to how it is to be accomplished. The end is obvious enough, the means are not obvious at all. It may be suggested that reduction be upon the basis of equal armaments for all the great powers. But A says, ‘That will not do for me: I rely upon my navy for protection, and I must maintain my superiority on the sea.’ Should a reduction proportionate to present strength then be suggested, B protests that it is as great a state as A, and that it cannot, in keeping with its own dignity, admit the right of A to a greater control of the sea than its own. If A can keep for itself that control, well and good, but no compact can be entered into that will make it secure. Paraphrasing Wordsworth, — ‘Let him take who has the power, and let him keep who can.’ And there you are; how is the consenting mind to be obtained?

The suggestion that land forces be limited to the police necessities of the various states is a precarious one. B would judge its necessities very much by what C was doing; and conversely, C would estimate its requirements very much by the standards maintained by its neighbors. Who would decide, and how would the decision be enforced?

It may also be suggested that land forces be established on a basis of a certain percentage of the population. But the small state would protest that that would be to sign and seal its inferiority from the outset. Being a weaker state, it stands more in need of protection than a large one, and must be allowed to meet the situation to the full extent of its ability. Thus, in Switzerland every man is a soldier. This argument is reasonable, nay conclusive, and there is no sufficient answer.

Closely related to the question of the reduction of armament is the demand that its manufacture be nationalized. The purpose is to eliminate the element of private profit in such manufacture, and the assumed tendency on the part of the manufacturer to favor military expenditures in order to increase opportunities for gain. Those who advocate this policy are doubtless convinced that it is directed against a real evil. A manufacturer of war material is naturally not displeased at receiving profitable orders from his government, just as other manufacturers welcome orders for dredges, building materials, and so forth. But it would be difficult to establish any political influence of consequence emanating from such a source, and it is scarcely conceivable that public policy is determined by such considerations.

Admit for the moment, however, the existence of the evil; is the proposed remedy a practical one? What, in the first place, is it to embrace? Naval vessels, presumably, of all descriptions; likewise ordnance, from the heaviest cannon down; armor plate; aviation material; stores and munitions of war in all their enormous variety,and so forth. If the alleged influence of private profit is to be eliminated, all these things must be included. Now it is undoubtedly an advantage for a state to have plants for its more important war material sufficient to form a considerable reliance independent of private interests. Besides the advantage of control in time of war, they serve as a check on private contractors. But until general industry is nationalized more than it is likely to be for some time to come, such an extreme measure as that proposed would be very wasteful. The reason is plain. Private plants embrace a wide field of enterprise and are not dependent, as government plants would be, on a single line of work. With equal efficiency in both cases, the operation of the private plant should be the more economical. Then it would be wholly inadmissible to impose any such requirement upon smaller states; but that probably is not contemplated by its advocates. For both large and small states, therefore, any absolute requirement on these lines would seem unwise. Partial reliance, at least, on the outside, or on private establishments, would probably be considered indispensable by any state.

But if the proposition were accepted in principle, how could it be put into practice? The manufacture of material and munitions of war is an even more important necessity than the training of men. Men can be trained in a few months, but plants require years for creation. The government which should provide itself with the most complete plants might have a more decisive power in war than if it had a few regiments, dreadnoughts, or forts more than its rivals. It would be necessary for the league of peace to regulate this matter quite as strictly as any other feature of armed equipment, and this would mean entering the domain of every such power and exercising supervisory control. As a practical proposition it is certainly not very promising.

At this point more appropriately, perhaps, than at any other, we maynote one of the most fatuous policies of the ultra-pacifists. That is resistance to military preparedness of any sort, and insistence that individual states shall curtail armament irrespective of what others may do. In the perplexing difficulties of this question, the fact which stands out above all others is that nothing in this line can be done except by concert, tacit or positive, of the leading powers of the world. No one power can accomplish the work alone. And it is equally certain that the authority of any state in the council of nations will not be promoted by a self-adopted policy of disarmament. Military power carries respect and authority. Pending the accomplishment of some effective concert of action, it is the duty of every state to provide against eventualities. ‘It is idle,’ as Lloyd George once said, ‘to talk of disarming in the midst of an armed camp.’ And Viscount Bryce, at one of the Lake Mohonk Conferences, said, ‘Every nation must be prepared to repel all dangers at all likely to threaten.’ Franklin himself has left a similar record, and we know what Washington’s opinion was. It is impossible to get away from this necessity. While laboring assiduously to bring all nations into some common agreement in this matter, every state is in duty bound to keep itself prepared for what may befall.

And this brings out very forcibly certain inconsistencies of the various peace programmes, particularly of those originating in this country. They all indorse the idea of a league of peace, and its corollary, an international police force. The United States, being one of the most populous and wealthy of the great powers, and an acknowledged leader in the cause of peace, would naturally be expected to have a prominent share in this police force. What would have to be our contribution in men, ships, munitions of war, and money? By any possible consideration not based upon visionary assumptions, it would mean a material increase over our present establishment. Is it not incongruous, almost to the verge of absurdity, that those who oppose the necessary means for selfprotection here at home, while our country minds its own business, commit themselves, in theory, at least, to providing a greater force to be used in regulating the affairs of other nations?

The peace organization quoted a little way back, which seems to have gone into the subject more thoroughly than most of them, is of the opinion that the league of peace, though limited to the ‘progressive’ states, should nevertheless coerce the non-progressive states into maintenance of order. Yet this society, in common with all other peace organizations, would instantly repudiate the suggestion that the United States coerce Mexico into the maintenance of order.

All peace organizations commend with unstinted praise the time-honored policy of this country in holding aloof from European entanglements; yet by their very advocacy of a league of place and an international police force, they avowedly would commit their country to interference in every international controversy on the globe which should assume the character of armed conflict.

These points are not raised as an argument for intervention in Mexico, or against a league of peace, and the United States playing its full part therein; but to show how inconsistent with their own theories are those who are trying to keep their government from taking measures which are essential to its safety and its standing among the nations of the earth, and to the performance of self-assumed obligations on this continent.

IV

Only one other feature of the pacifist propaganda is it possible to consider here; but it is typical of the rest in the absence of any critical analysis by its proponents of its merits as a working proposition. With practical unanimity peace advocates demand that hereafter there shall be no transfers of territory as a result of war except with the consent of the inhabitants. And yet, despite this unanimity, it may be safely asserted that scarcely any other tenet of the peace propaganda has so little to support it, and that, as a workable scheme, it is impossible, and would be undesirable even if it could be carried out. It is based on erroneous premises. It assumes, as a matter of course, that the chief interest concerned is the population of the territory in question. That may or may not be the case. It certainly is not in many instances, some of which will be cited presently.

The interest of the inhabitant is mainly the sentimental one of partiality for the language, laws, and government to which he has been accustomed. It is a sentiment entitled to all the weight that may be given it without imperiling the greater interests of the world at large. These broader questions the average local resident is absolutely unqualified to pass upon, and it has happened more than once that transfers which were unwelcome to him have proved best even for his own personal interests. A plebiscite is, of all methods, the least rational for deciding such questions. Certain portions of a territory may be strong on one side, others on the other. How absurd to say that a majority of perhaps a few votes, influenced no doubt at the time by terrific pressure, is the proper criterion for determining the broad issues involved! Forcible conquest and subjugation of territory are to be avoided in the future, and public opinion is in no mood to permit them any longer; but that is very different from preventing (as the plebiscite method might do) such transfers as shall satisfy racial conditions, restore relations broken off by former violence, remove pregnant causes of unrest, and perhaps accomplish great ends in the economical, commercial, and social well-being of many related communities. For the determination of these questions there is still no better agency than an enlightened statesmanship, and the more closely the subject is studied, the more will this truth impress itself. Let us consider a few examples.

The cession of Louisiana to the United States was as much a result of military pressure as if compelled by the arms of this country. The Mississippi Valley had been inhabited nearly a century, even St. Louis being founded long before the Revolution. The transfer was a cause of much regret and sadness among the French inhabitants, who would certainly have voted against it, if given a chance. Yet that change was in the interest of a whole future empire of millions of people. To have permitted the wishes of the inhabitants to control in that matter would have been folly and really against their own interest. The same would have been true when the oldest American colony, Florida, was transferred to the United States, and likewise when was transferred the extensive region embracing the second oldest settlement, Santa Fé.

In fact, in any of the territorial acquisitions of the United States (except possibly Texas) no such course was even considered or would have been wise. It may be said that the circumstances were exceptional, but where is the line to be drawn? They were all old settlements, even if the number of inhabitants was small; and they were of different language, nationality, religion, and customs from the state to which they were transferred.

Consider the changes now imminent in European Turkey. The rearrangement of that territory, if the Turks lose in the present war, will certainly be a difficult problem; but if there is one agency to which it should not be left, it is the inhabitants themselves. The farmer of southern Russia and the consumer in France and England have a greater interest in the control of the shores of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles than has any one else. The spectacle in 1912, when the commerce of empires was held up in those straits, and the interests of millions of people in regions near and remote were jeopardized, — when at one time nearly 200 vessels laden with the varied commerce of civilization were riding idly at anchor because of the whim of a decadent government,— is one proof of the utter impossibility of leaving the destiny of that territory to the people who now happen to occupy it.

The case of Alsace-Lorraine is doubtless the one which advocates of this proposition have in mind. The conscience of the world has never approved the course of Germany in 1871. It is the one shining example in which a plebiscite might have wrought substantial justice, for the people were of one mind and there were no vital extraneous interests at stake. The situation would be different now, if the question were to come up again. The population would probably be nearly equally divided upon any question of transfer. Moreover, if the suggestion so frequently being made, that these provinces be erected into a neutral state in the interests of European peace, should seem advisable of adoption, would not the question assume a far-reaching character which would entirely overshadow the desires of the few who might throw an election one way or another?

And consider the very different case of Africa, the future destiny of which is in the hands of European civilization. Would a proposition to leave the political status of the vast interior of that continent to a vote of the native inhabitants in the approaching readjustment, be much more commendable than would have been a similar proposition to leave the political destiny of North America to a plebiscite of its original population?

Evidently this question is peculiarly one of details, to be decided only upon a thorough understanding of the circumstances of each particular case.

v

In the foregoing review of some of the articles of the pacifist creed, we have rejected the philosophy of the ostrich and have openly scrutinized our surroundings. If that scrutiny has disclosed things which we would rather not see, nevertheless, if they are there, it is better that we know it. Perhaps it may lead us to be more sparing in our censure of those charged with the handling of this great problem, and to admit that possibly the fault of slow accomplishment is not with them but with the infinite complexity of the problem itself. Indeed, we venture to assert that there has never existed in this world at any one time the combined wisdom adequate for its solution. Only by the slow process of gradual development — the work of years, perhaps of centuries, and of a multitude of minds — can the vast result be ultimately secured.

‘But,’ exclaims the impatient pacifist, ‘are we then helpless? Must things go on in this way forever? Here, at the beginning of this twentieth century, are we to confess our civilization a failure by its inability to avert a scourge like that now afflicting the earth?’

With a sense of misgiving which the vastness and complexity of the problem must needs inspire, the writer will undertake, in answer to this earnest protest, to state what seems to him the limit of accomplishment to which we may reasonably look in the near future.

To the moderatists in the peace cause the events now taking place in Europe, terrible as they are in outward manifestation, are full of promise. To speak of this struggle as a ‘war that shall end war’ is of course extravagant, but it is perfectly legitimate to expect from it the elimination of many causes of war previously existing. The scope of the struggle is so all-embracing that it will bring up for settlement pretty nearly all the questions which have hitherto endangered the peace of Europe. If it is carried to the point where real results are assured, and if wise statesmanship cements these results into just treaties, removing some of the causes which have been a perennial source of peril, avoiding any semblance of enforcing humiliation in defeat, recognizing the natural aspirations of rival states, and dealing with the whole problem in an attitude of concession which has been too absent in councils of the past, then the war may well mark a mighty advance in the cause of peace. No true friend of peace will seek to stop the war until these issues shall have been decided. To do so would simply be to render future wars inevitable, just as would have been the case in our Civil War if the misguided pacifists of that day had stopped it, as they tried to do, before it had accomplished its purpose. Can it be that those who would, if they could, bring about an immediate end of the war realize that principles are here being fought for which far transcend, in importance to the human race, the question of African slavery, over which our nation once struggled for four long years? Dreadful as the war is, it must proceed to its appointed end, if lasting results are to be achieved.

There is every reason to expect that the development of a world-court, to which misunderstandings among nations may be referred, will make substantial progress after the war. It is eminently a practical measure, and one which states can support and resort to without any sacrifice of sovereignty.

The organization of a league of peace and an international police force at the close of this war, only the over-sanguine need even hope for. If it comes so soon, it will certainly be one of the most astounding developments of all history. Mr. Asquith, in the statement quoted earlier in this paper, goes no further than to suggest that his ‘real European partnership’ can come only as a result of ‘a slow and gradual process.’ Friends of peace throughout the world should bend their present efforts, not so much to the doubtful early attainment of this end, as to assistance in every possible way toward a rational settlement of the present war. Everything depends upon that. It may be that an alliance including nations among whom causes of dispute are least likely to occur — say, to begin with, Great Britain, the United States,

France, and Japan — could be formed for the control of the high seas, and the prevention of hostile operations thereon. The sea being common property, without frontiers, and readily accessible in all its parts, a degree of control might be feasible there which would be entirely out of the question on land.

A beginning of this sort, if wholly free from prejudice against individual states, might eventually draw to itself the cooperation of all nations. But one can readily understand that the attempt would be largely experimental, and would be fraught with perils which not even the wisest can foresee.

Concerning the vexed question of armed peace, the more carefully it is analyzed, the more it becomes evident, that disarmament under stress of coercion in any form — whether by a single dominant power, a group or alliance, or even by a league of peace — would be a perilous undertaking. The writer confesses that the only measures which appeal to him as offering the least promise of success in this direction are those which must proceed from the people themselves of the several states, acting directly upon their governments. Such a policy must emanate mainly from the working classes, but cannot fail to receive support from professional and business classes. It must be based on international understandings and must be made effective through national legislatures. International social forces, already strong before the war, will be greatly strengthened by the war itself. A recent message of the wood-workers of Germany to their brethren in France (if press reports are cornet) is an indication of this spirit of tacit cooperation. While it was full of loyalty to the Fatherland, it recognized the same right and the same spirit among those who, for the moment, were in the rôle of enemies, and asserted its faith in the solidarity of human brotherhood. Whatever the working classes may at heart think of this war, their strategy in regard to it has been perfect: by their unquestioning support, they have placed their governments under eternal obligations to them, and they must be listened to in the future as they have not been in the past.

The obstacles in their way are formidable, but not insuperable. National jealousies and the doctrine of fear will be brought to bear upon them, not without effect, while in some states the voice of the people is as yet scarcely audible. Full coöperation of the kind suggested will have to await the further development of popular rule in such states. The obvious advantage of this method, however, is that it will be free of the hateful principle of military compulsion involved in the internationalpolice idea. Though based upon international understandings, it will still be entirely voluntary on the part of the different states.

Such, in crude outline, is our prognostication of the future of the peace cause. If it falls short of the expectations of some, we can only repeat, what we have already several times suggested, that the peace problem is a case for evolution, not revolution.