Puslapio vaizdai

And Tagore has repeated the same handful—are we even a handful?inspired words, for on this proud who believe in it. And even if I were principle Tagore and Gandhi agree. the only one to believe in it, what

"Our object,” Gandhi has said, “is would it matter! The true characterfriendship with the whole world. istic of faith is not to deny the hostility Non-violence has come to men, and it of the world, but to recognize it and to will remain. It is the annunciation of believe in spite of it! Faith is a peace on earth.”

battle. And our non-violence is the The peace of the world is far off. most desperate battle. The way to We have no illusions. We have seen, peace is not through weakness. We abundantly, during the course of half do not fight violence so much as a century, the hypocrisy, the coward- weakness. Nothing is worth while ice, and the cruelty of mankind. But unless it is strong, neither good nor this does not prevent us from loving evil. Absolute evil is better than mankind. For even among the worst emasculated goodness. Moaning pacthere is a nescio quid Dei. We know ifism is the death-knell of peace; it is the material ties that weigh on cowardice and lack of faith. Let those twentieth-century Europe, the crush- who do not believe, or who fear, ing determinism of economic condi- withdraw! The way to peace leads tions which hem it in; we know that through self-sacrifice. centuries of passions and systematized This is Gandhi's message. The error have built a crust about our souls only thing lacking is the cross. Every which the light cannot pierce. But we one knows that had it not been for the also know what miracles the spirit can Jews, Rome would not have given it work.

to Christ. The British Empire is no Historians, we have seen its glory better than ancient Rome. The imbrighten skies even darker than our petus has been given. The soul of own. We, who live but a day, have Oriental peoples has been moved in caught in India the sound of the its deepest fibers, and its vibrations tambour of Civa, the Master Dancer are felt the whole world over. who veils his devouring eye and guards The great religious apparitions of his steps to save the world from plunging the Orient are ruled by a rhythm. into the abyss."

One thing is certain, either Gandhi's The Realpolitiker of violence, spirit will triumph, or it will manifest whether revolutionary or reactionary, itself again, as were manifested, cenridicule our faith, and reveal thereby turies before, the Messiah and Buddha, their ignorance of deep reality. Let till there finally is manifested, in a them jeer! I have this faith. I know mortal half-god, the perfect incarnait is scorned and persecuted in Europe, tion of the principle of life which will and that in my own land we are but a lead a new humanity on to a new path.

(The end of "Mahatma Gandhi.")

Zeb Kinney on Professors


I don't know why I asked him what he thought
Of that peculiar brand of summer folk
Who rusticate among us three full months
Of every year. Perhaps it was that all
The other topics had been grappled with,
Or, better, paddled with, for that was no
Fit morning to be grappling anything.
The northern sun lay lovingly along
The sloping ledges on the western bank
Of that still cove where most of us had loafed
The finest mornings of our lives away,
Discussing, smoking, whittling in the sun-
Brown ledges whose soft shade reflected warmth,
And held our bodies anchored to the field,
Our legs extending downward to the shore,
A sort of no-man's-land for loafing in.
The grass around these ledges, beaten down,
Had turned from green to tawny and lay flat,
Enfolding that appeal one gets from paths
Leading from kitchen doors to pasture wells.
We sat and dozed together, rousing only
When little pollock flipped above the cove,
Or some bright burst of sunlight hit beneath
A sea-gull's wing directly overhead,
When Zeb, whose ruminations held him still
For nearly twenty minutes, straightened up
Above his favorite forty-five-degree

Extent of relaxation on the ledge,
Jabbed for a broken lath to whittle on,
Cleared out his throat, and rid himself of this:
“Well, these professors that you ask about
Who come here every year are curious.
I s'pose it takes all kinds to make a world,
And none of us should be too heavy on
A neighbor, even if he don't belong.
Of course they don't belong, that 's sure enough:
The smell of herrin' bait in George's skiff
Would knock the stoutest of them galley west;
And none of them appears to be real rugged.
When they go out to hand-line cod with me
They keep a-lookin' round at birds and boats
And colors on the channel, -scursely one
Can ketch his share of cod,-and never once
Has ary one of them hauled up his sleeves
And helped me gut a fish when we rowed in.
They read the books that other people don't,
And never talk about the books they read,
Leastwise to us; and some of them go in
And pound the type-writer three times a day,
Like I would go to meals; but what they write
Not one of us hears ary word about.
I figger out they write their heavy books
For one another, not for common duffers.
They play book-lairnin' games of hide-and-seek
As we play racin' with our motor-boats
On August mornin's when the shedderin'
And weather has us all a-feelin' good.
I peeked jest out o' curiosity

At some type-written papers once up-stairs,
And found it all about the big mistake
Professor Somebody in Germany
Had made in chapter four of his big book
On quails. I don't suspect that chap could tell
An early oldsquaw from a patchhead coot.
Next thing somebody else will write a book
In which this squid will have his gills hauled out
For some mistake he's made; it 's all jest like
A batch of kittens playin' with their tails.
Leastwise, that 's 'bout the way I figger it.

They don't go out enough and let the sun
Beat down and make them look like other folks;
They shrink before us lobster-ketchers do;
And hate to have their children roll around
In dirt and mud, like every youngster should.
Of course they would n't take advice from me:
But I can see them gather barnacles
Like my old sloop out there in Lobster Cove.
When barnacles and eel-grass slow her down,
I haul her up and take the scraper to her:
That's what professors need—a good sharp scraper
To clean the rubbish off their garboards, clean
The gubber from their engine-valves and pipes,
To perk them up so they 'll get back their sprawl.

Here comes one now through Amariah's field
To see how we behave when we set here
And talk the mornin' out; he 'll listen to us,
And then go back and tell how quaint we be.
It takes all kinds of folks to make a world.”

Uncle Sam and the Statue of Liberty



NEW age is undoubtedly dawn- struggle, we and all other nations ing. Perhaps, toward evening, would thenceforth think world-widely.

when the day's work is behind Perhaps. We who cannot live without us, we shall find it in our hearts to say: these hopes find ourselves a little sick

at heart because we must defer them. "Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,

It is not blissful or heavenly to say But to be young was very heaven!"

"perhaps" when we had counted on To be perfectly candid, there is nothing saying “Eureka,” or to resume the very rapturous about it at the moment. battle-cry after rehearsing the pæan of It is heaven for those who are so victory. young that they are blissfully ignorant After a war waged against the exor blissfully irresponsible, but for those cesses of nationalism we wake up to of us who are old enough to remember find the world apparently more natheir past hopes and yet young enough tionalistic than ever. Old nationalto hope again, it is on the whole an isms have been intensified, and new uncomfortable awakening. It is dawn nationalisms have been created. The by the clock, but it is ominously dark war was fought by old nations that without. We do not feel refreshed, became superheated in the act of but a bit stiff and tired. There is a fighting it, and have not as yet rebad taste in our mouths. The noise covered their normal temperature; of the milkman is blended with the and it gave birth to new nations that lingering echoes of a nightmare. are normally superheated. The na

The new age is thus far not all that tionalistic revival in old nations is in we had hoped. We hoped that be- part an afterglow of belligerency, but cause capital and labor fraternized at it is at the same time a reaction Plattsburg, they would walk arm in against the war. The end of the war arm down the corridors of time; and caught them in unnatural postures, perhaps they will. We hoped that

We hoped that and their first impulse was to recover because they were allies in a righteous their balance. The very novelty of cause, the English, the French, the the new age following the confusion of Italians, and the Americans would the war has led to a sort of giddiness thenceforth live in perfect understand- and loss of orientation. ing and love. Perhaps they will. The present cult of Americanism is We hoped that enduring peace would thus a blend of militancy and selfresult from unendurable war, and that examination. Having recently been having participated in a world-wide at war and having tasted success, we

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