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 monde. 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.

They

They had been taught already that gold-hunting in this new country was useless; the principle was propounded by the great John Smith, and accepted afterwards universally, that only labor was good. "Nothing is to be expected thence but by labor," he wrote; and it was in labor and tears for the homes that had been left, and with a smile of hope to the future, that the first British settled in America. They had left Britain because of their loss of liberty, because of the unbearable tyrannies that had been forced upon them, because they yearned for freedom, for religious freedom. People of all nations went to this new land also. They had had their own sufferings and disappointments at home; they longed for a new life, new liberty, new opportunities. wished to be rid of all the shackles of the European systems, the tyrannical survivals of ancient times. They were for freedom and equality. But allegiance was paid to Britain until Britain, as we all know now and freely admit, made appalling blunders in her handling of the new colony. Loyalty was tested too far, tyranny ventured across the sea, and then the States declared for liberty complete and an end to the European system and all its hateful works. They would live their own lives in their own way, free and independent. They asked nothing of Europe, and would tolerate no interference. Europe could go on its own way, with its autocracies, its machinations, its alliances, its diplomatic exercises, its gigantic armies, and its continual threats and fears of wars. America was not for these things, but for peace and labor. That is the spirit of the States, and the country's great foundation. It has been to escape from the European thraldom, and obviously with a sense of disappointment with their homeland, that most emigrants

have gone to this new country. They have been tired of Europe. Perhaps at times America, in her strength and her independence, has been a little arrogant, but never was a country more entitled to a splendid pride. She is the wonder of the earth. Three hundred years have seen her grow from nothing but the wild land of the Red Indian tribes to be the pivot of the world, as we see her, and the undoubted center of future civilization, which moves from the old to the new. And yet if she has been, as we say, arrogant at times, too prideful perhaps, again let us call to mind that in her own great domestic war, when she fought to purge herself of slavery, some of us in Britain were not her best friends then. Still, by some of those to whom we have referred, it has been thought that, despite all this, at the first rattle of the guns in Europe, this blend of blood in America, a full mixture of all the white races, should immediately abandon its principle of separation from the European system and fly to the battlefields. All that its first separation from Europe had meant, and all that its three hundred years of American history had taught, were to be given up. But, it is said, there was the cause of Humanity, there was the case of Belgium, the Lusitania, and a thousand other things. These were tremendous matters; America weighed them well. She was not indifferent; gradually, surely, she brought herself to the sacrifice of the great principle on which she had established herself, that of her absolute independence and separation from the European system. Naturally, some provocations to which she was subjected forced the decision, but there was never any doubt as to the direction in which her sympathies and tendencies lay.

And, again, as to what seemed her hesitation, it is not appreciated how

far America is from Britain. I do not mean in a mere matter of mileagethough even then it is far but in thought. New York, the eastern shore, is near enough; but only those who have traveled through the country, have boarded one of the great west-going trains from the Central or Pennsylvania stations in the city, and, with the big engine bells clanging mournfully through the night, have followed the path of the sun and gone over thousands of miles of barely developed country, sped over the prairies, gone on and on towards the far Pacific, can understand how distant Britain seems to be, how utterly remote is our dear land. In the central States it has seemed to the wanderer to be nearly as far away as the stars themselves; and I remember how once, after such a wandering, returning to the east coast, I saw the Atlantic sea again for the first time one autumn afternoon at Newport,

Chambers's Journal.

Rhode Island, and, for very joy of the fact that this same ocean touched my native shore, ran down to the beach to splash hands upon the wavelets as some demonstration of affection. But the people of other races, a blend of races, so far remote from Britain, going on peacefully with their business, were expected to hurry to the slaughter at its first beginning. Herein one tries to present the case not from a partisan view, but as it might appear from the neutral view and fairly. On our side we know what there is to be said, and it need not be repeated. The heart of the American people is good and true. We who have been with them in their homes know them better than do those who merely see them passing through our country on their holiday trips. They need no lessons in right, in conscience, or in strength. The life of Abraham Lincoln was not thrown away.

Henry Leach.

The arrival in British waters of a flotilla of American destroyers makes the fine speech of Sir Edward Carson at the luncheon of the Navy League particularly timely and appropriate. The toast which the First Lord proposed goes home to all our race. He drank to "the American Navy." We hail that pledge, as he gave it, "from the bottom of our hearts." No Englishman will be surprised to hear that the squadron which has been dispatched so promptly to our aid is in all respects worthy of the great people whose flag it carries. Scientific construction and armament are old traditions of that service, as are the skill, the daring, and the discipline of its officers and seamen. We have learned to admire these things as characteristic of the

American Navy in war and in peace by the experiences of a hundred years. We have learned too that the men who sail under the Stars and Stripes share with our own sailors the frank "chivalry of the sea." They taught us many a bitter lesson in the wars of the Revolution and of 1812, but the shipmates of Decatur and of Stewart were manly and honorable foes. In the long years since England and America entered upon the peace which this war promises to make perpetual they have been our comrades and our friends in every sea. It was an American sailor who on a famous occasion proclaimed that "blood is thicker than water"-a truth we did not forget on an eventful day in Manila Bay; and it was to the ringing cheers of the Trenton,