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on earth through time," and "war is the signally visible occurrence of such a flight of the divine spirit in its onward movement." It is the religion of our "Battle Hymn of the Republic," with its God. who tramples out His "grapes of wrath" and wields His "terrible swift sword." It is the religion of all Christian peoples when they go to war. But it is not Christianity.

Unfortunately for Christianity, we have not, as the Japanese have, a separate name for this official religion of tribal conflict; and when war breaks out, and the guns of the German tutelary deity destroy a temple of the French divinity,


we are appalled by the failure of Christianity to protect its churches from the followers of the Prince of Peace. We are not aware that, so to speak, Shintoism has disestablished Buddhism in Europe for the time. We do not say, like Ferrovius in Shaw's "Androcles and the Lion," that we must worship the God of War because the time has not yet come for the God of Peace. We ask "Has the church collapsed?" Or "Is Christianity a failure?" And finding Christianity guilty of the crimes of a tribal worship that is fighting a tribal worship, we blame our Buddhism for the acts that are in truth of our faith of Shinto.

Business Patriotism

FEW years ago delegates from the French Chambers of Commerce came to this country to review and report upon American business methods. They were taken to an automobile factory, among other places; and after they had made a tour of the plant, the spokesman of the party of visitors said to the manufacturer:

"There is one thing more that I wish you would explain to these gentlemen. Last year you had more orders for your car than you could possibly fill, did you not?"

The manufacturer replied:

"Yes, that is true. But we have since enlarged our plant, and I hope to be able to catch up to our orders very soon."

The spokesman asked:

"You have this year reduced the price of your car by fifty dollars, have you not?" The manufacturer replied:

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great liberator. There ought to be one on every farm and in every back yard in the United States. I can't do anything for my country but make automobiles for it, and I intend to keep on reducing the price of this car until every one in the country can afford one.”

It is hardly necessary now to add that the manufacturer was Henry Ford; his plan of profit-sharing with his employees has since made him sufficiently famous. But the point of the story is not merely personal. In the crusade against political corruption that led up to the formation of the Progressive party, no one suffered more in reputation than the American business man. He was pictured as advancing his own selfish interests at the expense of the community. No one seemed more predatory and less patriotic. Henry Ford's career is the proof that such a state of things is not inevitable. Patriotism in business is as possible as patriotism in anything else, and if America ever gets a generation of manufacturers who realize that one thing they can do for their fellowmen is to manufacture for them, and run their factories for the good of the community and not for the good of their purses alone, this country will see a day of industrial happiness and good-feeling and efficiency that will put our present of grace among the Dark Ages.



Public Opinion and the Politician

N this present issue, in his admirable article on the Swiss military system, Colonel Feyler rather convincingly points out that universal military service is an expression of individual sovereignty rather than of governmental force, that it is not more a duty than a privilege of every Swiss citizen.

It has always been the more subtle work of the ruling class under a republican form of government to mold public opinion in the way they think it should go. This function has grown to be of even more importance than the legislative. And "educating" the public up to a right thinking on a subject through editorials and speeches is usually more than half the political battle. If democracy is a failure. at any point, it is right here: we expend all our mental energies on earning a liv

ing, and accept too often the clever sophistries and ingenious special pleading of the politician and the partizan press, later to give it forth fondly under the impression. that we are expressing our own ideas.

Physical freedom came to people when serfdom was abolished; political freedom was achieved with the establishment of democracy: but intellectual freedom, which is the essence of individual liberty, will not have been accomplished until the man in the street has attained to sufficient intelligence to do his own thinking, until the ruling class has ceased to impose its own intellectual processes on the plastic majority. As Mr. Whelpley says, in another place in the same number, "We think that we think." But too many of us still accept very generally what we read in place of thinking for ourselves.

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And it came to pass nigh upon nineteen hundred and sixteen years ago.

HE little hunchback Zia toiled


slowly up the steep road, keeping in the deepest shadows, even though the night had long fallen. Sometimes he staggered with weariness or struck his foot against a stone and smothered his involuntary cry of pain. He was so full of terror that he was afraid to utter a sound which might cause any traveler to glance toward him. This he feared more than any other thing-that some man or woman might look at him too closely. If such a one knew much and had keen eyes, he or she might in some way guess even at what they might not yet see.

Since he had fled from the village in which his wretched short life had been spent he had hidden himself in thickets and behind walls or rocks or bushes during the day, and had only come forth at night to stagger along his way in the darkness. If he had not managed to steal some food before he began his journey and if he had not found in one place some beans dropped from a camel's feedingbag, he would have starved. For five nights he had been wandering on, but in

his desperate fear he had lost count of time. When he had left the place he had called his home he had not known where he was going or where he might hide himself in the end. The old woman with whom he had lived and for whom he had begged and labored had driven him out with a terror as great as his own.

"Begone!" she had cried in a smothered shriek. "Get you gone, accursed! Even now thou mayest have brought the curse upon me also. A creature born a hunchback comes on earth with the blight of Jehovah's wrath upon him. Go far! Go as far as thy limbs will carry thee! Let no man come near enough to thee to see it! If you go far away before it is known, it will be forgotten that I have harbored you.".

He had stood and looked at her in the silence of the dead, his immense, black Syrian eyes growing wider and wider with childish horror. He had always regarded her with slavish fear. What he was to her he did not know; neither did he know how he had fallen into her hands. He knew only that he was not of her blood or of her country and that he yet seemed to have always belonged to her. In his first memory of his existence, a lit

Copyright, 1915, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.

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