thousands, and still greater havoc be wrought, before passions can be
made to cease and reason be made to return?

If, as you seem to think, the war need go on until one country is beaten
into a condition where it must accept the terms the victor chooses to
impose, because it can no longer help itself to do else, the peace thus
obtained will only be the harbinger of another war in the near or
distant future, bloodier probably than the present sanguinary conflict,
and through no compact which might be entered into will it be possible
to actually prevent this.

Twenty centuries ago Christianity came into the world with its lofty
message of "peace on earth and good-will to men," and now, after two
thousand years, and at the near approach of the season when Christianity
celebrates the birth of its founder, it is insisted that the merciless
slaughter of man by man we have been witnessing these last months must
be permitted to be continued into the infinite. Most faithfully yours,

JACOB H. SCHIFF.

President Emeritus Charles W. Eliot, Cambridge, Mass.

LA CATHEDRALE.

From Figaro.

By EDMOND ROSTAND.

Ils n'ont fait que la rendre un peu plus immortelle.
L'Oeuvre ne perit pas, que mutile un gredin.
Demande a Phidias et demande a Rodin
Si, devant ses morceaux, on ne dit plus: "C'est Elle!"

La Forteresse meurt quand on la demantele.
Mais le Temple, brise, vit plus noble; et soudain
Les yeux, se souvenant du toit avec dedain,
Preferent voir le ciel dans la pierre en dentelle.

Rendons grace--attendu qu'il nous manquait encor
D'avoir ce qu'ont les Grecs sur la colline d'or;
Le Symbole du Beau consacre par l'insulte!--

Rendons grace aux pointeurs du stupide canon,
Puisque de leur adresse allemande il resulte
Une Honte pour eux, pour nous un Parthenon!

* * * * *

THE CATHEDRAL.

A Free Translation of Rostand's Sonnet.

By FRANCES C. FAY.

"Deathless" is graven deeper on thy brow;
Ghouls have no power to end thy endless sway.
The Greek of old, the Frenchman of today,
Before thy riven shrine are bending now.

A wounded fortress straightway lieth prone,
Not so the Temple dies; its roof may fall,
The sky its covering vault, an azure pall,
Doth droop to crown its wealth of lacework stone.

Praise to you, Vandal guns of dull intent!
We lacked till now our Beauty's monument