is a sort of play acted by ourselves and others.
No one is deceived by it, since both sides shrink from the word which
might crack the plaster and bring the house about our ears. There is
an inward equivocation which fears to see clearly in itself, wants
to make the best of everything, to reconcile old instincts and new
beliefs, mutually destructive forces, like the ideas of Country and
Humanity, War and Peace.... We are not sure which side to take; we
lean first one way and then the other, like a see-saw; afraid of
the effort needed to come to a decision and choose. What slothful
cowardice is here! All whitewashed over with a comfortable faith in
the goodness of things, which will, we think, settle themselves. And
we continue to look on, and glorify the impeccable course of Destiny,
paying court to blind Force_.

_Failing us, other things--and other men--have chosen; and not till
then did we understand our mistake, but it was so dreadful to admit
it, and we were so unaccustomed to be honest, that we acted as if we
were in sympathy with the crime. In proof of this sympathy we have
given up our own sons whom we love with all our hearts, more than
life--if we could but give our lives for theirs!--but not more than
our pride, with which we try to veil the moral confusion, the empty
darkness of mind and heart_.

_We will say nothing of those who still believe in the old idol; grim,
envious, blood be-spattered as she is--the barbarous Country. These
kill, sacrificing themselves and others, but at least they know what
they do. But what of those who have ceased to believe (like me, alas!
and you)? Their sons are sacrificed to a lie, for if you assert what
you doubt, it is a falsehood, and they offer up their own children to
prove this lie to themselves; and now that our beloved have died for
it, far from confessing it, we hide our heads still deeper not to see
what we have done. After our sons will come others, all the others,
offered up for our untruth_.

_I for my part can bear it no longer, when I think of those who still
live. Does it soothe my pain to inflict injury on others? Am I a
savage of Homer's time that I should believe that the sorrow of my
dead son will be appeased, and his craving for light satisfied, if
I sprinkle the earth which covers him with the blood of other men's
sons?--Are we at that stage still?--No, each new murder kills my son
again, and heaps the heavy mud of crime over his grave. He was the
f