We have grown accustomed to consider history as being made by the decrees
of kings or by the power of invading and defending armies. These things
are, however, only the instruments of the one really compelling social
force. That force is the power of public opinion. History is made by those
who direct and control it. This is the reason for the power of the pulpit,
the platform, and the press. Of these three, the power of the press
touches the largest number of people. The writer sends out an influence
which reaches to the ends of the earth.
This fact points the way to a conception of both his opportunity and his
peril. His opportunity is the direction of a power which not even kings
can long dare to defy. His peril is that he may fail to direct it into
the right channels. He may guide it in such a way that it can carry the
race steadily toward a day of complete justice for all. On the other hand,
he may listen to some lesser voice than that of truth, or seek some lower
aim than that of right, and thus lead the thinking of the world astray.
The opportunity is glorious and the peril is serious, because men will
become what they think, and the world will conform to what they become.
Thought life is fundamental.
In the midst of an age of war, the world is struggling for peace. The law
of the jungle ceased to be the recognized principle of history, and war
lost its standing as a means of obtaining justice because of the efforts
of a man to guide public opinion by means of a book. No one could have
conquered militarism with a sword in the old days, and it is doubtful
whether it can be done now, but the strong silent force of enlightened
opinion can do it.
The history of modern international law as a basis for the preservation
of peace among nations really began with the publication in 1625 of a
book entitled _De Jure Belli et Pacis_. It was written by a Dutch
publicist by the name of Hugo Grotius. This book came from the press in
the midst of the Thirty Years’ War, and it began a process of leavening
the popular mind with the idea that justice can be obtained by peaceable
means. The end of that process will yet be the complete triumph of
international law over international strife. It was the pen of a writer
which was used as the original instrument for the blazing of the path to
an age of concord and fraternity.
The great literary need of the present day is for a man who can snatch
the torch from the dead hand of Grotius and bear it a little farther.
He will not receive high praise from the militaristic camp, but his
efforts will be appreciated by those who really love their country
enough to desire its preservation from the blasting blight of war.
Some gifted pen will yet inoculate the popular mind with an ideal of
peace and brotherhood which will make war forever impossible.
No one will ever be able to measure correctly the influence which the
pamphlets of Thomas Payne had in the crystallization of the sentiment
which held the early American patriots to their cause. The historians
have not neglected, however, to give them large credit in their final
reckonings. They provided a sort of mental artillery, making possible
the work of the advancing sword of a Washington.
The break between the sections was healed with mortar which was mixed
not only with the blood of the soldier, but also with the pen of the
writer. The one thing lacking for years was the decision of the popular
will to settle once for all the difficulty between the states. One day
in June of 1851 there appeared in Gamaliel Bailey’s paper, _The National
Era_, the first installment of a story entitled _Uncle Tom’s Cabin, or
Life Among the Lowly_. It was written in the spare time of the busy wife
of a theological professor, and she herself did not take it very
seriously at the time of its publication. The result was, however, that
in less than a decade public opinion had crystallized, and the sections
were ready for the test. The rest of the story needs no telling, but the
memory of Harriet Beecher Stowe deserves to have it said that the history
of America in that time of crisis was largely moulded by the hand that
held the pen.
Several years ago a Federal investigation disclosed a highly unsanitary
condition in the large packing plants of the country. The lack of
sufficient pressure in the form of public opinion left Congress very slow
to take definite action concerning it. Then Upton Sinclair’s story, _The
Jungle_, came from the press. As soon as the public had read the book a
great popular clamor went up, demanding that something be done. The result
was a system of pure food rulings which has been very satisfactory and
far-reaching in its results. A great industry was cleaned up, and the
health and lives of thousands of people have been saved by the work of a
wielder of the pen. The sword can only destroy, but the pen can do a
better thing. It can save.
Germany has long recognized the power of the writer in the moulding of
history. She has made a large use of it in her attempts to build the
history of the future to suit herself. This is evidenced not only by the
fact that she has flooded the world with mischievous and deceptive
propaganda during the present war, but also by the fact that such was her
policy long before the beginning of the war.
Nearly a decade ago a German professor published a book which emphasized
the horrors of war. It was profusely illustrated with pictures of the
bloody scenes of the battlefield and of the inevitable hardships of the
military life. It was an evidence of an undercurrent which runs even in
German thought, but which only the bolder few ever allow to go to the
extent of public expression. The result of the publication of the book
was the prompt suppression of it by the German government.
Shortly afterward another book dealing with the subject of war was
published in Germany. It was written by the Crown Prince who is now
fighting so anxiously for his own future. It likewise was highly
illustrated, but its pictures emphasized the glories of war. They were
of dress parades and the more pleasant aspects of the life of a soldier.
The publication of this book received every encouragement the government
could give it. It was, of course, an official expression of the
militaristic policy of the government itself.
There is a sense in which literature mirrors life, but there is also
another sense in which life mirrors literature. Social conditions and
new historical epochs are always the outgrowth of the popular thought
and spirit. One of the firmest hands upon the floodgates which control
these things is that of the writer. He can produce an age of unrest or
an age of calm contentment. He can make a period of faith or one of
unbelief. He can mould an era of mortality or one of unrestraint.
It does not matter what is the form of his work. It does not even matter
whether it is serious and pretentious. It affects the thought and,
therefore, the life of the world. A printed jest once determined the
result of a national election. A derisive term applied by the editor
of an enemy paper once elected a man president. The recorded and
unrecorded history of every age is full of just such instances.
The writer accepts a momentous responsibility. It is desirable to receive
editorial checks, but his work means vastly more than that. The people
will read what he writes; many of them will believe it; at least some of
them will act upon it. It will travel to unsuspected places, and it will
affect the lives of those whom he will never see either for weal or woe.
His pen is an instrument of fate. It is highly essential that he use it
with a careful hand and with an honest purpose. He dare not fail to be a
mouthpiece of truth.