In the more recent years the date has been significant of other great crises in our history than that of Revolutionary times. That was, of course, the greatest of all, and never to be forgotten, as it marks the definite transition of thirteen colonies into thirteen States, organized for war purposes as a nation. There had been over a year of war, beginning with the skirmish at Lexington and the British retreat, followed quickly by Ticonderoga, Bunker Hill, and the investment of Boston. During the fall and winter there were the episodes of the burning of Portland; the capture of Montreal (later relinquished); the capture of Norfolk in December; Arnold’s heartbreaking expedition to Quebec through Maine forests in the dead of winter; the battle of Moore’s Creek, N. C., early in 1776, called the “Southern Lexington,” and, to crown all, the evacuation of Boston. These events and their concomitants, say the historians, made inevitable the Declaration of Independence, though the struggle began only as one for greater colonial self-government and modification of the taxing system. It was our first “birth of Freedom,” which has been re-born more than once since.

I said the date marked other great crises in our history, and take time to mention two of them, both in the memory of living men. The first, and the greater, was in the midst of our Civil War, when the news of the twin victories of Gettysburg and Vicksburg flashed over the land. Dark days were still to come, and men were still discouraged; the war was to be proclaimed a failure by a great political party, but the power of the Rebellion was broken, and, after July 4, 1863, the setbacks to the cause of nationality were but temporary and comparatively insignificant. A second great crisis was safely passed.

The third great Independence Day, great for what it brought to others than ourselves, was thirty-five years later, when the tremendous news came that the Spanish squadron, practically all remaining efficient of Spain’s navy, had been destroyed off Santiago. That day marked the downfall of Spanish power on this continent, and the liberation of oppressed peoples in both hemispheres; the culmination of a righteous war against a civilized and honorable foe, whose principal shortcoming was a hopelessly antiquated point of view and inability to deal intelligently with modern conditions.

These great anniversaries all marked the definite passing of crises; the present one rather falls within a protracted period of crisis than marks the passing of one. If we were to celebrate the anniversary of the greatest crisis of recent times, I should name July 18th, 1918, when, as most of those here will remember, the glad peals of the bell above us sounded the news that the great allied offensive had opened. Of this more in a few minutes.

But July 4 as a date does not even mark the signing of the peace treaty. It is suggestive, however, of two things to be borne in mind at this time: the genius of our country as a lover of liberty and fair play, and the relation of that genius concretely to the problems of the recent past, and the present, and the immediate future.

The announcement of such a subject gives me pause, for it is one for mature consideration and careful discussion by the best of statesmen. But there are some considerations, rather obvious perhaps, but still worthy of inclusion at this time, which I should like to present.

I mentioned a moment ago our love of liberty and fair play. With these goes a constitutional tendency to mind our own business, let other people’s business alone, and to avoid interference until convinced of its necessity. Until 1914 we felt secure on our own continent, gave no offense and sustained none. Fearing no war, we deemed preparation a waste of money and time; we were not disposed to pay expensive insurance premiums when our house was too far removed from others to be in danger of conflagration; against internal incendiarism we thought ourselves guarded. The warnings of Manila Bay in 1898 and Venezuela a few years later made no impression. Confident of our ultimate resources, we assumed no one would attack to court ultimate defeat; and above all, fair-minded ourselves, we were utterly incredulous of unfair-mindedness in others. Wise and farseeing men gave warning from time to time, but the impressions were momentary.

And so, when in 1914 the assassination at Serajevo was quickly followed by an impossible ultimatum, and this in a very few days developed into a general European war, while our minds and souls revolted at a great injustice, our continental habit of thought resisted the suggestion that we should interfere to right that wrong. We did not see far enough; there were those who did; and I heard two wise men, summer residents here, agree in this very town in August, 1914, that this nation should take part, and at once. But public opinion did not run in that channel; nor was it led into it by our chosen rulers. These also were shortsighted, however their vision may have been clarified subsequently. We were told that a people should be neutral in thought as well as in deed; and so we stood by and watched Belgium, a neutral country, ravaged and pillaged; France invaded and destroyed; Serbia depopulated; Russia crushed. A great crisis like the battle of the Marne stirred men’s souls, but without bringing home to us as a nation the ultimate danger to our liberty. The consummate outrage of the “Lusitania” made an impression never effaced, but the rising indignation of the country was met with the caution that “a man may be too proud to fight,” and this crisis passed over also.

But the great giant was stirring in his sleep. Trumpet calls came from men high in public esteem, among whom it is sufficient now to mention Roosevelt and Leonard Wood. “Preparedness” was their reveille. Our young men heard it, and in 1916 at Plattsburgh, and I think elsewhere, sprang up the training camps. The colleges offered their facilities; and although in the fall of 1916 there was still, as in 1860 and 1861, a large proportion of “peace-at-any-price” men, so large in 1916 as to permit the election of a President on the party slogan “He kept us out of war,” the time was fast growing ripe. Infatuated Germany, confident of victory in Europe and of later victory on this continent, or risking all on the submarine issue, went a step too far, and the giant woke up.

Woke up,—yes; but about as helpless as Gulliver on the Island of Lilliput. The “man mountain” was tied fast with the cords of unpreparedness, red tape, departmental inefficiency, official jealousy and hostile intrigue. As in 1812, in 1847, in 1861 and in 1898, there was little or nothing ready; all had to be created. The lowering of the thunder-cloud had been unheeded. We had some destroyers and battleships and cruisers; these were sent at once where most needed. But to our shame, be it said, we had no trained men except the little regular army; no great guns; no appreciable number of field pieces; no machine guns; no small arms even, although our .30 cal. Springfield rifle is justly pronounced the best small arm in the world. I have shot it and know it well. They cost at that time about fifteen dollars apiece. A million of them would have cost 15 million dollars, a sum which in these days makes us laugh at its insignificance; it is one-half of one per cent. of our first Liberty loan. We had not even the special tools to make barrels for these small arms in quantity, and actually had to use English tools to make English type rifles, greatly inferior to our own, to get any at all for our men. The other day I saw it announced with pride in the newspapers that our rifle had won in competition over all others; but we did not have them when wanted, and probably have not made them yet. We had no field pieces to use abroad, and our artillery was equipped with the French .75. A few naval guns were landed and mounted toward the termination of hostilities. The aeroplane scandal is known of all men. And it was a year after we declared war before we entered Europe in force, and equipped then with English rifles and French field guns; and our men were transported to Europe mainly on British ships.