In Mr. Chesnutt’s novel the psychologism is of that universal implication which will distinguish itself to the observer from the psychologism of that more personal sort ­the words are not as apt as I should like ­evident in some of the interesting books under notice here.  I have tried to say that it is none the less a work of art for that reason, and I can praise the art of another novel, in which the same sort of psychologism prevails, though I must confess it a fiction of the rankest tendenciousness.  “Lay Down Your Arms” is the name of the English version of the Baroness von Suttner’s story, “Die Waffen Nieder,” which has become a watchword with the peacemakers on the continent of Europe.  Its success there has been very great, and I wish its success on the continent of America could be so great that it might replace in the hands of our millions the baleful books which have lately been glorifying bloodshed in the private and public wars of the past, if not present.  The wars which “Lay Down Your Arms” deals with are not quite immediate, and yet they are not so far off historically, either.  They are the Franco-Austrian war of 1859, the Austro-Prussian war of 1866, and the Franco-German war of 1870; and the heroine whose personal relation makes them live so cruelly again is a young Austrian lady of high birth.  She is the daughter and the sister of soldiers, and when the handsome young officer, of equal rank with her own, whom she first marries, makes love to her just before the outbreak of the war first named, she is as much in love with his soldiership as with himself.  But when the call to arms comes, it strikes to her heart such a sense of war as she has never known before.  He is killed in one of the battles of Italy, and after a time she marries another soldier, not such a beau sabreur as the first, but a mature and thoughtful man, who fights through that second war from a sense of duty rather than from love of fighting, and comes out of it with such abhorrence that he quits the army and goes with his family to live in Paris.  There the third war overtakes him, and in the siege, this Austrian, who has fought the Prussians to the death, is arrested by the communards as a Prussian spy and shot.

The bare outline of the story gives, of course, no just notion of the intense passion of grief which fills it.  Neither does it convey a due impression of the character in the different persons which, amidst the heartbreak, is ascertained with some such truth and impartiality as pervade the effects of “War and Peace.”  I do not rank it with that work, but in its sincerity and veracity it easily ranks above any other novel treating of war which I know, and it ought to do for the German peoples what the novels of Erckmann-Chatrian did for the French, in at least one generation.  Will it do anything for the Anglo-Saxon peoples?  Probably not till we have pacified the Philippines and South Africa.  We Americans are still apparently in love with fighting, though the English are apparently not so much so; and as it is always well to face the facts, I will transfer to my page some facts of fighting from this graphic book, which the read may apply to the actualities in the Philippines, with a little imagination.  They are taken from a letter written to the heroine by her second husband after one of the Austrian defeats.  “The people poured boiling water and oil on the Prussians from the windows of the houses at ....  The village is ours ­no, it is the enemy’s, now ours again ­and yet once more the enemy’s; but it is no longer a village, but a smoking mass of ruins of houses....One family has remained behind...an old married couple and their daughter, the latter in childbed.  The husband is serving in our regiment....  Poor devil! he got there just in time to see the mother and child die; a shell had exploded under their bed....  I saw a breastwork there which was formed of corpses.  The defenders had heaped all the slain who were lying near, in order, from that rampart, to fire over at their assailants.  I shall surely never forget that wall in my life.  A man who formed one of its bricks was still alive, and was waving his arm....  What is happening there?  The execution party is drawn out.  Has a spy been caught?  Seventeen this time.  There they come, in four ranks, each one of four men, surrounded by a square of soldiers.  The condemned men step out, with their heads down.  Behind comes a cart with a corpse in it, and bound to the corpse the dead man’s son, a boy of twelve, also condemned....  Steep, rocky heights; Jaegers, nimble as cats, climbing up them....  Some of them, who are hit by the enemy’s shot, suddenly stretch out both their arms, let their muskets fall, and, with their heads falling backwards, drop off the height, step by step, from one rocky point to another, smashing their limbs to pieces.  I saw a horseman at some distance, obliquely behind me, at whose side a shell burst.  His horse swerved aside and came against the tail of mind, then shot past me.  The man sat still in the saddle, but a fragment of the shell had ripped his belly open and torn out all the intestines.  The upper part of his body was held to the lower only by the spine.  From the ribs to the thighs nothing but one great, bleeding cavity.  A short distance farther he fell to the ground, one foot still clinging in the stirrup, and the galloping horse dragging him on over the stony soil....  Another street fight in the little town of Saar....  In the middle of the square stands a high pillar of the Virgin.  The mother of God holds her child in one arm, and stretches the other out in blessing....  Here the fight was prolonged, man to man.  They were hacking at me, I laying about me on all sides....  A Prussian dragoon, strong as Goliath, tore one of our officers (a pretty, dandified lieutenant ­how many girls are, perhaps, mad after him?) out of his saddle and split his skull at the feet of the Virgin’s pillar.  The gentle saint looked on unmoved.  Another of the enemy’s dragoons ­a Goliath, too ­seized, just before me almost, my right-hand man, and bent him backwards in his saddle so powerfully that he broke his back ­I myself heard it crack.  To this the Madonna gave her blessing also.”