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Woodrow Wilson (1856-1924). It is September 1919 - a meeting hall in a small mid-Western city. A thin man is speaking to a sceptical audience about peace. He has already met the city fathers and has been warned that out here what happens in Europe means very little. Even the late war scarcely impinged on the place, though it had been recognised that it hadnt been altogether good for trade and one or two local boys had died on the fields of France in the very last days of the conflict. The speaker was obviously impassioned, with a preachers cadence to his voice, and particularly so when he promoted the idea of an international League of Nations to guarantee future peace and ensure that the war into which America had been lured in 1917 really was a war to end all wars. It is noticed that the man is sweating and pale and that he pauses frequently to dab his lips. The price of his campaign for peace - and peace conducted with principle - seems to be a terrible struggle between strong belief on the one
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