| WHAT
is war -- a
thing so unnatural? How does the war thought come, where does it
go? How can a so-called civilized nation think of such a
thing? People who will contribute to earthquake sufferers in all
parts of the world, or if any section of the the earth has a famine, will
send ship-loads of provisions! If a submarine boat sinks, drowning
ten men, the whole nation is stirred and filled with sorrow, yet at the
same time it is building death-dealing machines, designed to mow men down
in bunches, like grass.
The more deadly the
instrument, the louder the nation crows over it, and the more afraid is
it, that some other nation will find out the secret and appropriate it.
Think of the inconsistency!
Now what makes war, and why will a so-called Christian nation consider it
at all? In the normal state it would not, but when a nation
entertains the war thought, it is not in a normal state. It must
work itself up to the war thought, as the Indians do by their war dances
before going into battle.
The nations do it by mesmerism, which is more powerful than the Indians'
war dance. Without the mesmeric condition of mind, war would be
impossible.
It is done in about the following manner: Some supposed insult is
received from some supposed rival nation --intended or not does not alter
the matter, as long as it looks like an insult or slight. Perhaps
the commercial spirit of some other nation is making inroads on their
foreign trade. The papers take this up, write columns on this
perhaps slight incident, and blow it up like a hot air bag, until the
people grow to think that it is a very serious affront. They
have public meetings, and men with languagitis, who are longing for a
chance to air their vocabularies, hand out a wonderful flow of words about
the nation's glory, the greatness of its heroes, and the victories of the
past. The people are smitten and the mesmerism starts. The
rulers and governors join in with strong words about the "duty to the
Fatherland," and the mesmerism increases. Bands and orchestras
play with nothing but national airs, nothing else is acceptable. The
papers keep on writing columns of editorials, the shops for the
manufacture of war materials are working night and day -- something
doing. The mesmerism is increasing fast.
All the theatres have plays in keeping with the desires of the people.
Soldiers parade often and are received with great applause. Children
drop their usual games and drill and fight mimic battles.
The nation is by this time drunk with mesmerism, and goes to war.
They fight until exhausted or the bankers call the game. Peace is
declared, but thousands of homes are empty, thousands are crippled for
life, thousands have contracted disease to hand down to their posterity,
to the third and fourth generation.
The mesmerism is broken, but what hell it has caused and what scars it has
left!
The soldiers went to battle steeped in hate, they fought against men whom
they would have lived with in peace, but for the intoxicating mesmerism.
Peace is declared, and now the different armies mix, the men exchange
bread and clothes, they eat together. The officers of the opposing
armies dine with each other and swear everlasting friendship, and
wonder when they meet what they had been fighting about. It was the
mesmerism.
Think of the awful discord produced by these mesmeric wars, w hen man is
bent on stabbing, shooting or rending his brother; when men look upon each
other as wild beasts. Were their instincts of love aroused, instead
of hate, they would be giving bread and clothing to these same men whom
they area now trying to kill.
I recall an incident of the South African war with its contrast of carnage
and charity. The day had been hot, the march long and tiring, the
soldiers, foot-sore and weary, were looking forward to a night of rest by
the camp fires. The western sky was blood-red, prophetic of a coming
storm. To keep up the courage of the men, the band had all day long
played stirring martial music.
Upon approaching a kopje near a river bank where the army expected
to camp, men are seen to fall in the front ranks. There is no noise
by the gentle purring of bullets and the cries and curses of the
falling.
In an instant the quick firing guns are brought into action, smoke and
shot fill the air, mingling with the cries of the dying.
The cavalry now charge around the base of the kopje where the enemy
are supposed to be. The ambulance corps is busy among the wounded.
The cavalry falls back with heavy loss, repulsed by the Boers, the army of
England retreats, leaving numbers of dead and dying on the field.
One of them, a corporal (a clerk in a banking house in London), is
mortally wounded. He lifts himself on his elbow and attempts to
staunch the flow of blood that has reddened the ground. His young
face is white and covered with the dew of death, yet even in his extremity
his face shows his kindly nature. All his life had been filed with
little charities. His wife had been his schoolmate and life-long
companion, and their little home near London was nearly paid for; soon he
would be assistant manager of one of the branch banks. His
life had been filled with love, happiness and a fair amount of success.
He had lived a clean, manly life, but being carried away by the mesmerism
of war, he was now in South Africa to kill, not wild beasts but men, some
of God's children, whom he had always loved to help.
He called for water, too weak to use his own supply. One of the Boer
cavalrymen, hot in pursuit of the retreating army, understanding English,
dismounts to help him and relieve his suffering. His helpless
condition touches the rough, rugged Boer, who stoops over him, gives him
water and does all he can to ease his last moments. "Quick -- a
message to my wife.: The Boer writes:
Dear Mary:
I am dying. God bless and protect you and the
children.
JIM
He is hardly able to give the address. His enemy of one hour
ago bathes the head of the dying man whom the God of War has claimed.
In the twilight of that African day, in the midst of that hell, brother
had found brother.
But in England were dear Mary and the children, and in that home as in
thousands of others were anguish and despair. One of God's noblemen
had been sacrificed -- one of thousands upon thousands. Sacrificed
not on the alter of Aztec God of War, but upon the alter of hate, reared
with stones from the quarry of mesmerism, reared by a civilized nation,
the greatest on earth, a nation of followers of the God of Peace.
And the Boer that night as he thought of Mary and the children, did he ask
himself if the victory was worth the price?
And my thought turns to Bethlehem and the night of long ago and the
heavens filled with glory, and with the shepherds I hear the "Peace
on earth, good will to men," I see the coming day and the meaning of
the message, when love fills all thought and mesmerism has no place.
Then
earth shall know that peace is best,
And birds shall build in cannons' breast;
With anthems glad all earth shall ring,
For Love shall reign and Love be King.
|
