Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 272, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 November 1911 — They Have an Object [ARTICLE]

They Have an Object

WAR HAS ALWAYS been a favorite twin motive with love In sentimental aonga Why this is so is obivious. In the childhood of the race the war-sue-ceosful hero was the recipient of the highest possible distinction and honor. He sat at the right hand of the king, and songs of praise were made and sung about him. He commanded the adulation of women, the homage of his rough fellows and the patronage of his emperor or chief. His was an achievement worthy of emulation. After he died his marvels in scientific butchery were magnified, and we have the Muchausenish account of Richard Coeur de Leon smiting a Moslem horseman from crown to saddle with one stroke of his giant sword; Charlemagne and Barbarossa overcoming entire cohorts single-handed, and |all the wonderful tales of courage and skill which appeal so powerfully to the sleeping savage In us all. The old atavistic blood-lust lies dormant in the gentlest, r and It needs but small incentive to stir the Viking Berserker or amuck spirit and transform a gentleman with centuries of kindly heredity behind him Into a screaming, shrieking male Medusa, with dishevelled Jocks framing a fiend face, withering in hate. -

There was a rough and ready courage displayed in the old days when men fought buckler to buckler and “dravo” their dripping steel into the foeman’s quivering body. The most stolid of us thrills to the tales of chivalry; of the daft When knights were bold and When, with nothing but his skill, bravery, and strength to serve, the gallant mounted to fame over the prostrate bodies of his opponents in field or lists.

We admire and condone the ardor and steadfastness of -these splendid fellows; our mediaeval ancestors, to whom fighting was a life-long vocation. knew no better.

Small wonder that their deeds were celebrated in song and story, and in saga, epic, chanson and folkslled, their bravery, magnanimity and chivalry were intoned by minstrel, skald, troubadour and minnesinger.

But all this Is gone by. We have left It in the cruel past, together with the gonfalon, armor, lance and mace; and grim-visaged war might “nimbly caper In a lady’s chamber, to the lascivious pleasings pf a lute” If so disposed. I say, “might;” but, alas! we have evoluted but little regarding war and its obliteration. We have not yet evolved to the point where we recognize that it Is murder (however we may attempt to disguise the fact) to kill an "enemy’ (whom you never saw, and wh<r never saw you) at the command oi an officer who knows no more WHY ho is fighting, killing and maiming than do you or the poor fellow whose brains you Joyfully proceed to blow out.

This is WAR—legalized Butchery at the behest of a pack of scheming politicians, frequently working hand in hand w<h financial pirates to secure '’concessions;*' that is, open new trade avenues and opportunities to aggrandize themselves.

For this men shall be slaughtered like vermin, women desolated, children orphaned and billions in treasurer squandered. If ’’helps business.” Wars ar« not fought by the potentates, presidents, legislators, editors, ministeri and financial harpies who demand them, but by the poor wage-worker, who shoulders rifle and marches forth to furnish ’’food for powder," and who, if he knew really why he was fighting, would most emphatically refuse further service.. The adulation ypf thousands of poor, empty-headed women who worship brass buttons and epaulets, and never stop to consider what these things actually stand for, is, in part, responsible for the survival of this “Incubus of civilization” —war. And, finally, the sentimental song In which the deluded hero is depicted fondly bidding ’’goodby” to his weeping mother, wife or sweetheart, and protesting that ’•he’ll die for his country,” or some equally sapient assurance. He doesn’t know anything regarding the principles he is supposed to “conquer or die” for, and he probably wouldn’t care a hang if he did. For "My country, right or wrong” is the watchword of the diligent song-smiths, and infinite harm is done by their pernicious activity In grinding romance, glitter and glory into what is at best but a miserable, sordid, selfish brutal business. In another hundred years war will be regarded with detestation and abhorrence, and then let us hope the song-writer may turn his pen to the theme that ” Peace hath her victories nb less renowned than war.” ... As Falstaff observed. "It is a dirty trade," and many of us are finding this out. Universal arbitration will supplant it.