human family, without a
quarrel in the world, but set at variance bv thieves and tricksters,
maim and mangle and kill each other with fractricidal hands, which ought
to have been clasped in friendship and brotherhood. Yet these hireling
priests, who consecrate the banners of war, dare to prate that God is
a loving father and that we are all his children. What monstrous
absurdity! What disgusting hypocrisy I Surely the parent of mankind,
instead of allowing his ministers to mouth his name over the symbols of
slaughter, would command them to preach "peace, peace!"

Until the war-drums beat no longer and the battle-flags are furled
In the parliament of man, the federation of the world.

Of course there is a comic side to this, as to almost everything else.
The priests of the various nations consecrate rival banners, pray for
victory for their own side, and swear that God Almighty is sure to give
it them if they trust in him. Now what is the Lord to do when they go on
in this way on opposite sides? He is sure to disappoint one party, and
he is likely to get devilish little thanks from the other. A wise God
would remain neutral, and say, "My comical little fellows, if you will
go knocking out each other's brains because they are not strong enough
to settle your differences by peaceful means, by all means get through
the beastly business as soon as possible; but pray don't trouble me with
your petitions for assistance; both sides are fools, and I wash my hands
of the whole affair."

I have heard of an old Dutch commander who actually prayed the Lord to
remain neutral, although from a different motive. On the eve of battle
he addressed the deity in this fashion: "O Lord, we are ten thousand,
and they are ten thousand, but we are a darned sight better soldiers
than they, and, O Lord, do thou but keep out of it, and well give them
the soundest thrashing they ever had."

Our Prayer Book pays a very poor compliment to the god of battles. "Give
peace in our time, O Lord," says the preacher. "Because there is
none other that fighteth for us but only thou O God," responds the
congregation. The compilers of the Prayer Book evidently blundered,
unless they secretly felt that the Lord of hosts was used up, and not
worth a keg of gunpowder or an old musket.

Consecrating colors, like consecrating graveyards, is after all only
a trick of trade. The Dean of Windsor only practises the arts of
his profession, and probably laug