The Queen has recently presented new colors to the first battalion of
the Seaforth Highlanders. There was a great parade at Osborne, half the
royal family being present to witness her Majesty perform the one piece
of business to which she takes kindly in her old age. She has long been,
as Lord Beaconsfield said, physically and morally unfit for her many
duties; but she is always ready to inspect her troops, to pin a medal
or a cross on the breast of that cheap form of valor which excites
such admiration in feminine minds, or to thank her brave warriors for
exhibiting their heroism on foreign fields against naked savages and
half-naked barbarians. The ruling passion holds out strong to the last,
and the respectable old lady who is allowed to occupy the English throne
because of her harmlessness can still sing, like the Grand Duchess in
Offenbach's opera, "Oh, I dote on the military."
But the Queen is not my game. I am "going for" the priests behind her,
the mystery-men who give the sanction of religion to all the humbug and
hypocrisy, as well as to all the plunder and oppression, that obtain
amongst us. Those new colors were consecrated (that is the word) by the
Dean of Windsor. The old colors were consecrated forty-two years ago by
the Venerable Dr. Vernon Harcourt, Archbishop of York, who was probably
a near relative of our pious Home Secretary, the fat member for Derby.
If I were a courtier, a sycophant, or an ordinary journalist, I might
spend some time in hunting up the actual relationship between these
two Harcourts; but being neither, and not caring a straw one way or the
other, I content myself, as I shall probably content my readers, with
hazarding a conjecture.
Consecrating the colors! What does that mean? First of all it implies
the alliance between the soldier and the priest, who are the two arms
of tyranny. One holds and the other strikes; one guards and the other
attacks; one overawes with terror and delusion, and the other smites
with material weapons when the spiritual restraints fail. The black and
the red armies are both retainers in the service of Privilege, and they
preach or fight exactly as they are bidden. It makes no real difference
that the soldier's orders are clear and explicit, while the priest's
are mysteriously conveyed through secret channels. They alike obey the
mandate of their employers, and take their wages for the work.
In the next place it shows the intimate relation between religion and
war. Both belong to the age of faith. When the age of reason has fairly
dawned both will be despised and finally forgotten. They are always
and everywhere founded on ignorance and stupidity, although they are
decorated with all sorts of fine names. The man of sense sees through
all these fine disguises. He knows that the most ignorant people are
the most credulous, and that the most stupid are the most pugnacious.
Educated and thoughtful men shrink alike from the dogmas of religion and
the brutalities of war.
Further, this consecration of the colors reminds us that the Christian
deity is still the lord of hosts, the god of battles. His eyes delight
to look over a purple sea of blood, and his devotees never invoke
his name so-much as when they are about to emulate his sanguinary
characteristics. The Dean of Windsor does not shock, he only gratifies,
the feelings of the orthodox world, when he blesses the flag which is to
float over scenes of carnage, and flame like a fiend's tongue over the
hell of battle, where brothers of the same 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 laughs in his sleeve at his own public
performance. Perhaps he knows that God, as Napoleon said, is on the side
of the big battalions; just as, probably, every bishop knows that
Church corpses rot exactly like Dissenting corpses, although they lie in
consecrated ground. Priestly mummeries will last as long as there is
a demand for them. It is of little use to quarrel with this supply.
The Freethinker's duty is to lessen the demand.