I have been reading one of those prognostic articles on international
politics which every now and then appear in the reviews. Why I should so
waste my time it would be hard to say; I suppose the fascination of
disgust and fear gets the better of me in a moment's idleness. This
writer, who is horribly perspicacious and vigorous, demonstrates the
certainty of a great European war, and regards it with the peculiar
satisfaction excited by such things in a certain order of mind. His
phrases about "dire calamity" and so on mean nothing; the whole tenor of
his writing proves that he represents, and consciously, one of the forces
which go to bring war about; his part in the business is a fluent
irresponsibility, which casts scorn on all who reluct at the
"inevitable." Persistent prophecy is a familiar way of assuring the
event.
But I will read no more such writing. This resolution I make and will
keep. Why set my nerves quivering with rage, and spoil the calm of a
whole day, when no good of any sort can come of it? What is it to me if
nations fall a-slaughtering each other? Let the fools go to it! Why
should they not please themselves? Peace, after all, is the aspiration
of the few; so it always; was, and ever will be. But have done with the
nauseous cant about "dire calamity." The leaders and the multitude hold
no such view; either they see in war a direct and tangible profit, or
they are driven to it, with heads down, by the brute that is in them. Let
them rend and be rent; let them paddle in blood and viscera till--if that
would ever happen--their stomachs turn. Let them blast the cornfield and
the orchard, fire the home. For all that, there will yet be found some
silent few, who go their way amid the still meadows, who bend to the
flower and watch the sunset; and these alone are worth a thought.