How my little heart, when it was not much bigger than a chipping squirrel's, used to throb with patriotism—or something else, for I am not so sure that it was patriotism, after all—while I heard the rusty old cannon that did duty at Willow Lane, booming out its sentiments about matters and things in general, and the declaration of American independence in particular. As long ago as I can remember, I know the sound of a drum almost overturned the little sense I had. Oh, what a quantity of martial spirit was set in motion in my brain, when, as it sometimes happened, I got a chance to beat on that drum myself—to beat on it with both hands, "like a trainer." It was one of the proudest achievements of my childhood, I do believe—that performance on the drum—the real drum, the identical one which the "trainers" used.
THE YOUNG DRUMMER.[ToList]
It is not quite so with me, now-a-days. You may wonder why. I almost wonder why myself. But so it is. The deafening roar of cannon, the racket of a thousand muskets, the clatter of junior drums, and the thunder of senior ones, have not such a moving effect on me as they used to have. They move me out of the way now. That is about all. I suppose, if the truth was known, I dislike war more than I did when I was a child. War seems a terrible thing to me, whenever I think of it. I cannot bear the thought that hostile men should meet each other on the field of battle, and use all the art they are masters of, in trying to kill each other.
But enough of this. Children, as I was saying, love to hear the noise of the cannon. It stirs up the embers of their patriotism, or fills them with some other kind of fire. We will not stop now to inquire very particularly as to the nature of the blaze. Our two friends felt as if there was a young Vesuvius burning in their bosoms, as they listened to the sound of the cannon. Frederick especially, was quite beside himself. War had completely turned his head. Oh, how he longed to be a soldier. I am not sure but he almost wished some nation or other would pick a quarrel with us, so that he might have a chance to shoulder his musket, and start right off, and fight the battles of his country. Like a great many other children, he saw only one side of war, and that was its bright side. He heard no groans from dying men, no whizzing of cannon balls past his ears. He saw no river of blood flowing from human veins. He had lost no limb of his own; he was in danger of losing none. I hardly think he had read the poetical confessions of a young hero just returned from the wars. Did you ever read them, my friend? They are worth reading, and I will quote them for you:
"My father was a farmer good,
With corn and beef in plenty.
I mowed, and hoed, and held the plow
And longed for one and twenty;
For I had quite a martial turn,
And scorned the lowing cattle;
I burned to wear a uniform,
[98] Hear drums, and see a battle.
"My birth-day came; my father urged,
But stoutly I resisted;
My sister wept, my mother prayed,
But off I went, and 'listed.
They marched me on through wet and dry,
To tunes more loud than charming,
But lugging knapsack, box and gun,
Was harder work than farming.
"We met the foe—the cannons roared—
The crimson tide was flowing—
The frightful death-groans filled my ears—
I wished that I was mowing.
I lost my leg—the foe came on—
They had me in their clutches—
I starved in prison till the peace,
Then hobbled home on crutches."
This young hero gives the other and darker side of war, you see. There is reality in what the poor fellow says, if he does tell his story in rather a humorous vein. I tell you what it is, little friend, there is nothing good in war. It is a terrible thing; and though I don't pretend to say that it is never necessary, I consider it one of the worst curses with which a nation is ever visited—worse than pestilence, worse than famine. That is the reason why I do not quite like to see boys so fond of war, and so full of the war spirit.