At every famous victory.”
—Southey.
And the world is as fatuous as Southey’s old “Caspar”, and we of the awakening twentieth century are sorely perplexed “Peterkins”. Why must things like that be; and why do men speak of successful human slaughter as a “famous victory”; and why do martial music and blare of trumpet and drum and epaulettes and ribbons and medals and barbaric pomp in general—succeed in silencing the death groans and in hiding from view the bloody agonies and the demon horrors of the battlefield?
“Why ’twas a very wicked thing”
Quoth little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl”, said he,
“It was a famous victory.”
“But what good came of it at last”?
* * * * *
“Why, that I cannot tell”, said he,