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We may say that flags are rags, that frontiers are fictions, but the very men who have said it for half their lives are dying for a rag, and being rent in pieces for a fiction even as I write. When the battle-trumpet blew in 1914 modern humanity had grouped itself into nations almost before it knew what it had done.
Halleck, who used to write queer verses in the newspapers and published a Don Juanic poem called Fanny, is defunct as a poet, though averred to be exemplifying the metempsychosis as a man of business. Somewhat later there was Whittier, a fiery Quaker youth, to whom the muse had perversely assigned a battle-trumpet, and who got himself lynched, ten years agone, in South Carolina.
Six thousand gallant men of the bravest race in Europe, men whose very names are like blasts of a battle-trumpet Beaujeus and Chatillons, Tancarvilles and Ventadours pressed hard behind the silver lilies. Slowly they moved at first, walking their horses that they might be the fresher for the shock.
But the nose, the poor nose, which puts itself forward above all other parts, which distinguishes us unhappy men from all brutes, in whom mouth and snout meet in such friendly union, and which in man is made, like the Hocken and the Blocksberg, the place for all witches and evil spirits to hold their revels: is it not in most men, merely on account of the cold air and a catarrh, turned into a cave of Æolus, and hauled, pulled, stretched and touzled, till it becomes a sounding horn and a battle-trumpet?
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