Published posthumously in 1923, Twain wrote
this piece in answer to the jingoistic hysteria over the Spanish-American War,
the Filipino-American War, and the Moro War, the latter two both in the
Philippines. At the request of his believing
family, Twain held this piece back because they thought it might be sacrilegious.
It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in
every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the
bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and
spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs
and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the
young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new
uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering
them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed
mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory with stirred the deepest
deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with
cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the
churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God
of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid
eloquence which moved every listener.
It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen
rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its
righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their
personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in
that way.
Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave
for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young
faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering
momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult,
the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!
Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored,
submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones,
proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and
brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or,
failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the
Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ
burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with
glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation:
God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest,
Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!
Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!
Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for
passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an
ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young
soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless
them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His
mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset;
help them crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country
imperishable honor and glory —
An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless
step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed
in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in
a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even
to ghastliness. With all eyes following
him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the
preacher’s side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of
his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the
words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord
and God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!”
The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside —
which the startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound
audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep
voice he said:
“I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty
God!” The words smote the house with a
shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. “He has heard the
prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such be your desire
after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import — that is to
say, its full import. For it is like
unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it
is aware of — except he pause and think. “God’s servant and yours has prayed his
prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, and the other
not. Both have reached the ear of Him
who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself,
beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon your neighbor at the same
time. If you pray for the blessing of
rain on your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a
curse on some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.
“You have heard your servant’s prayer — the uttered part of
it. I am commissioned by God to put into
words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your
hearts — fervently prayed silently. And
ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant
that it was so! You heard the words
‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’ That
is sufficient. The whole of the uttered
prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have
prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory — must follow it,
cannot help but follow it. Upon the
listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He
commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!
“Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts,
go forth into battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from
the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to
bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the
pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with
the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their
humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their
unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless
with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their
desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in
summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail,
imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it —
For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes,
blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps,
water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their
wounded feet!
We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source
of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore
beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.
(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it,
speak! The messenger of the Most High waits.”
*****
It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic,
because there was no sense in what he said.
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