Our young people have come to look upon war as a kind of

“Our young people have come to look upon war as a kind of beneficent deity, which not only adds to the national honor but uplifts a nation and develops patriotism and courage.”
Thus spoke Rebecca Harding Davis, a voice of conscience and clarity amid the smoke of an age that glorified battle. In these haunting words, she unmasks a dangerous illusion that has ensnared the hearts of nations since time immemorial — the worship of war as if it were a god, a bringer of glory and virtue. Davis saw how the young, filled with dreams of honor and heroism, were led to believe that the deity of war was noble, cleansing, and divine. Yet beneath its gilded armor, she discerned the grim truth: that war, however draped in banners and songs, is not a savior of humanity but a destroyer of its soul.

The origin of this warning lies in the bitter memory of Davis’s own time. Living through the American Civil War, she witnessed the dissonance between the rhetoric of glory and the reality of bloodshed. She saw the youthful zeal with which men rushed to enlist — hearts stirred by the call of patriotism, eyes blind to the horror that awaited them. She heard the orators who called war a purifier, a forge for courage and unity. And yet, when the cannons had cooled and the fields lay silent, what she beheld was not uplifted nations, but widows, orphans, and a generation haunted by loss. Her words arise from that contrast — from the aching wisdom that war deceives the noble heart by cloaking itself in virtue, when in truth, it feeds upon the very virtues it pretends to create.

This idea — that war is a false deity — is one that echoes through history. Again and again, mankind has fallen to its seduction. In ancient times, poets sang of Mars and Ares, gods of battle whose altars were heaped high with the bodies of men. Kings and generals proclaimed that through conquest, nations found their greatness; through blood, their honor. But Davis, like the prophets of old, calls out this idolatry for what it is: a delusion. For though war may indeed call forth bravery and sacrifice, these are not its gifts — they are the virtues of the human spirit, shining despite its darkness, not because of it. To mistake the courage born of suffering for the blessing of the sword is to mistake the wound for the healer.

Consider the story of Wilfred Owen, the poet-soldier of the First World War, who once too believed in the beauty of sacrifice. He went to war with the fire of youth in his heart, but what he found in the trenches stripped all illusion from his soul. His poems, written amidst the mud and gas, became a dirge for the lost generation — a testament to the truth Davis foresaw. “My friend,” he wrote, “you would not tell with such high zest / To children ardent for some desperate glory, / The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” Like Davis, he came to understand that war is not a divine teacher of courage, but a merciless thief of innocence. Both voices, separated by half a century, sound the same eternal warning: beware the enchantment of bloodshed dressed as honor.

Davis’s insight pierces not only the myth of war itself, but the machinery of those who promote it. She reminds us that patriotism, when severed from truth, becomes the tool of manipulation. The young, idealistic and brave, are taught that to fight is to serve, to kill is to prove one’s love for country. Yet true patriotism, she suggests, is not measured in destruction but in creation — in the building of peace, in the defense of justice, in the preservation of life. The courage that uplifts a nation is not the courage to conquer, but the courage to reconcile. To believe that war develops virtue is to misunderstand both virtue and war. For while war may awaken valor, it is peace that sustains it; while war tests the soul, it is love that redeems it.

Her words also hold a mirror to every generation that inherits the burden of history. Even now, as in her time, there are those who speak of “necessary wars,” of the “purifying power” of conflict. Yet Davis would say: nothing born of hatred can yield righteousness, and nothing that kills the innocent can elevate the world. Nations that worship war as a god will find, in time, that their altar demands endless sacrifice, and their songs of glory turn to lamentations. True strength lies not in the will to destroy, but in the will to endure, to understand, to forgive.

So, my child, remember this teaching: do not mistake violence for virtue, nor confusion for courage. When you hear the drums of war, listen closely — for behind them is often the whisper of pride, fear, and folly. Seek instead the kind of patriotism that builds, not burns. Honor your land not by spilling the blood of others, but by protecting the lives of all who dwell upon it. Let your courage be the courage to speak for peace when others clamor for battle.

For, as Rebecca Harding Davis foresaw, the world will only be uplifted when it learns that the god of war is no beneficent deity, but a false idol that feeds on the youth and hope of humankind. When the nations at last cast down this idol, and see courage not as the will to fight, but as the strength to forgive, then the true glory of humanity shall dawn — not upon the battlefield, but in the heart that refuses to hate.