“The world will have to revise its notions of patriotism in the light of modern commerce.... Look at the strength of the interests. Where is the Government that would dare prohibit Birmingham firms from executing [filling] orders for a foreign Government? Even in our small frontier wars [British] soldiers must expect to be shot at with British rifles.” At one time in the Napoleonic wars English manufacturers, “_patriotic_ business men,” of course, filled one order for 16,000 military coats, 37,000 jackets, and 200,000 pairs of shoes to be used, as the commercial patriots knew, by the French army while slaughtering English soldiers.[132] That was about a hundred years ago. But the silk-hat patriot is still the same hypocrite, talking loudly about “honoring the hero” whom he despises both socially and industrially. British veterans of the Boer War of recent years—tens of thousands of them—have cursed the day they enlisted, with the patriotism of ignorance, to serve in South Africa. The Government broke its promises with them shamelessly and wholesale; and many of these veterans, on returning from the war, were scorned at the English factory door, turned down at the shops and mines, and had to beg on the streets of London and other cities. It is the old story: duped, tricked, teased to the trenches—then snubbed, as usual. When the soldier boys got back to England from the Boer war they were weak, poor, ragged and very weary, many hundreds of them scarcely able to walk. But no matter: they were at once driven from the ships like cattle, forced to fall into line, and march wavering and staggering from weakness and weariness—forced to march past the Queen’s reviewing stand, to be smiled at and flattered by a bunch of royal and noble parasites and thus be “honored” while they starved, “honored” as they staggered past in their rags, gazed at by shining gluttons and fat-headed lords who were too shrewd and cowardly to go themselves to South Africa to slaughter the Boers, steal gold and diamond mines and otherwise defend their own capitalist interests. On this cruel reviewing march of many weary miles past the Queen of the home-coming butchers a great number of the men fainted in their famished weakness. Many eye-witnesses to this outrage were in tears.... The march ended. The guns were put away with pride. The blood of Dutch workingmen was wiped from the English swords—with British pride. Blood-stained banners were piously placed in libraries, museums, and churches—with true Christian pride. The war was over. The butchers had come back to “_their_” dear country—and washed their hands. Then—then what? Then these cheap and stupid assassins of their class went to _look for a job_—teased the lordly parasites of England for whom they had been fighting—teased them for a job, whined like spaniels at the feet of the industrial masters of England, begged for a job. And received insults.