combine to form a spectacle that sets the pulses beating faster. Then,
again, observe the strange elastic rhythm of the march as a battalion of
tall Highlanders moves past. The fifes and drums cease, there is a
silence broken only by that sinuous beautiful onward movement of lines
of splendid men, until the thrilling scream of the pipes shatters the
air, and the mad tumult of warlike sound makes even a Southron's nerves
quiver. Then, once more, watch the deadly, steady march of a regiment of
Guards. The stalwart men step together, and, as the red ranks sway on,
it seems as though no earthly power could stand against them. The gloomy
bearskins are like a brooding dark cloud, and the glitter of the
rifle-barrels carries with it certain sinister terrible suggestions. The
gaiety and splendour of Cavalry and Infantry all gain increased power
over the imagination since we know that each of those gaily clad fellows
would march to his doom without a tremor or a murmur if he received the
word. Poor Tommy Atkins is surrounded by a sort of halo in the popular
imagination, simply because it is known that he may one day have to deal
forth death to an enemy, or take his own doom, according to the chances
of combat. I need say little about the field-days and reviews which have
caused so many martially-minded young men to take the shilling. The
crash of the small-arm firing, the wild galloping of hasty
aides-de-camp, the measured movement of serried lines, the rapid flight
of flocks of bedizened staff-officers, all make up a very exciting and
confusing picture, and many a youngster has fancied that war must be a
glorious game. Let us leave the picturesque and theatrical business and
come to the dry prose.

So far from being an affair of glitter, excitement, fierce joy, fierce
triumph, war is but a round of hideous hours which bring memories of
squalor, filth, hunger, wretchedness, dull toil, unspeakable misery.
Take it at its best, and consider what a modern engagement really means.