“He must be taught to despise all those of civil life.  Soldiers, like missionaries, must be fanatics.  An army thoroughly imbued with fanaticism can be killed, but never suffer disgrace; Napoleon, in speaking of it, said, ‘Il en faut pour se faire tuer.’”

And not only to get himself killed, but to kill must the soldier be imbued with this fanaticism and self-glory.  In the same spirit Mr. Kipling and Mr. Fletcher have told us in their History of England that there is only one better trade than being a soldier, and that is being a sailor: 

  “To serve King and country in the army is the second best
  profession for Englishmen of all classes; to serve in the navy,
  I suppose we all admit, is the best.”

As we all admit it, certainly it does seem very hard on all classes that there should be anything else to do in the world besides soldiering and sailoring.  It is most deplorable that, in Lord Wolseley’s words, some civilian occupations are very useful; for, if they were not, we might all have a fine time playing at soldiers—­real soldiers, with guns!—­from a tumultuous cradle to a bloody grave.  If only we could abolish the civilian and his ignoble toil, what a rollicking life we should all enjoy upon this earthly field of glory!

Such was the fond dream of many an innocent heart, when in August of 1911 we saw the soldiers distributed among the city stations or posted at peaceful junctions where suburb had met suburb for years in the morning, and parted at evening without a blow.  There the sentry stood, let us say, at a gate of Euston station.  There he stood, embodying glory, enjoying the second best profession for Englishmen of all classes.  He was dressed in clean khaki and shiny boots.  On his head he bore a huge dome of fluffy bearskin, just the thing for a fashionable muff; oppressive in the heat, no doubt, but imparting additional grandeur to his mien.  There he stood, emblematic of splendour, and on each side of him were encamped distressful little families, grasping spades and buckets and seated on their corded luggage, unable to move because of the railway strike, while behind him flared a huge advertisement that said, “The Sea is Calling you.”  Along the kerbstone a few yards in front were ranged the children of the district, row upon row, uncombed, in rags, filthy from head to foot, but silent with joy and admiration as they gazed upon the face of war.  For many a gentle girl and boy that Friday and Saturday were the days of all their lives—­the days on which the pretty soldiers came.

Nor was it only the charm of nice clothes and personal appearance that attracted them.  Horror added its tremulous delight.  There the sentry stood, ready to kill people at a word.  His right knee was slightly bent, and against his right foot he propped the long wooden instrument that he killed with.  In little pouches round his belt he carried the pointed bits of metal that the instrument shoots out quicker