When the Territorial exclaims that, for his part, he would refuse to inhabit a planet on which there was no hope of war, the peaceful listener shudderingly charges the inventor of Territorials with promoting a bloodthirsty mind.  After all the prayers for peace in our time—­prayers in which even Territorials are expected to join on church parade—­it appears an impious folly to appraise war as a necessity for human happiness.  Or if indeed it be a blessing, however much in disguise, why not boldly pray to have the full benefit of it in our time, instead of passing it on, like unearned increment, for the advantage of posterity?  Such a thing is unimaginable.  A prayer for war would make people jump; it would empty a church quicker than the collection.  Nevertheless, it is probable that the great majority of every congregation does in its heart share the Territorial’s opinion, and, if there were no possibility of war ever again anywhere in the world, they would find life upon this planet a trifle flat.

The impulse to hostilities arises not merely from the delight in scenes of blood enjoyed at a distance, though that is the commonest form of military ardour, and in many a bloody battle the finest fruits of victory are reaped over newspapers and cigars at the bar or in the back garden.  There is no such courage as glows in the citizen’s bosom when he peruses the telegrams of slaughter, just as there is no such ferocity as he imbibes from the details of a dripping murder.  “War!  War!  Bloody war!  North, South, East, or West!” cries the soldier in one of Mr. Kipling’s pretty tales; but in real life that cry arises rather from the music-halls than from the soldier, and many a high-souled patriot at home would think himself wronged if perpetual peace deprived him of his one opportunity of displaying valour to his friends, his readers, or his family.  All these imaginative people, whose bravery may be none the less genuine for being vicarious, must be reckoned as the natural supporters of war, and, indeed, one can hardly conceive any form of distant conflict for which they would not stand prepared.

But still, the widespread dislike of peace is not entirely derived from their prowess; nor does it spring entirely from the nursemaid’s love of the red coat and martial gait, though this is on a far nobler plane, and comes much nearer to the heart of things.  The gleam of uniforms in a drab world, the upright bearing, the rattle of a kettledrum, the boom of a salute, the murmur of the “Dead March,” the goodnight of the “Last Post” sounding over the home-faring traffic and the quiet cradles—­one does not know by what substitutes eternal peace could exactly replace them.  For they are symbols of a spiritual protest against the degradation of security.  They perpetually re-assert the claim of a beauty and a passion that have no concern with material advantages.  They sound defiance in the dull ears of comfort, and proclaim woe unto them that are at ease in the city of life.  Dimly the nursemaid is aware of the protest; most people are dimly aware of it; and the few who seriously labour for an unending reign of peace must take it into account.