This principle is extended, too, to the enforcement of law and order.  If Private M’Sumph is insubordinate or riotous, there is never any question of informal correction or summary justice.  News of the incident wends its way upward, by a series of properly regulated channels, to the officer in command.  Presently, by the same route, an order comes back, and in a twinkling the offender finds himself taken under arrest and marched off to the guard-room by two of his own immediate associates. (One of them may be his own rear-rank man.) But no officer or non-commissioned officer ever lays a finger on him.  The penalty for striking a superior officer is so severe that the law decrees, very wisely, that a soldier must on no account ever be arrested by any save men of his own rank.  If Private M’Sumph, while being removed in custody, strikes Private Tosh upon the nose and kicks Private Cosh upon the shin, to the effusion of blood, no great harm is done—­except to the lacerated Cosh and Tosh; but if he had smitten an intruding officer in the eye, his punishment would have been dire and grim.  So, though we may call military law cumbrous and grandmotherly, there is sound sense and real mercy at the root of it.

* * * * *

But there is one Law of the Medes and Persians which is sensibly relaxed these days.  We, the newly joined, have always been given to understand that whatever else you do, you must never, never betray any interest in your profession—­in short, talk shop—­at Mess.  But in our Mess no one ever talks anything else.  At luncheon, we relate droll anecdotes concerning our infant platoons; at tea, we explain, to any one who will listen, exactly how we placed our sentry line in last night’s operations; at dinner, we brag about our Company musketry returns, and quote untruthful extracts from our butt registers.  At breakfast, every one has a newspaper, which he props before him and reads, generally aloud.  We exchange observations upon the war news.  We criticise von Kluck, and speak kindly of Joffre.  We note, daily, that there is nothing to report on the Allies’ right, and wonder regularly how the Russians are really getting on in the Eastern theatre.

Then, after observing that the only sportsman in the combined forces of the German Empire is—­or was—­the captain of the Emden, we come to the casualty lists—­and there is silence.

Englishmen are fond of saying, with the satisfied air of men letting off a really excellent joke, that every one in Scotland knows every one else.  As we study the morning’s Roll of Honour, we realise that never was a more truthful jest uttered.  There is not a name in the list of those who have died for Scotland which is not familiar to us.  If we did not know the man—­too often the boy—­himself, we knew his people, or at least where his home was.  In England, if you live in Kent, and you read that the Northumberland Fusiliers have been cut up or the Duke of Cornwall’s Light