THE JOYS OF WAR. Is war a brutalising experience? This is a question asked every day, and I daresay answered as unsatisfactorily as any such general question must be. It depends on the man, his particular environment, possibly his health, each of these factors being a changeable quantity. The answer is that war uplifts one man and degrades another. Both fear it (of that there can be no question); but one, despite his fear, feels morally and physically braced by it and enjoys it to the full, the other is nauseated by every side of war and feels lowered by every contact with it. The joys of war are many, and can be experienced by no other means; thus to the individual who has tasted all things to satiety and longs for new and fresh experiences, I recommend war, and by war I mean life with the fighting arm of the Service. I suppose, physically, one of the greatest joys is reaction after great exertion. How few civilised men know what it is in ordinary life to feel so tired that to lie down on strawstuffed sandbags is literally to fall asleep immediately, and to sleep in an ecstasy of comfort and relaxation. Yet in war one gets this free gratis, and it never palls. Anticipation is a delightful sensation: war is full of it, and very subtle are its pleasures. To-day it is raining; our feet are wet, nay soaking; we shiver VOL. CCI.-NO. MCCXVII. and cannot keep warm; but to-morrow we shall be relieved, to-morrow we shall plod out of this God-forsaken spot and taste the delights of possibly a fire, possibly a bed, and very probably a change of clothes. Tonight there is a disgusting job to be done. The Brigadier considers the re-entrant on our lines at X 14 is dangerous, and we have to dig a trench across the open, to straighten the line. To-night in driving rain, with machine-guns sweeping for us every few minutes, this is a horrid business, or, as Jones says, very tiresome. But to-morrow we shall be relieved, to-morrow we shall have the unmixed joy of telling the Blankshires how much we did, how well our men worked, how much there is left for them to do, and that when we come in again we shall be interested to see how much they have done. Sparke, the great Sparke, Fadgett's servant, who has been trained to cook like a chef under conditions that would make a plaster-saint weep, promised that to-night we should dine on quails, and has just broken the news to us that, owing to an unfortunate collision with Colins the runner, those quails are no more, and ration meat will be our lot. But what matter? How delicious will be the meal Sparke will prepare in billets, with all the advantages of a real fireplace and fresh butter! And so it goes on, the unpleasant fact obscured by the pleas 2 D ure to come always beckoning very morning with the tail one forwards. of his British warm he swept my tea to the floor, that tea I had been longing for; how clumsy he looked, and how I longed to out short his stupid apologies !), now looked so tall and straight my heart went out to him, and I forgave him all -even that silly remark of his when a 6-inch shell missed my dug-out by a few feet: "Was that a Whizbang?" Fear of death or wounds, or fear of what not coming at you in the dark, is a pain which brings pleasure in its train. Without fear no man can know the full meaning of security that feeling by which you escape from that something which makes your dog die in ten years, whereas, of course, he should live out his life with you. No dog-or other animal for that matter knows the meaning of that blessed word Security; he sleeps with one eye open and one ear cocked, and thus burns out his life so 800n. Here in billets, beyond the reach of shells, you can revel in security, contrasting your present state of mind with that moment when you sat crouched on the fire step, nearly praying that the next might take you and relieve the strain. What bliss! You would not change places with Croesus, for he never can feel what you are feeling. As you tramped in fours down that last hundred yards into the gates of Ypres, your ears cocked for the sound of coming shells, you were burning out your life at the rate of your beloved dog; but when you turned to the left and felt the solid rampart at your side, you began to feel the first effects of security; and when you swung down the streets of Poperinghe, nearing your cosy billet, you felt a tremendous fellow-feeling coming from the men behind you. Young Jones, whose presence in the trenches irritated you (this A child comes into the world with one instinct strongly developed - that of acquisitiveness; it has no idea of the laws of meum and tuum. The mother has been taught, and tries to pass on to her child, the doctrine that it is better to give than to receive; and the little one rebels against a teaching which plainly is at variance with its instincts. It feels it to be against all reason that it can be better or happier for it to give its toys to another child, or that any other object-lessons in the beauty of unselfishness can be pleasant or produce happiness. One day, however, the child has an odd feeling. This scheme of doing what is unnatural, which is forced on it, has suddenly created & curious sense of happiness. Whether this sensation has in it the germ of the prig or not, it certainly leads, in some characters, to an intense desire to taste once more that feeling of pleasure produced by self-abnegation, and later in life the child observes and takes mental note that happiness is the only thing truly worth having, and that really happy people worship at this odd shrine where, in return and did it. When Cator felt for pain, they secure pleasure; seedy, he actually offered to indeed, in some cases it may do his work, but of course be said to be a vice, so anxious Cator wouldn't let him. All are those who know the secret the time he radiated happiness. to exchange the former for the latter. War is the place where this vice can be indulged, and is indulged. Stand on one side and watch the crowd go by. You will see countless men, from private to General, indulging in one way or another in this joy of war. Some know they are doing it, others unconsciously give them selves the pleasure. To them it has become a habit: most of them in peace never knew the sensation, but they will remain devotees to their death. Smythe, who commanded No. 4 Platoon, was an unconscious worshipper of this strange god. We all noticed how happy Smythe was, how he revelled in the joys of war. When Smythe joined No. 4 Company it was an unhappy mess. When a dangerous or unpleasant duty had to be done, the question was always hotly debated whom did it take to do it. Cator said it didn't take him; he took the last working party, and a dirty job it was. No, it certainly didn't take him. Each watched his neighbour, each saw to it that he was not imposed upon-all hated war, and could see no joy in it. Then Smythe came with a draft and joined them. They liked him and voted him a good fellow; he seemed to mellow everything, and yet he said little. When duties were discussed he said nothing, took what he was given, That delicate subject of the leave roster came up again for discussion, and the goodnatured Jones again lost his temper over it, the special question being whether Smythe was in this roster or the next. Smythe, curiously enough, thought he was in the next, and Jones left the billet at a loss to understand how any one could be fool enough to make remarks which might lead to the loss of one leave; but Smythe smiled on. was enjoying himself. "These others had been out a long time; they were more tired than he was," he argued with himself, and a warm feeling crept over him, one of the joys of war. He Every schoolboy thinks his own school the finest, his own house the best, but he has the saving grace hardly ever to think himself the best; this process repeats itself in war and becomes one of the joys. Every soldier thinks his battalion the finest, his company the best, and probably his platoon the smartest. It is a form of healthy self-respect, of pride without offence. The 4th Batt. of the Ironsides was 8 new battalion; it was something quite unheard of to have more than three battalions in the Ironsides, so the other three battalions sniffed and good naturedly considered them raw, and their officers thanked God that fate had not cast their lot in the 4th Batt., which was new and had no traditions of its own. The 4th Batt. felt like a new boy at school. The tradition of the school belonged to them by birth, but not by right; their regiment was the finest, but their battalion had to prove itself the best. So inside the battalion in companies and platoons the spirit of emulation raged, but outside none dared yet to make the polite comparison by battalions which gives harmless joy, and they. waited for the day when by acts, not words, they would be admitted within the magic cirele, and all Ironsides would think in fours and not in threes. It came. The Ironsides were hurried up to retrieve something rather like a rout. The youngest battalion was given the post of honour and behaved gloriously, upholding all the great traditions of the regiment, and showing themselves veterans like the rest. As they advanced in artillery formation as steadily as on a field-day, all, despite their fear, were feeling the joys of war, pride in tradition, the joy of sacrifice for an ideal. Some people say that money talks-it does in peace with loud and vulgar accent. It creates artificial standards of living which in turn raise artificial barriers in society. We like to think that class distinction is one of intellect, environment, or taste; in fact, it is nearly always founded on the relative possession of money. Jones and Smith were at a private school together, and were fast friends. They went to the same public school and college, and their bond grew stronger; they had all the delights of the wonderful friendship between two men, probably the most beautiful and perfect form of love in the world. Then money began to talk. Jones's father had given him the same privileges as Smith, but with a struggle. He could do no more, and Jones had to get down to bedrock and make his way; he had to change his ideas and his standard of living. Smith was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, and had to take his place in the ranks of the super- wealthy. standard of living went up; he was swept away on the tide of life, as we all are, but the two friends were in different currents. Smith and Jones still loved each other, but Jones felt he could not live up to Smith's rich friends. Their standard was beyond his reach; he did not envy them, they did not despise him. Simply money stood between and talked; so these two drifted apart. Then came war, when money talks in whispers because it is of no account. When a highwayman says, "Your money or your life," he knows the relative value of these things. Money does not count when men's lives are the counters in a great game. What use is money without life, and so men get to ignore it, laugh at its previous powers, and standards readjust themselves. Jones and Smith tasted one of the joys of war when Smith was posted to Jones's company, and the barrier of money was swept away. IRONSIDE. MUSINGS WITHOUT METHOD. CORRUPTION THE SIN OF DEMOCRACY-ITS MANY METHODSTHE SALE OF HONOURS-VOTES BOUGHT WITH PUBLIC MONEY -THE DECAY OF THE COMMONS THE EMPIRE RESOURCES DEVELOPMENT COMMITTEE SHALL THE EMPIRE BE MISTRESS OF HER OWN WEALTH?-GERMANY AND AMERICA. SOME months since we discussed in these pages the means which may presently be taken to purify our politics, to check the growth of that corruption which which has ever been the besetting sin of democracy. Politics, as a craft, is not governed by the laws which control other forms of human activity. Those who profess it are not in any way interested in the perfection of their work. They aim at the proximate result-their own office, not at the ultimate result-the safety and prosperity of the Kingdom. Thus they differ from all other craftsmen. A pilot considers the safety of his ship. The pilot of a ship of state cares not on to what sandbank he runs, so long as his febrile hand still clutches the helm. In the golden age, when state came before party and profit, men were content to serve their country, for its good, in all humility of spirit. "Nowadays," as Aristotle says, "for the sake of the advantage which is to be gained from the public revenues and from office, one might imagine that the rulers, being sickly, were kept in health only while they continued in office." In truth, our rulers of late have been very sickly, and have followed the one cure, which they know, with a disastrous pertinacity. And by a strange irony we have been busy during the last ten years in toppling over all the ancient standards. Once upon a time a voter was asked to prove a property qualification. Thrift and industry were not of themselves deemed hindrances in the path of wisdom. We know better now, since our demagogues, with raucous voices, have denounced the "rich," and stirred up envy on a thousand platforms. At last we have reached the bottom of the pit. In Aristotle's phrase, "we are governed by the poor and not by the laws.' Now poverty is an excellent thing to escape from. If it is a hard chastener of youth, it is a sad companion of middle life. So far from inspiring its victim with political with political sagacity, it warps his judgment and cripples his energies. Few men have ever been, ever will be, rich enough to sing hymns of praise to indigence, as does Mr Carnegie, that Pecksniff among money-bags, and pray that Poverty, honest Poverty, shall never perish from the earth. Whatever else poverty may be it is not synonymous with wisdom, and wherever it is made the essential of government, corruption inevitably |