ed 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.
Recollect, moreover, that I am about to use sentences accurate as a
photograph. The sportive Pressman says, "Vernon began to find the
enemy's cloud of sharp-shooters troublesome, so the 5th sought better
cover on the right, leaving Brown free to develop his artillery fire."
"Troublesome!" Translate that word, and it means this: Private Brown and
Private Jones are lying behind the same low bank. Jones raises his head;
there comes a sound like "Roo-o-osh--pht!"--then a horrible thud. Jones
glares, grasps at nothing with convulsed hands, and rolls sideways with
a long shudder. The ball took him in the temple. Serjeant Morrison says,
"Now, men, try for that felled log! Double!" A few men make a short
rush, and gain the solid cover; but one throws up his hands when half
way, gives a choking yell, springs in the air, and falls down limp. The
same thing is going on over a mile of country, while the shell-fire is
gradually gaining power--and we may be sure that the enemy are suffering
at the hands of our marksmen. And now suppose that an infantry brigade
receives orders to charge. "Charge!" The word carries magnificent poetic
associations, but, alas, it is a very prosaic affair nowadays! The lines
move onward in short rushes, and it seems as if a swarm of ants were
migrating warily. The strident voices of the officers ring here and
there: the men edge their way onward: it seems as if there were no
method in the advance; but somehow the loose wavy ranks are kept well
in hand, and the main movement proceeds like machinery. "I feel a bit
queer," says Bill Williams to a veteran friend. "Never mind--'taint
every one durst say that," says the friend. "Whoo-o-sh!" a muffled