od in line, when
he addressed me as "Number Seven!" I burned with shame and rage. I was
no longer a human being; I had become part of a machine, and my name was
"Number Seven." It used to astonish me when I had a neighbour who went
through the drill with amusement, with zealous energy; I would gaze at
the boy, and ask myself how it was possible that he and I should feel so
differently. To be sure, nearly all my schoolfellows either enjoyed the
thing, or at all events went through it with indifference; they made
friends with the sergeant, and some were proud of walking with him "out
of bounds." Left, right! Left, right! For my own part, I think I have
never hated man as I hated that broad-shouldered, hard-visaged, brassy-
voiced fellow. Every word he spoke to me, I felt as an insult. Seeing
him in the distance, I have turned and fled, to escape the necessity of
saluting, and, still more, a quiver of the nerves which affected me so
painfully. If ever a man did me harm, it was he; harm physical and
moral. In all seriousness I believe that something of the nervous
instability from which I have suffered since boyhood is traceable to
those accursed hours of drill, and I am very sure that I can date from
the same wretched moments a fierceness of personal pride which has been
one of my most troublesome characteristics. The disposition, of course,
was there; it should have been modified, not exacerbated.

In younger manhood it would have flattered me to think that I alone on
the school drill-ground had sensibility enough to suffer acutely. Now I
had much rather feel assured that many of my schoolfellows were in the
same mind of subdued revolt. Even of those who, boylike, enjoyed their
drill, scarce one or two, I trust, would have welcomed in their prime of
life the imposition of military servitude upon them and their countrymen.
From a certain point of view, it would be better far that England should
bleed under conquest than that she should be saved by eager, or careless,
acceptance of Conscription. That view will not be held by the English
people; but it would be a sorry thing for England if the day came when no
one of those who love her harboured such a thought.

XX.

It has occurred to me that one might define Art as: an expression,
satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life. This is applicable to every
form of Art devised by man, for, in his creative moment, whether he
produce a great drama or carve