Then, once more, watch the deadly, steady march of a regiment of Guards.  The stalwart men step together, and, as the red ranks sway on, it seems as though no earthly power could stand against them.  The gloomy bearskins are like a brooding dark cloud, and the glitter of the rifle-barrels carries with it certain sinister terrible suggestions.  The gaiety and splendour of Cavalry and Infantry all gain increased power over the imagination since we know that each of those gaily clad fellows would march to his doom without a tremor or a murmur if he received the word.  Poor Tommy Atkins is surrounded by a sort of halo in the popular imagination, simply because it is known that he may one day have to deal forth death to an enemy, or take his own doom, according to the chances of combat.  I need 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