There was an old man in my ward who was very grumpy. I call him old because his otherwise coal-black hair was streaked with gray, and gray stubble came on his chin when he did not shave. My other patients at that period were youngsters. Private Percival Drake was perhaps fifty years of age, or a little over, and to all of us he was "Dad" or "old Percy."

A more incongruous Christian name, for this rugged veteran, could never have been conceived-he neither looked like a Percy nor behaved like one. His appearance and his conduct were uncouth. His face was covered with corrugations-one could not call them wrinkles-and his large mouth, when he opened it for the purposes of audible mastication, seemed to be crammed with a confusion of irregular teeth, so yellow that they might almost be described as orange-colored.

What was at first chiefly noticeable about Dad, however, was his grumpiness. His right arm had received, during a Gallipoli incident, a remarkable number of odds and ends of shrapnel. I saw selections of these Turkish souvenirs removed at more than one séance in the operating theatre. Poor old Percy, when he at last left us, had been under the surgeon's knife-in Egypt, on the hospital ship, and here in London-no fewer than nine times. And when, after his first operation with us, he gradually grew worse rather than better, nobody could understand what was wrong with him— until his arm was re-opened and a piece of rubber tube discovered within it, lost behind a wall of outwardly healed flesh. The disinterment of that small lost length of tube (which, fortunately, could not be blamed upon our hospital, this particular wound having closed over before Dad reached us) caused, I

remember, some mild cross-fire of jesting in the operating theatre, with the prone form of the unconscious ancient as a focus; and "Sister"-who was chaffingly reproached for the crimeturned scarlet with horror even at the thought. But old Percy, when the matter was expounded to him on the morrow, was very wrath. Nevertheless, his grumpiness decreased thereafter by degrees, and it became clear that only the to him-unwonted sensation of fever and illness had been the origin of most of his bad manners. By the time he was out of bed and able to walk about he had come within measurable distance of a sort of politeness and was a favorite with all.

Percy had seen previous wars, retired from the Army, become a breeder of hounds, and rejoined his former regiment in August, 1914. He came from Cumberland, and spoke with the broadest accent of the North. His conversation, when Sister and the nurses were not present, was richly Rabelaisian, and his sporting lore extensive. He told me of an illicit bait for beck trout, which I shall probably some day get into trouble for trying; the entrancing secret has been a torture ever since it was imparted to me, and I know I shall succumb to its temptation next time I go fishing in the Lake District-when peace has been declared. Dad, I promised myself, would go fishing with me, or more strictly, poaching. But this was not to be. The old man, after we had patched him and cured him, was sent once more to the firing line and he will not be grumpy, or breed hounds, or poach trout again.

It fell to my lot, as ward orderly, to give Dad a bath. His right arm, which was in a sling, he could not move, and he professed to be unable to soap

himself in a sufficiently thorough manner with one hand-his left. This was in the grumpy epoch, and as he stood in his bath-reminding me of a gnarled tree, his body was so muscular yet badly formed-and I washed him by his own careful commands, I suspected that he was deriving a more or less malicious enjoyment from the episode. He directed me to scrub his back, hard, and likewise (if these details be permitted) to attend to his toenails. Also he expressed a desire to expectorate, adding: "I'm particular; I never spit in the bath I'm in." He lolled luxuriously, puffing a cigarette, while I toweled him; then, as I began to get him into his pajamas, "No hurry," he said. "It's all right here; nice to be away from them wimmen in the ward; good girls, Sister and the nurses, but we understand each other."

I perceived that Dad's grumpiness had been exorcised-and I was not loth to sit on the edge of the bath, for a breathing space, and smoke a cigarette with him.

"Washed me right well, you did, orderly," he went on. "They give you eleven bob a week, don't they? How much were you earning before you enlisted?"

That's when you're in. But when you're not in you forget after a bit, and then you begin to 'anker to enlist. You ought to 'ave more sense, at my age, only you 'aven't. You're younger than me, but you'll think just the same."

This monologue, which I have quoted without any attempt to reproduce the dialect, was the introduction to a very pleasant friendship between Dad and myself. It was on this occasion, at the cigarette interlude in the bathroom, that we learned that we knew the same places and had a mutual interest in trout-fishing. Fishing talk and Cumberland formed a bond between us, and when, at later dates, Sister ordered Dad to go and take his bath (he was not, I am afraid, an enthusiast for ablutions of any sort) he always made out that it was essential that I should accompany him-on the plea that he "couldn't manage with this 'ere sling." Arrived at the bathroom his helplessness vanished. "Sit you down and 'ave a smoke; I can wash myself. I only thought you'd be glad to get away from them wimmen," he would announce shamelessly.

"You're an ungrateful old scoundrel," I said. "Think of all they've done for you!"

"Oh, they're good girls enough," he admitted. "I've known a few wenches in my time, and I've liked some of them fine. But it's grand to get away from them; that's what I always come back to with wenches. . . . You can't talk with wenches; you can only" (he seemed to be struggling with an idea), "you can only say odds and ends like." "Married, Dad?" I asked.

"Aye; I've been married this twenty year or more. That's different. That's comfortable." And he wound up with this splendidly naïve testimony to wedded bliss: "You see, you don't 'ave to say anything at all to your wife!"

Ward Muir.

What a wonderful sensation of delight must enthral a man who has written a song which has moved a people; a song which has, as it were, given them the word they were trying to find, eased every simple man of his burden of inarticulate thought, taken him out of himself, and stirred his pulses till he does not know if it is his own heart which is beating or the heart of the world. Men of great poetic genius have had this incomparable experience and men of no poetic genius at all. The gods give to whom they will the power to speak for the people, to read their hearts and interpret them to themselves, to confirm their conviction, steady their purpose, purify their pride, and banish their fear. These things a man may do with his song if the gods will and if the people have one heart.

It has been said-and it might come true that all that is needed to bind Russia together is a song. The Russians, it is argued, would act as one people with one purpose if they could be spellbound by the wizardry of musical martial words. The suggestion opens a wide subject of discussion. The right song, one hopes and fancies, might be written for Russia, but then the doubt comes-could a song be imposed upon a people? Could any form of words, however grand, have a disciplinary effect upon a multitude unless it were the interpretation of their own thoughts and emotions? Of the power of song there would seem to be no limit if the idea it embodies is already quick in the minds of those for whom it is written. Its influence may be for good or for evil, but it cannot coerce. A song may heighten passion till it is capable of any heroic effort. Oddly enough, it does not need to be true poetry to do

this, though it may have the Divine fire without lessening its force. It is said that "John Brown's Body" won the war for the North; but did it really do more than express the moral and political passion which leads to victory? Its power seems to consist in the rhythmical reiteration of a political idea which had already obsessed the mind of an army. Whoever wrote it knew how thought moves in the minds of men who have no time for direct thinking. It expressed that political idea in all its nobility and in all its crudity, touching it with the religious emotion inseparable from patriotic aspiration and with the fierceness inseparable from valor. It is as simple as it is insistent, and almost as prosaic as it is simple. The amazing thing is that "John Brown" should be so little of a poem, seeing that it expressed great emotions to the complete satisfaction of a great people, and expressed them in a form which did not preclude singing. As a song it served its purpose perfectly, and in lacking the Divine fire it lacked nothing but everlastingness. It may serve again to cheer a company on the march; it can hardly be a factor in the present war. But whatever its record or its worth, it did not bind a people, or even an army. It gave it voice, and the voice expressed its unity.

May not the same thing be said of that far greater song which cannot be separated from its music, the "Marseillaise"? Neither words nor tune impregnated France with an idea; that idea was already coming to the birth. In the joy of her delivery France sang the "Marseillaise." Martial verse could hardly have been more telling. France could have been satisfied with nothing less. Once

again today it comes to her lips; it belongs to her forever. As soon as Russia is at one with herself she may produce a "Marseillaise" or a song of peace, but whatever it expresses it can only express a convinced Russia.

It is of course arguable that just as the "Marseillaise" was the outcome of one man's brain, so must the conquering Russian song be, if it ever comes, and indeed every other song. It is idle to speak as though music or thought or form came from the people. That is true; but songs which move masses, like creeds which move masses, must be accepted before they can vivify. A form of creed is a deadletter, a mere focus for scepticism, a law whose only effect is to create sin, unless it symbolizes the sentiments and epitomizes the religious emotions of those upon whom men design to impose it. A religious revival could not be produced by the chanting of a creed, though it might find solemn utterance in such a manner.

The literature of this country contains many great hymns. A few of them are moderately popular, but it is not those which come to the front in great revivals. Some day a revival may produce a great poem. At present simple religious people find an outlet for their deepest feelings in a wide variety of sacred songs which, if we may say so without irreverence, are ridiculously inadequate to the emotions they represent. Exactly the same thing is true of our soldiers. We can only suppose that they have no need of a great battle song-though they have the passion in their hearts which might produce one.- Unlike Cromwell's soldiers, they have not taken a song from the singers of Israel, neither have they accepted what certain of their own poets have offered to them; they have preferred very poor stuff. It is a curious fact that the Bible seems to lose poetic as it gains moral

influence. The New Testament is very much inferior to the old in point of poetry, very much higher in ideal. The Psalms leave us cold. Now and then a war congregation consisting of old men and boys and women is carried away for the moment by David's martial ardor, but the soldiers of today regard them as part of a set service and no more. Their feeling for rhythm is strong, and united as they are it is enough for them. But a drum, which can warm indifference to the point of enthusiasm, cannot reconcile disputants. For that, reason and eloquence are necessary; the magnetism of the orator and an appeal to the mind. Russia has need of these things.

The phrenologist Lavater studied the human face divine till his brain reeled and he fell a victim to delusion. He believed that one day a portrait of Christ would be found, and that the sight of it would convert the world. It was a beautiful dream this of the old student of physiognomy; he thought a vast reform would be brought about by the imposition of an ideal. But though by men of goodwill the portrait could have been recognized, and might have become, as it were, their ensign, for the others it would have been but one religious picture the more in the world. Similarly, by men of heroic mould the song would be accepted, but the rest would pass it by. For the song to triumph there must be no "rest." The extent to which martial or any other passion can express itself is no test of its depth. A visitor from Mars would make no correct conception of the British Army by the study of its songs. The man who first said: "If a man were permitted to make al! the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation," would be sore puzzled by our soldiers. No nation has given birth to greater poets than the

English, but we are not a poetic people. English soldiers sing as children sing for the pleasure of shouting. Yet perhaps we may say without offense to the Allies that their unity and purity of purpose are not excelled by any. Some people need expression, others do not. None can be ruled or reformed or modified or inspired by having suitable expression imposed upon them, even by their own men of genius. But when the song happens to fit the mood and the spirit the result may be overwhelming. We have discussed the difficulties of The Spectator.

finding or creating a song to lead a people to victory because they are almost too great for one to see how they may be deliberately overcome. The song that takes the heart and the mind of a people by storm does so for no reason that a critic, contenting himself with the apparatus of his art, could easily foresee. But the right song's influence is beyond that of statesmen and generals. We hope Russia will find her song. It seems worth while for the poets to tempt fortune, after all, and offer some for her approval.

On first going to France on active service, like many another subaltern before me, I reflected long on what books I should stow away in my valise. Books for reading on active service must, in my opinion, possess three qualifications. They should be rather solid matter, from the literary point of view, if they are to act as a fairly permanent stand-by for the purposes of mental recreation; they ought to be, if possible, some classic that their possessor should have read but has not (anyhow not in full); and, lastly, they should be as light and compact as possible-this in view of the restrictions on the weight of the officer's kit. During my leave, "prior to embarkation," I toyed with the idea of purchasing some bulky classic like Gibbon's Decline and Fall in one slender volume on India paper, wondering, too, whether I might add a Complete Shakespeare, some Kipling and Stevenson to my store. What actually happened was that, in the rush of departure, I forgot all about my intellectual pabulum and only contrived to pick up a cheap edition of The Pilgrim's Progress at the railway station where

I took train for the Front. In the upshot I never regretted only having Christian, his friends and foes, as my companions on active service.

The secret of comfort on active service is to be mobile. To be mobile it is necessary to have as small and compact a kit as possible. One moves about so much: one's bed (i. e., one's valise hold-all) is spread in so many queer places where space is greatly restricted that anything that tends to add to the number or weight of one's possessions is to be discouraged. Small objects like books have a habit of snuggling themselves down into the most secret corners of one's valise, and when retrieved by one's aggrieved servant are as likely as not sodden with damp, squeezed out of shape, or thickly coated with adhesive mud. That is why I was content to have old John Bunyan's masterpiece, a pocket French dictionary, and one or two military handbooks as my whole library on active service.

The innumerable cheap editions and reprints of the classics have been a perfect godsend to the armies in the field in this war. They are cheap enough to be read and passed on or