must never fail. He must be manly and independent, or he will be
told he's a baby, ridiculed, teased, and despised. When war assumes her
serious dress, he sees the helplessness of women and children, he hears
their piteous appeals, and chivalry burns him, till he does his utmost
of sacrifice and effort to protect, and comfort, and cheer them.

It is a mistake to suppose that the older men in the army encouraged
vulgarity and obscenity in the young recruit; for even those who
themselves indulged in these would frown on the first show of them in a
boy, and without hesitation put him down mercilessly. No parent could
watch a boy as closely as his mess-mates did and could, because they saw
him at all hours of the day and night, dependent on himself alone, and
were merciless critics, who demanded more of their _protege_ than they
were willing to submit to themselves.

The young soldier's piety had to perish ignominiously, or else assume a
boldness and strength which nothing else could so well impart as the
temptations, sneers, and dangers of the army. Religion had to be bold,
practical, and courageous, or die.

In the army the young man learned to value men for what they were, and
not on account of education, wealth, or station; and so his attachments,
when formed, were sincere and durable, and he learned what constitutes a
man and a desirable and reliable friend. The stern demands upon the boy,
and the unrelenting criticisms of the mess, soon bring to mind the
gentle forbearance, kind remonstrance, and loving counsels of parents
and homefolks; and while he thinks, he weeps, and loves, and reverences,
and yearns after the things against which he once strove, and under
which he chafed and complained. Home, father, mother, sister,--oh, how
far away; oh, how dear! Himself, how contemptible, ever to have felt
cold and indifferent to such love! Then, how vividly he recalls the warm
pressure of his mother's lips on the forehead of her boy! How he loves
his mother! See him as he fills his pipe from the silk-embroidered bag.
There is his name embroidered carefully, beautifully, by his sister's
hand. Does he forget her? Does he not now love her more sincerely and
truly and tenderly than ever? Could he love her quite as much had he
never parted; never longed to see her and could not; never been
uncertain if she was safe; never felt she might be homeless, helpless,
insulted, a refugee from home? Can he ever now look on a little girl