papers, for that is want
of tact and waste of space.

He has, let us say, been in the service of the Empress for, perhaps,
four years. He will leave in another two years. He has no inherited
morals, and four years are not sufficient to drive toughness into his
fibre, or to teach him how holy a thing is his Regiment. He wants to
drink, he wants to enjoy himself--in India he wants to save money--and
he does not in the least like getting hurt. He has received just
sufficient education to make him understand half the purport of the
orders he receives, and to speculate on the nature of clean, incised,
and shattering wounds. Thus, if he is told to deploy under fire
preparatory to an attack, he knows that he runs a very great risk of
being killed while he is deploying, and suspects that he is being
thrown away to gain ten minutes' time. He may either deploy with
desperate swiftness, or he may shuffle, or bunch, or break, according
to the discipline under which he has lain for four years.

Armed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with the rudiments of an
imagination, hampered by the intense selfishness of the lower classes,
and unsupported by any regimental associations, this young man is
suddenly introduced to an enemy who in eastern lands is always ugly,
generally tall and hairy, and frequently noisy. If he looks to the
right and the left and sees old soldiers--men of twelve years'
service, who, he knows, know what they are about--taking a charge,
rush, or demonstration without embarrassment, he is consoled and
applies his shoulder to the butt of his rifle with a stout heart. His
peace is the greater if he hears a senior, who has taught him his
soldiering and broken his head on occasion, whispering: 'They'll shout
and carry on like this for five minutes. Then they'll rush in, and
then we've got 'em by the short hairs!'

But, on the other hand, if he sees only men of his own term of
service, turning white and playing with their triggers and saying:
'What the Hell's up now?' while the Company Commanders are sweating
into their sword-hilts and shouting: 'Front-rank, fix bayonets. Steady
there--steady! Sight for three hundred--no, for five! Lie down, all!
Steady! Front-rank kneel!' and so forth, he becomes unhappy; and grows
acutely miserable when he hears a comrade turn over with the rattle of
fire-irons falling into the fender, and the grunt of a pole-axed ox.
If he can be moved about a little and allowed to watch the effect o