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all most appositely to his purpose. When he first joined the force he picked out what he deemed the weak point of military training.

"The lawyer, the citizen, the professor, the merchant, and the civil servant," thus he writes, "submitted in obedience to the Book of that day to stand with stiffened arms mathematically straight from shoulder to finger-tips, the elbows jammed against the sides, the hands with rigid fingers and palms flattened out to the front, thumb tight to forefinger, and the little finger close to the seam of the trousers, like Simple Simon in the children's nursery-book, the whole attitude such as no sensible man ever put himself or his slave into since the creation of the world, but which at that time was held to be essential to the obtaining of military efficiency."

It was against this system that Sir John Macdonald preached throughout his active career, and preaches in every chapter of his book. And the proudest day of his life was that on which he heard a good-natured friend exclaim: "There goes the man who has ruined the drill of the British Army."

That he spoke to deaf ears was but natural. In the first place, the Army has a natural dislike of innovation, and an equally natural distrust of civilians who preach reform with the ardour of indiscipline. But from the first Sir John had many distinguished witnesses, both living and dead, to speak for him, witnesses who did not believe that the end and aim of all armies was to make "imaginary perfect human automata," and that dress and equipment should bear no practical relation to the duties which their victims were asked

to perform. Lord Wolseley gave him constant encouragement. Indeed he too preached the doctrine of simplicity with a constant ardour, and saw with perfect clearness that "Frederick the Great's absurd ideas of what a soldier should look like on parade have been the curse of armies ever since." As Sir John points out, everything in the old uniform was absurd. The knapsack was an ornamental polished box; the belts crossed in front of the soldier's chest were unsuitable for carrying a load, and contracted the soldier's heart and lungs; the enforced stock of leather was an excellent incentive to apoplexy; and everything that the soldier did or endured was an impediment to marching. And, while we used to equip our army for show, so, according to Lord Wolseley, "we taught the soldier complicated movements, which are very pretty in Hyde Park, and amusing to nurse-maids there, but which are of very little use in war." Guibert long before had put the same thought in slightly different words. "On manoeuvrait pour les dames," he wrote, "on se séparait sans avoir rien appris." In short, parade and "smartness" were the idols and ideals of the oldfashioned soldier, and it is those idols which the criticism and experience of the last half century have shattered, those ideals which they have prevented from ever again becoming realities.

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Sir John Macdonald's first attack was delivered against the terms "Front," "Right in front," and "Left in front,"

whose ambiguity may be measured by the fact that "Front" had three definitions given to it in the Drill-Book as late as 1891. Then he urged, with what to-day seems no more than common-sense, (1) that everything which could be dispensed with as obsolete, or redundant, or hampering promptitude of movement, should be cut out of the BOOK; (2) that the manœuvres should be such as to require the minimum of time and exertion; and (3) that the formations of the troops should at all times be those most likely to prevent the men being jostled against one another, and being obliged unnecessarily to march where no man who was saving himself would walk, and to preserve them from being oppressed by want of cool air or by breathing foul air. In other words, he advocated the abolition of "the touch," and again of these reforms he found in Lord Wolseley a warm supporter. "I hope to see the day," wrote that eminent soldier, "when troops will march past in open order, each man being able to use his arms and legs without hitting or rubbing against the man on his right and left." The "touch" is now a thing of the past, and Sir John Macdonald as justly plumes himself on its abolition as he claims to be the first man in the world to have had the courage to propound the monstrous heresy that "instead of forbidding the swinging of the arm, it should be made the rule."

But Sir John Macdonald's greatest triumph is still to be chronicled. Not long before

the South African War a new edition of the Drill - Book was published. The revision was the work of that wisest among modern officers, Colonel Henderson, and surely no higher compliment was ever paid to a civilian than was paid to Sir John Macdonald, when he was asked to revise the proof-sheets of the BOOK, and to meet Colonel Henderson in consultation. He records his delight at seeing his opinions officially accepted with a frank enthusiasm. At last he saw the word "Front" disappear from the definitions. At last the soldier was allowed thirty inches, in which to stand, at all times. The innovation seems small enough, yet Lord Wolseley's testimony as to the value of free air, cited by Sir John, shows that it was of vital importance. Speaking of quartercolumn, said Lord Wolseley: "At six paces between the companies they suffer much. They can scarcely breathe. I went into action in hot weather in a line of quarter-columns, and before we fired a shot twentytwo men had dropped down dead, all from the centres of columns, where they were suffocated. I learned a lesson that day I have never forgotten." And thus, with a justified pride Sir John Macdonald, like his predecessor the JusticeClerk of a hundred years ago, "retires into private life,' having left his impress on the Army, though he is but a civilian and a Volunteer, and having modified the BOOK in the name of common - sense, after fifty years of loyal service and keen controversy.

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THE AWAKENING OF AMBROSE ROYLE.

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I.

his investments from time to time, and studied the markets with judgment, finding both profit and interest in so doing. To take care of his money was the most serious business of his life, second only to the still more absorbing pursuit of taking care of himself.

AMBROSE ROYLE was a young to speculate; but he changed gentleman of seven-and-forty. There was no mistake about the date of his birth, because it was on record in 'The County Families of Great Britain' and Burke's Landed Gentry'; but those who had omitted to consult these valuable works of reference would never have credited him with his years. Indeed, he often forgot them himself, having lived consistently up to the maxim that a man is as old as he feels; and Ambrose as a rule felt extremely comfortable, which was indeed the natural and proper result of his efforts to attain that end, maintained with undeviating singleness of purpose from early manhood onwards. To this pursuit he had been able to devote himself under exceptional advantages, having been left with a good income soon after he came of age, and with few ties or obligations of any kind. His mother had soon followed his father to the grave; his one sister was prosperously married; his only other relatives were an uncle or two and some cousins, all well-to-do persons, whom it was pleasant to visit occasionally. The management of an estate offering no attraction to him, he had sold his ancestral acres and mansion, and deposited the proceeds in sound dividend-paying securities. He was far too cautious

With this latter occupation nothing was permitted to interfere; he avoided disturbing pleasures as well as disturbing emotions. Neither ambition nor excitement was allowed to divert him from the straight path of a cultivated and selfrestrained hedonism. In his college days he had been visited by thoughts of cutting some figure in the world, perhaps of entering Parliament or attempting literature. But he early perceived that success could not be attained without exhausting efforts and some sacrifice of health, ease, and comfort. The same might be said of marriage and the domestic affections; a wife, he concluded, would be as troublesome as a career or a profession, and more expensive. "No!" he would say; "I am not a marrying man! I agree with that fellow who objected to pay for the board and lodging of another man's daughter.' And so for many years past he had reconciled himself to a well-regulated bachelordom. He no longer

hunted, for though his nerve was as good as ever, there was always the chapter of accidents. Why should a man risk a broken leg or collar-bone or worse merely in pursuit of amusement? But he took a few days' shooting from time to time, went to Homburg in the autumn, and to the Riviera or Egypt for the winter. When in London he played golf once or twice a-week, and he held fast to the obsolescent custom of riding regularly in the Park. He did not smoke, and was sparing, as well as extremely particular, in his food and drink, preferring quality always to quantity. And though he belonged to a couple of literary and rather Bohemian clubs, he avoided late suppers as he

did other unwholesome things. With these reserves he rather affected the society of authors, artists, and theatrical people, partly because they amused him, partly because from them he collected a good budget of the gossip which he produced at pleasant little dinners and afternoon parties, where many of his friends found him an acceptable guest. When you saw him at one of these entertainments, with his fresh complexion, alert manner, and dapper figure, you might very well have thought him a dozen or fifteen years younger than his actual years. There was hardly a grey hair on his head or a line on his brow. Such are the compensations of a well-spent middle age.

.II.

a liver, and a slight aching was even then perceptible in the middle of his back. Most men would have gone about their affairs and hardly noticed it; but it worried Ambrose as indicative to some extent of failure in the one great purpose of his mental activity. What is the use of living to be healthy if your health after all may be going to break down? Ambrose had spent a number of quite happy years thinking exclusively about himself; but now that he had to think sometimes of bodily ill

Yet this spring morning as he sits at breakfast in his luxurious rooms overlooking the Park, with his pretty collection of old blue china about him, he is not altogether happy. He has been up in good time as usual, and has had his bath and his Sandow exercises, and can enjoy his moderate morning meal with an appetite that comes not to those who revel long o' nights and go to bed with the taste of tobacco on their palates. All the same he was feeling a little hipped and out of sorts. For one ness or incapacity he found thing, his health, with all his care, had been giving him some trouble of late. He had discovered that he had

the occupation less agreeable. Then again he was haunted by a dim suspicion that he was scarcely so successful in

his role of agreeable rattle as he used to be. The young fellows, with whom he liked to class himself, seemed a little impatient of his slightly obsolete badinage; the middle-aged ladies, with whom he had been mildly philandering for years, were growing increasingly irresponsive; they even preferred the men of his own standing, who had mostly acquired serious interests of some kind by this time.

He had met his old college friend Driver the night before, and the meeting had left him vaguely discontented. Driver, an assistant-master at a great public school, did not carry his years particularly well: his hair was thin, his forehead was furrowed, he stooped a little,

and dressed deplorably. With his limited income and his half-dozen growing sons and daughters he had no leisure to be smart. Yet he obviously enjoyed his life, his work, even his worries. The busy schoolmaster was full of talk about his boys, his children, his little academic world, his inexpensive Swiss holidays, and the wider educational questions in which he found time to interest himself. People seemed to enjoy the conversation of this gaunt preceptor with the loud voice and the earnest brown eyes better than Mr Royle's own thin tinkle of gossip and scandal And some faint glimmerings of an elemental truth began to dawn upon our hedonist.

His servant interrupted his reflections by bringing in a letter. The address was written in a woman's hand which to Ambrose seemed unfamiliar. Nor on opening the envelope and glancing hastily at the signature did he at first recognise the name- "Maud Egerton." He was soon enlightened as he read:

"DEAR MR ROYLE,-It used to be Ambrose once; but it is so long since you have heard from me that I daresay you would no longer detect in 'Mrs John Egerton' the Maud Waynflete whom you used to know rather well in those old days now so far behind us. I hope these years have been

III.

good ones for you; for me they have been at least varied and adventurous. I went to India with Jack, you may recollect; and after that we were in America and Queensland and East Africa and all sorts of places. Poor Jack was never very successful; and now he is dead and I am back in London, with a small income and a big boy whom I am trying to start in the world. I have been here some months and have got a little work to do and hope to get some more. Roderick (that's my boy - you must know him) is at Radley, in the house of Mr Driver, an old friend of Jack's, who has been most kind to us. I have rather a nice little flat here, and now

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