It is often said that war will eventually be stopped by the increased and perfected effectiveness of engines of war. It may well be doubted on general grounds; but it is specially true that humanity has robbed war of many of its terrible aspects; it may well be that those who open again the gates of mercy are competing successfully against those who “shut the gates of mercy” on mankind.
The modern treatment of the soldier is conspicuous in providing for his comfort. Why should England buy canned meats for her soldiers? Some crusts would have sufficed the providing spirit of an ancient general. The British army in the field must be well fed or there will be a great noise about the ears of the government. Let it be written home that the biscuits were stale, or the army went without its supper, and the newspapers will roar out the indignation of the nation. It is an immense task; but it must be accomplished; the modern soldier must have his regular meals with certainty, and the food must be good. The Mahdi has no such cares or duties. His soldiers must forage and browse as best they can. The superior power of the civilized soldier lies as much in his regular feeding as in his discipline—the feeding is an element of his discipline. The soldiers must also be comfortably clothed and sheltered. Woe to the commander who exposes his men to needless hardships. The country will not allow its loyal and brave defenders to suffer a needless deprivation or hardship. If commissaries are careless or venal, the nation will pillory them in eternal infamy. The soldier must have, even in the far off desert, many of the comforts of home or the country will know the reason why. And when the battered veterans come home, how the air rings with huzzas, how tender the pity for the wounded, how liberal the pensions for the widows and orphans of those who did not come home! Neither Cyrus nor Alexander had any such pension rolls. Rome idolized her armies, but she let them starve abroad, and forgot their families at home. This whole line of treatment means more than we can express in words. It is a very real and royal worship of the nobility which we see in the soldier. Often he is a sorry human creature, but it is almost a profanation to say so. We idolize him and his office. He is our defender, our chivalric knight, our personation of the flag over us, and of the civilization in us. But—but—what chance does this treatment of the soldier afford for the Day of Universal Peace? Will a sword ever become a pruning hook so long as it is glorified by such a symbolism and illumined by these soft lights of pity and reverence? Let us not take too gloomy a view of the effects of our philanthropy toward the soldier. The causes of war probably lie out of the range of these influences. Wars would still be, if they were still as diabolically merciless as they were in the mediæval days when a war galley was “a living hell.” Peace is a question of universal civilization; and the pity we yield to the soldier is one of the undying agencies of universal civilization.
THE LIGHTING OF TOWNS.
Street lighting is a modern invention. The history is imperfect, but Alexander Dumas gives credit to the tradition that Naples was first lighted in the seventeenth century by the cunning of a popular and sagacious priest, who induced the people to burn votive lamps before the numerous images of St. Joseph, the patron saint of the city. In the ancient towns people went about at night with lamps; and in mediæval times crimes of vengeance and greed found shelter and safety in the gloom of unlighted thoroughfares and bridges. When lighting began with oil lamps, the situation was not much improved; the feeble glimmer of the lamp-wicks only made certain corners less gloomy. When gas lights began to be used the millennium seemed to have come, and gas was expected to abolish midnight crimes. Until about a score of years ago, there was general satisfaction with gas light. Very satisfactory results were obtained in small towns by the use of petroleum, and the only formidable difficulties were those arising from the high cost of gas in towns of moderate wealth. It almost doubled the tax-levy, and when this bill did not materially decrease the cost of a police force the tax-payers murmured. Still, the work of lighting went on, and as soon as a town became ambitious, its citizens demanded street lights of some kind. The general result has been an immense increase of the aggregate outlays for this purpose. If we take into account the growth of towns and the extension of public lighting, it is safe to estimate that the public lighting bill of the world is twenty times as large as it was fifty years ago.
The invention of electric lights has, by the superior efficiency of this method, rendered oil and gas unsatisfactory; and the electric lamp furnishes three or four times as much light as gas at the same cost. But there are a dozen or more methods of using the electric lamp, and it may be doubted that we have yet reached the end of our inventive wits in this field. It is quite probable that the electric lamp of the next century will cost far less than any now in use. We are yet in the infancy of electrical invention, and it may be wise for communities to suffer a little longer the evils of darkness in order to obtain the best appliances for public lighting. The time is at hand when all towns will have street lamps; the inventors are busy and hopeful, and a little cautious patience in the public will probably stimulate rather than discourage invention. It is a good trait in our people that they want the newest device, at whatever cost; but on the other hand the ability of A to stock the market with an inferior article discourages the efforts of B to devise a superior one. The plant for lighting a town is expensive, and can not easily be thrown aside for a better one. Besides, we are in some danger of hatching a new brood of monopolies to plague us with unreasonable exactions.
We need street lights much more than our fathers did. In large towns—and in many small ones—the din of toil does not cease when darkness comes on. There is a steady increase of night occupations. Some of these occupations are of high convenience, such as the pharmacies, the printing offices, and the depots of travel. Others are means to profitable ends for individuals. In a great city a multitude of people use the streets at night. The market gardener must be in his stall before day dawn. The daily bread is baked or distributed to depots of sale in the night time; a thousand small trades are plied in the darkness to provide the tables of the families with the necessaries and luxuries of life. The result is a growing demand for artificial sunshine, and this demand will be amply met in a near future. The bright lights will do what the feeble lights partially failed to do. The night will cease to be the hour of crime. If one will but think of it, a marvelous change has come over the world since petroleum was discovered in Western Pennsylvania—which was, as it were, but yesterday. Then we had tallow dips in all but the largest towns for all lighting purposes, except when extravagant people burned on rare occasions the costly illuminating oils. To make noonday in a whole town at midnight would have seemed a foolish dream thirty years ago. The world moves—into the light.