When I was in France a few weeks ago I heard much about the relative
qualities of different classes of men as soldiers. And one of the most
frequent themes was the excellence of the "black sheep." It was not merely
that he was brave. That one might expect. It was not even that he was
unselfish. That also did not arouse surprise. The pride in him, I found,
was chiefly due to the fact that he was so good a soldier in the sense of
discipline, enthusiasm, keenness, even intelligence. It is, I believe, a
well-ascertained fact that an unusually high proportion of reformatory boys
and other socially doubtful men have won rewards for exceptional deeds, and
every one knows the case of the man with twenty-seven convictions against
him who won the V.C. for one of the bravest acts of the war.

It must not be assumed from this that to be a successful soldier you must
be a social failure. On the contrary, nothing has been so conclusively
proved by this war as the widespread prevalence of the soldierly instinct.
Heroes have sprung up from all ranks and all callings--from drapers' shops
and furniture vans, from stools in the city and looms in Lancashire, from
Durham pits and bishops' palaces. Whatever else the war has done, it has
knocked on the head the idea that the cult of militarism is necessary to
preserve the soul of courage and chivalry in a people. We, with a wholly
civic tradition, have shown that in the hour of need we can draw upon an
infinite reservoir of heroism, as splendid as anything in the annals of the
human race.

But the case of the black sheep has a special significance for us. The war
has discovered the good that is in him, and has released it for useful
service. After all, the black sheep is often only black by the accident of
circumstance, upbringing, or association. He is a misfit. In him, as in all