Beauty has crept into our darkened streets again, and the soul of London is aware of it. The phenomenon is strictly wonderful. London herself, in the blue gloom of the Parks, along the shadowy streets, and at the upper windows of a million houses⁠—London, as an entity, is aware. For behind, and through, this veil of unaccustomed shadow stirs something that is deathless. Unnoticed during easy and luxurious days, too obvious in hours of sunshine to be detected, it now steals forth, claims recognition, draws attention to itself. It is a marvellous and delicate thing, yet of incalculable potentiality. It is that which scientists are supposed to ignore and biologists to deny. It is the soul. But it is not individual. It is corporate. With the dipping of the flashing glare of lights it now comes forth into its own. And we see the stars again. We are witnessing a religious and mystical phenomenon of ultimate significance, that which the Churches insist must happen in a regenerated heart, that which religions of all climes and ages affirm as of paramount importance⁠—sign and proof of spiritual awakening. And this mystical occurrence is already accomplished in our midst⁠—the midst of a practical, hardheaded business nation of the twentieth century. It is essentially divine. It is the loss of self. It was effected in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Out of that night in early August when the wireless and cables flashed round the world the news that England had gone to war, it emerged. By morning it was an accomplished fact. The inner and outer reconciliation of all conflict and disagreement in every corner of the Empire was its evidence. It was a miracle. And the miracle was conversion, regeneration. The result, attained so simply, was strictly wonderful. Separate, smaller entities, groups of opponents, bodies at war with other bodies, all merged at that significant bugle-call into a corporate and indivisible whole. The Empire became, psychologically, a crowd: one Being. The ease, the simplicity, the instantaneous character of the result⁠—these are of the spiritual order. The individual passed away, sunk his differences, forgot his personal ambitions, became merged in something greater than himself. There was no effort, there was no resistance. A group-consciousness came into existence spontaneously and of its own accord. The thing is happening still on every side; rather, the evidence that it has happened is to be seen all day long in street and park and courtyard: drilling. Men, to whom such an event had never once appeared as even a possible eventuality, are drilling by the thousand; are being drilled as naturally as they formerly ate their breakfast or went to golf and tennis. And what has taken place as a whole is taking place in every smaller portion of that whole. The object, moreover, is not to kill, but to keep alive⁠—truth, justice, mercy, liberty. Awkward squads are visible on every hand, impersonal service the word of command. Next to you stands a scholar, beyond him an artist famous in two hemispheres, behind you a singer whose voice brings joy to thousands. In July the notion that these men could ever drill in an Earl’s-court building would have seemed ridiculous. Now it is right, reasonable, and beautiful as well. They have lost themselves and found themselves; they are part of a Whole, their Company. Proud, willing, happy, they just let themselves be drilled, and have no questions to ask, even of themselves. They are scolded, shouted at, rebuked and praised alternately, by a lad who happens to have learned the words of command and technique they are ignorant of. In July he sold behind a counter the twelve-and-sixpenny volumes that the scholar wrote, or through a narrow window took in guineas from members of the public who wished to hear the singer ten days later⁠—but now he has these great men obedient to his will and orders, hanging intently upon his lightest word, because these are the words and orders of the larger Being whose servant he likewise is. He and that awkward squad are one. The items composing it no longer are individuals. All are merged into a harmonious, corporate body that is a group-soul. “It’s a rest, you know,” says the scholar, “to lay one’s self aside like this. It’s a holiday. I never realised before how valuable a change of personality could be. One has become a number.” “Almost a case of losing yourself to find it, eh?” suggests the artist, who, in his famous pictures, had never achieved a similar result so easily. And the singer exclaims, “A positive relief! I feel like singing in the ranks.” “Ah,” murmurs an invisible Someone, “it’s the secret of all true living everywhere.