The next thing which struck me was the calm in the trenches. Over here in England we seem to live in a continual change of feeling. We get the account of some engagement in which we are successful, and immediately we conclude the war is going to be over to-morrow, and people who are wont to go abroad for a holiday think it is time they went to Messrs. Cook's office to see about their tickets. But on the way they see the placard of an evening paper which tells of some minor disaster to our Forces, and then they return home, they call together the family and they tell them that the future means either the destruction of the country or twenty years of misery and poverty; the bulk of the misfortune, of course, being sure to rest upon their own individual shoulders. It is refreshing to get away from this atmosphere and to go into the trenches where everybody is doing his bit of work, content with somewhat unpleasant circumstances so long as through him England is served. Whenever, in future, I am inclined towards a fit of pessimism, I shall shut my eyes in order to see once again, with the vision of the spirit, a stalwart Britisher of the Worcester Regiment, not very far from the German lines, on a certain afternoon, when a most appalling thunderstorm was raging and some German shells were falling. He was munching the thickest slice of bread and jam that I have ever seen, and looking with a mild contempt at the intruding figure of an unknown padre whom a considerable number of his comrades were greeting because they recognised in him their Bishop. He put down now and again his refreshment in order to do some bit of work, but he was just as calm and collected as if he had been in his Worcestershire village and not in the trenches.