But he found another last ounce. He half crawled, half dragged himself back and found his bag of grenades, and with the full bag hooked over his shoulder and a grenade clutched ready in his hand felt himself a new man. His strength was gone, but it takes little strength to pull the pin of a grenade, and if any German rushed him now, at least they’d go together. The machine-guns broke out again, and the Corporal, gasping and straining, struggled foot by foot back towards them. The personal side—the question of his own situation and chances of escape—had left him. He had forgotten himself. His whole mind was centred on the attack, on the effect of those machine-guns’ fire, on the taking of the German trench. He struggled past the break in the trench and on until he had shelter behind the low parapet. He wanted some cover. One grenade wasn’t enough. He wanted to make sure, and he wouldn’t chance a splinter from his own bomb. The machine-guns were chattering and clattering at top speed, and as he pulled the pin of his first grenade the Corporal saw another gun being dragged up beside the others. He held his grenade and counted ‘one-and-two-and-_throw_—’ and lobbed the grenade over into the trench under the very feet of the machine-gunners. He hastily pulled another pin and threw the grenade ... and as a spurt of smoke and dust leaped from the trench before him and the first grenades _crash-crashed_, he went on pulling out the pins and flinging over others as fast as he could pitch. The trench spouted fire and dust and flying dirt and débris, the ground shook beneath him, he was half stunned with the quick-following reports—but the machine-guns had stopped on the first burst. That was all he remembered. This time the last ounce was really gone, and he was practically unconscious when the stretcher-bearers found him after the trench was taken and the attack had passed on deep into the wood. And weeks after, lying snug in bed in a London hospital, after a Sister had scolded him for moving in bed and reaching out for a magazine that had dropped to the floor, and told him how urgent it was that he must not move, and how a fractured leg like his must be treated gently and carefully if he did not wish to be a cripple for life, and so on and so forth, he grinned up cheerfully at her. ‘Orright, Sister,’ he said, ‘I’ll remember. But it’s a good job for me I didn’t know all that, back there—in the wood.’ _A TALK WITH COLERIDGE._ _Abstract of a discourse with Mr. Coleridge on the state of the country in December 1830, written at the time by John Frere._[1] [While staying with the daughter of Mr. John Frere I came across this paper in one of the many manuscript volumes in his writing. Educated at Eton and Trinity College, Cambridge, he was one of those known as the ‘Apostles’ at Cambridge, and Charles and Alfred Tennyson were among his friends as well as Arthur Hallam, whom he admired greatly, and Coleridge.