The practical necessities of life take me, perforce, beyond my own domain. I have made the acquaintance of butcher and baker; that of the candlestick maker is still to come. The passing faces of people in the village street, even of farmers stopping at the Inn, I begin to recognize; the latter look little more concerned about the present crisis than do their stout nags. Life goes quietly on here, as it has always done, I fancy; steps are scrubbed, and brasses of knocker and door latch are polished until you can see your face there. Is this encompassing calm mere apathy, or is it conscious strength? In his little shop the sleepy chemist wakens unwillingly to deal out his wares; the sleepy service goes on as of old in the little church. It is grey with dust; perhaps the caretaker does not think it worth while to dust in war-time, yet I doubt whether he knows there is war. In the bakeshop window day by day are displayed the great clumsy loaves of bread with the foolish little loaf tucked on at one side. Why? There's neither rhyme nor reason nor symmetry in it; the force of custom may be wise and may be merely stupid. Here one gets constantly an impression of the overwhelming power of old habit and has a feeling that unless these people are shocked out of some of their ancient ways, disaster will follow. As I collect my wares, I fall to wondering whether either this nation, which worships its past, or we, who worship our future, is wholly right. If, at times, a doubt intrudes in regard to this British clinging to the past, it is when the door of the one village shop tinkles at my entrance, and I ask in vain for the common necessities which it is supposed to supply. Here are pictures of Queen Victoria and all the royal family, but no tapes, no trustworthy thread, no pins, at least no pins with points. I brought home a paper of these soft little British crowbars, but alas! fingers cannot drive them in; they but crumple if, in desperation, you urge them too vigorously. How can a nation rule the sea; above all, how can it conquer in a mechanical war when it cannot even make decent _pins_? My mood softens as I stroll toward home; the glow of the blacksmith's forge fascinates me; there at least is tremendous strength, which is also skill, welding in this most ancient art, blow upon blow, old-fashioned horseshoes, which I am told are the best. Past quaint old doorways my path leads; the sight of these, and of fine old-fashioned faces behind the windowpanes, revives my normal mood of affection. What other people would, in reverence to wishes of those long dead, give out the dole of widows' bread at Westminster, the daily dole at Winchester, or administer the Leicester charity at Warwick in the spirit in which it was meant? What other people would be honest enough to do it? There is a basic honesty here which recalls the old tale of Lincoln and the money he saved for many years, in order to give back the identical coins with which he had been entrusted.