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 schoolboys out on a picnic. And so we are in a fashion; but it is a picnic with death.

The man at the Front is chiefly responsible for this impression, and yet he has a right to resent its acceptance. It is one thing to crack jokes about your own dying—quite another for the people whose lives you are preserving to laugh at them. The man at the Front is consciously risking his all for ideals. I have heard him called a spiritual genius. There has been nothing like him for pugnacity of faith since the Christian martyr. Whatever difference there is is in his favour. The Christian martyr was not a pleasant person; he took the consequences of his conscience sadly. Your British soldier accepts them with a jest. His jest rather belies his white-hot sincerity; it comes as a shock to him when on leave to discover that people at home have not realised his fervour and share his principles less passionately. They do—there is no doubt about that. He listens with contempt to wailings over sugar-shortage and the inadequate protection against air-raids—mere pinpricks to the winged tortures of the trenches. He forgets that inconvenience is less easily endurable than calvary. He tries to argue; tries to explain; gets angry; gives it up. ‘‘They don’t understand,” he says. “They make excuses for slackers. They think I’m unjust when I despise non-combatants. Because I’m anxious to get back to do my ‘bit’ they think I like living in the trenches.” Then he turns away to play the