Revs. E. L. Watson and T. Tattersall 287 



It is curious that amongst the many clerics I have conversed 

 with the only chaplain who seems to have grasped this simple 

 truth was a Nonconformist, and I see it is referred to in a little 

 booklet compiled by Frederick Spurr and published by the 

 United Board. Mr. J. H. Shakespeare has kindly sent it to me. 



A chaplain says, " The parade service is not altogether a 

 happy thing ; we do not have many of them— war conditions 

 are against them : so are both officers and men. Compulsion 

 in religion is profitless. Sometimes the services set men against 

 religion." 



A service to which all may come if they like is another matter 

 altogether. 



The most stirring service and the best attended is the one 

 held on the eve of battle, when all men of whatsoever denomina- 

 tion have a desire to offer a last prayer for those they love, one 

 last supplication for God's Mercy. The Padre feels that he holds 

 in his hand a God-sent moment, and he uses it to his utmost 

 capacity. The men listen intently ... all is ready, rifles 

 and bayonets cleaned, their own private roll-call has been 

 answered ; they have done with yesterday and to-day, and 

 await to-morrow. 



And from their hearts, with grim, set faces, they sing some 

 of their favourite hymns, " Abide with Me," or " Nearer, my 

 God, to Thee." The service is over, all have received the 

 Sacrament who wish to do so, they file past the chaplain, 

 exchange a hand-grip and a look, then pass on into the dark. 

 Most are silent and most have a letter or two to write ; their 

 hearts are full of things they want to say, but no word will they 

 breathe of any possibilities of the near future. They know what 

 is before them, many have already had a taste, and all have been 

 in the midst of this war's unparalleled horrors. 



The following post-card was written in one of those soul- 

 stirring moments, and by some mischance was carried into 

 battle instead of posted. It was found beside the dead writer 

 in a blood-soaked trench. 



" Dear Jane, 



" I ope this will find you as it leaves me — in the 

 pink. We're moving soon. There's no news. Your loving 

 sweetheart, x x x x." 



