Revs. E. L. Watson and T. Tatter sail 293 



very feet. War is infinitely more romantic than it has ever 

 been, now that it is a war of populations and not a mere affair 

 of professional fighters. Now, your poet from Chelsea has 

 thrown aside his pen and is at death-grapples with the waiters 

 who once served his table at Soho ; the bank-manager of 

 Lombard Street who used nearly to faint when a horse fell down 

 is now sweating at the head of a bombing party, exulting in his 

 power to kill. The great feats of chivalry and the knightly 

 daring of legends are paling into nothing before the lives of these 

 commonplace people. 



" Tliere is a perfect example of the sort of man I mean in 



the battalion called , a company commander now, and 



incongruously enough rather a special pal of mine, although his 

 idea of bliss is to produce most miserable hymn tunes and dirges 

 on a tin whistle every evening. He used to be a Nonconformist 

 minister, but is now a tremendously keen soldier whom no 

 horrors can sicken and no fatigue daunt. He is really one of 

 those splendid fellows one can admire wholeheartedly. 



" His name appeared in the lists of those decorated for 

 conspicuous bravery some time ago, and people think him rather 

 a lucky dog, but I doubt if there are many men who suffer more 

 in this war. Sometimes when things are slack he crawls into 

 my dug-out and lets himself go. You can see all the mental 

 agony this austere Nonconformist suffers. It is literally true to 

 say that the sheer wickedness of it all makes him miserable and 

 desperate. It is for him a holy war, and he is straining every 

 nerve in the personal effort to win what he hopes may be 

 universal peace for humanity. Meanwhile his life is far from a 

 happy one. Even the questionable wit of camps is hateful to 

 him. It was men like this that Cromwell had the wit to see 

 would carry him anywhere — and they did. 



" I suppose the critic who says there is no romance left in 



war would see nothing in but a gaunt young man with a 



Lancashire accent who might easily be suspected of eating peas 

 with his knife. To me it is the most perfect legend of chivalry 

 being re-lived. 



" If my Nonconformist is not Sir Percival in quest of the 

 Holy Grail, who is he ? The knight inspired, heedless of all but 

 the pursuit of a flaming ideal ! 



" After all, Sir Percival probably ate peas with his sword ! " 



