The present writer is no mystic, but the sense of
purpose, of resolution, of anticipation of great results seems to be in the very air of Aldershot. Sir Francis Doyle, the soldier- poet, in one of his earlier poems describing the scene on Newmarket Heath when a favourite horse has won, speaks of the " mighty minute" when the whole vast crowd is enthralled by one, and only one, thought. That is the atmo- sphere at the training camps. Only this is not a transient but a prevailing mood, and the thought that inspires goes down deep, though it is so little spoken of. We venture to say that the words " patriotism," " love of the old country," and so forth are hardly ever heard upon the Aldershot parade grounds or in its roads and lanes, and if they are heard those who utter them soon feel a sense of shame as if they had profaned a mystery. But this only proves how soul-shaking are the feelings below. They are unutterable things which are worth all the world to a man.
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