e most notable feature in the famous history of the "Angels of Mons"
was the fact that hundreds of practical, unpoetical, and stolid English
soldiers came forward and testified to having seen the vision. Whether
the story were fact or fancy, it is an excellent example of a change in
our national character.

Before the war, the unromantic Englishman who thought he saw a vision
would have blamed in turn his eyesight, his digestion, his sobriety, and
his sanity before he allowed that he had anything to do with the
supernatural. He now tells, without the least semblance of a blush, that
he puts his faith in superstitions, and charms, and mascots, and that
his lucky sign has saved his life on half a dozen occasions.

Of all the many and weird superstitions that exist in the British Army
of to-day, the most popular has to do with the jar that contains the
ration of rum. Rumour has it that once, long ago, a party that was
bringing up rations for a company in the trenches was tempted by the
thought of a good drink, and fell. When all the rum had been consumed
the question arose as to how to explain matters, and the genius of the
party suggested breaking the jar and pretending that it had been hit by
a bullet. When the party filed into the trench, the waiting company was
shown the handle of the jar, and had to listen to a vivid tale of how a
German bullet that had just missed Private Hawkes had wasted all the
company's rum. Rumour also has it that the unsteady gait of one member
of the party gave the lie to the story--but this is beside the point.

From this little incident there has sprung up a far-reaching
superstition--German bullets, the men have it, swerve instinctively
towards the nearest rum jar. A few stray shots have helped to strengthen
the belief, and the conviction holds firm down nearly the whole length
of the British line that the man who carries the rum jar runs a double
risk of being hit.

Mascots and talismans hold an important place in the soldier's life. I
know of one man who used to carry in his pack a rosary that he had
picked up in one of the streets of Ypres. One day his leg was fractured
in two places by a large piece of a trench-mortar bomb, but, in spite of
his pain, he refused to be taken down to the dressing station until we
had hunted through his pack and found him his rosary. "If I don't take
it with me," he said, "I'll get 'it again on the way down."

And this is by no means an isolated example