Then came the sermon, which was no sermon at all.  True, I took a text, Isa. lxiii. 1, and I had a sermon in my mind.  But when I looked round at those men, and thought how we were all standing on the very brink of eternity, and how few, perhaps, would ever see the dawn of another Easter morn, I knew it was not the place for an elaborate sermon.  The time was precious and my words must be few and straight.  I had a good time.  It was impossible to miss it.  Looking round upon those men as they came pressing closer and closer, with their hungry souls shining forth through their eyes, as they listened to the old, old story of the Saviour’s everlasting love, and of His mighty conquest over sin and death, why, it seemed to me that if I did not preach to them the very masts would cry out and proclaim the glad tidings.  I forgot self, and time, and place, and remembered nothing but my hearers and my message.  And although I had been warned not to keep them long, as they would never listen, such was the sympathy between us, and so great the fascination of the old story of Christ’s love and power to save, that they listened spellbound to the end.

’Then came the last hymn “Rock of Ages,” and, oh! how it rolled out, clear and strong and triumphant, vibrating through the ship and echoing over the waters, a fitting close to a helpful and impressive service.’

In such manner ended a typical Sunday upon a troopship.  And only a typical Sunday, for on scores of troopships Sundays of a similar character were spent.  Such sacred hours must have proved splendid preparation for the approaching campaign.  And many a lad who had never thought upon the great things of eternity before came face to face with them then.

And so with marvellous celerity the English army was transferred to South Africa, and all eyes and hearts followed it.  The pride of the castle and of the cottage was there; the heir to vast estates, and the support of his widowed mother’s old age; the scape-grace of the family, and the one on whom all its hopes centred.

=The Chaplains of the British Army.=

And with them went the best that the Church could send.  A noble band of chaplains has our British army.  Men like the venerable Dr. Edgehill, the Chaplain-General—­the soldier’s preacher, par excellence.  Men like the Rev. A.W.B.  Watson, who nearly killed himself by his acts of self-sacrifice on behalf of the men in the Soudan campaign.

Distinguished clergymen, Presbyterian and Wesleyan ministers, Army Scripture readers, agents of the Soldiers’ Christian Association—­all wanted to go; and the difficulty was not to find the men, but to choose among so many.

And so men of war and men of peace, soldiers of the Queen and soldiers of the King of kings, found themselves together on the shores of South Africa, sharing each other’s dangers, privations and fatigues, all of them loyal to their Queen, and each of them doing his work to the best of his ability.