No tavern, however small, has the boldness
or the folly to attempt to attract the British
soldier, without providing him with a room in
which he can either sing, or hear singing—can
either dance, or be amused by professional
performers who dance. To obtain this very necessary
hall of entertainment nearly every back
garden has been covered over with a rude,
temporary structure, having something of the camp-
hut in its composition, and something of the
travelling show. Those houses that have been
denied the advantages of a back garden are
driven to erect a side building, which sticks
out, like a huge wen, from the main establishment.
Some have pressed the first-floor rooms
into this semi-theatrical service, and a small
stage with a very hastily painted back scene,
and two wings of forest-trees, like nothing known
by botanical students, are erected at one end of
the largest apartment, covering about the same
space as a very small shop-front, and being
approached by a short flight of movable steps.
In these rooms the British soldier assembles in
happy, half-drunken, beer-table rank and file, and
in the intervals between the appearance of the
"infant Teresa," who has just gone through the
Highland fling, and the appearance of "Madame
de Pumpadoor, the great English soaprano," he
is gratified by witnessing a solemn amateur
hornpipe performed by a corporal with two
medals dangling from his breast, whose motions
are directed by the harmony of an ear-piercing
fife and jingling piano, and whose bronzed and
bearded face, when he leaps up every now and
then, disappears amongst the "flies,"  like
the automaton skeleton's head in the street
Fantoccini theatre.

Not far from this entrancing temple of
recreation on the first floor is another temple on
the ground floor, the programme of whose
entertainments, placed upon a board outside the door,
in coloured, ill-drawn letters, comprises singing,
hornpipes, and Ethiopian serenading up to the
military time of half-past nine, and "dancing
after gun-fire."  Looking through the open door
into a kind of tent, with a stage at the bottom,
you see a solid square of military audience, the
scarlet coatee of the Guards relieving the half-
naval blue hussar-like uniform of the Royal
Artillerymen, and the more sombre green dress
of the regular Rifle Corps. The undress cap
which these latter soldiers wear in their hours of
ease contrasts very favourably with that fearful
shako, whose body is like a patent leather
crucible or pipkin, and whose summit, at the
fore part, is ornamented with a round mossy
black ball, that looks like a property apple placed
upon the bonnet of Tell's (theatrical) child, and
which must be a fruitful source of temptation
as a target to those who are anxious to try
their skill with the rifle. Heavy as the leather
shako is, when weighed in the scale against
other purgatorial penal hats, it must certainly
be considered light and airy by the side of the
artillery rough beaver head-gear. This drum-
shaped military hat, which looks like a lady's
hand muff, is heavier and wanner than even the
immortal grenadier's cap. They are all a
protection against sun and rain, and they all need
a protection against themselves.

The attractions of these two concert-saloons
are not sufficient to silence the voice or dim the
lustre of the Apollo Music Hall, which, having
the rather unpromising frontage of a labourer's
cottage (part of the original village), suddenly
invested with a liquor and music license, and
being separated from the main road by the
mangy bit of swampy common before alluded to,
is compelled to hang out rather prominent signs
of the entertainment and conviviality to be found
within. A chandler's shop, not far from this
abode of melody, has set up a tap of drinkable
beer, and though it has not yet been able to bud
into the full honours of the Aldershott music-
halls, it is not without a little knot of patrons
bearing the true military stamp. The eggs, the
bacon, the butter, tea and cheese, and the loaves
of bread, are huddled in a heap in a small window
and a few shelves on one side of the shop,
while all the available space on the other side is
turned into a small red-curtained tap-room. The
stray child who goes to this mongrel shop for its
mother's breakfast or tea is introduced with
gaping mouth into all the humours of rollicking
military canteen life, and is made to take a sip
out of a mug of ale by a staggering hero in a
scarlet coat, while its packet of grocery
knick-knacks is being prepared.

The British soldier is not entirely of a musical
turn, and though he is seen through many tavern-
room windows standing up against a fireplace,
with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, in a rapt
and enthusiastic manner, singing a sentimental
song for the amusement of his comrades, or
leading a wild chorus in which they are all
endeavouring to join, he likewise haunts the road-
side in little knots, which look, at a distance,
like beds of geraniums, and he marches in along
the dusty main road in groups of ten or twelve, as
if he had been for an evening walk to
Farnborough, or some adjacent town.

Scarlet does not always consort with scarlet,
nor green with green; and a Stirlingshire
militiaman, in his white jacket, plaid trousers, and
Scotch cap, relieves the monotony of colour by
walking between two green riflemen and an
artilleryman in blue.

A close examination of the many passing
sunburnt faces shows how largely the Irish peasant
has, at some time or another, taken the Queen's
shilling, as well as the agricultural operative of
our provincial farms and fields. The Scotchman
is there, in spite of his reputed caution and love
of money; and the Yorkshireman is sometimes
content to forget his proverbially assigned
keenness, and to mount guard, fire cannon, and
practise with the sword. One class, however, has
never yet been represented in the British army,
and probably never will be, and that is the
English Jew. Whatever trouble or madness
has fallen upon the chosen people of Old Jewry
in this country since the bad old times when
they were persecuted by half-savage kings, there
has never yet been any young runaway sprig of