Israel who was weak enough to rush into the
arms of that model dancing-master-looking,
faultlessly-dressed sergeant, who stands at likely
street corners with those fluttering ribbons and
that light and elegant gold-headed cane. He
has been weak enough to get into Parliament,
but he has never been weak enough to get into
the ranks.

It is an affecting sight to see a couple of
soldiers staggering under the too heavy weight
of their detestable shakos, and not, of course,
under the strength of the Aldershott ale,
supporting each other, although belonging to
different corps, to the best of their ability; wearing
their oppressive head-dresses tilted over to the
backs of their heads (of course, for relief),
regardless of the even set of a breast-belt, or an
epaulette (of course for the same reason), their
eyes dull and sleepy, their steps uncertain, their
mouths vainly endeavouring to relate some
barrack story, and their hands ever ready to give
the proper mechanical military salute to every
person whom they pass. As the evening
advances, many groups of these suffering military
pedestrians may be seen upon the Aldershott
roads, the stiffness of the tried soldier, in which
they started with such pride from their barracks,
having entirely melted away, and their bodies
being as limp as those of the rawest recruit who
has never had the advantage of a day's effective
drill. They are not always the latest to get into
hut or barracks, although so seemingly uncertain
in their steps. Sometimes they escape the
sentries, and roll into their own proper beds; at
other times they pass their slumbers in a cell
of the guard-house, to dream, towards morning,
of "pack-drill," or, perhaps, the "cat."

Mingling with these men for a moment, but
hurrying by them with the dignity of a heavy
day's good work done, and done well, and the
sense of another heavy day's work to follow
tomorrow, will be half a dozen stonemasons and
bricklayers, speeding home with their empty
dinner-basins swinging in handkerchiefs from
their hands. No signs of fraternity are
exchanged between these soiled and powdered
labourers and the steady or unsteady red,
white, blue, and green groups of lounging heroes
whom they pass. They each belong to different
worlds, and they know it.

The principal resort of the "crack" soldiers
and the non-commissioned officers (corporals,
sergeants, sergeant-majors, and such-like) is a
crimson music-hall attached to the principal
hotel in the mushroom town. This place is well
ventilated by numerous windows that open on a
small side street, and is fitted up with a stage,
the chief object at the back of which is a clear-
faced, full-sized circular clock. The moment the
hands of this clock draw near half-past nine
P.M. the amusements (consisting chiefly of singing)
work up to a climax; allusion is made to
the approach of "gun-fire" from the stage; an
acrobat boy, in crimson- leggings and spangled
body, makes himself very busy in washing the
empty glasses of the drinkers; while his father,
a middle-aged acrobat, in a precisely similar
dress, is extremely active in performing the
duties of a waiter. The leading comic singer
having sung his last popular song, for that night,
to an almost exclusively military audience, comes
down from the stage to exchange congratulations
all round, with his scarlet and blue
admirers (after the style so much in fashion at
distinguished London music-halls); the hands
of the stage clock reach the expected period,
the gun fires, the bugles sound, a brass band
at the opposite barracks begins to play, .the
soldiers slowly disperse, having a quarter of an
hour's grace before them; and a long interval
takes place in the amusements of the crimson
saloon, until its civilian patrons begin,
somewhat later, to assemble.

Following the last military straggler, I pass a
little knot of artillerymen, who are taking an
affectionate leave of two young ladies (without
bonnets) at the corner of the street, and ascend
the gravelly hill before me, on which stand the
huts of the staff-officers of the camp; for I have
arranged to pass the night in the quarters of
my friend, Lieutenant Hongwee, of the Antrim
Rifles.

I reach the brow of the hill in the dark,
leaving the row of lights of the mushroom town
beneath me, and behind me, and coming upon
long, silent, black lines of huts, varied and
divided by broad gritty roads of stony gravel,
and surmounted by a wide semicircle of streaky
orange horizon in front.

Before I have found out the line of huts, and
the particular "block" in which I am to pass
the night, I am challenged half a dozen times
by half a dozen sentries, but as I reply, according
to my instructions, "A friend," I am not
arrested, run through the body, nor shot through
the head.

I pass a few glimmering lights in hut
windows, and a few murmuring huts, where the men
are divided off in small parties to sleep, and find
my lodging on the tented field at last.

Lieutenant Hongwee's quarters (like the
quarters of every subaltern) are not sufficiently
commodious to accommodate two persons with
comfort; but that young and promising officer is
taking his turn as the captain of the watch (a
twenty-four hours' guard-house duty which falls
to his lot, perhaps, once in six months), and I
have full permission to usurp his bed. If any
difficulty should occur (which is not anticipated),
I am furnished—no doubt, against strict military
rule—with the "parole" and "counter-sign."
"Romsey" will carry me through anything
(except officers' practical jokes) up to the solemn
midnight hour, and "Stockport" will be of equal
service to me at any time afterwards.

After being disturbed by a variety of noises
throughout the night, the clanking of arms, and
the talking of the men on guard in the adjacent
guard-house, the squabbling of the sentry when
he took a drunken straggler info custody, and
the mysterious humming of the telegraphic
wires, which stretch across the line of the camp,
and form a gigantic Æolian harp; the dweller in