Mechanics' Institute, where the map of Europe
glares feebly at me from the damp-stained wall,
and where the mullioned windows rattle dismally
at the tramping of the recruits. Painfully and
wearily do I go through the different evolutions,
and tight and Gordian-like is the knot into which
I once or twice get myself and all the men, and
have to summon the stiff corporal to my assistance,
amidst furtive grins and whispered hints
of " try back." But I did get through it at
last, and next day accomplished the platoon
drill, with directions, and in a manner that
struck the corporal mute with horror. It has
been malevolently remarked that the gentlemen
who benefited by my instruction have since been
recognisable, principally by a habit of invariably
carrying their rifles at full cock, and secondly,
by the slight omission of neglecting to withdraw
their ramrods after loading with blank cartridge:
a disadvantage which is apt to be unpleasantly
felt by their comrades when they are placed as
"a rear rank standing." But this is mere envy.

THE FIRST INSTRUCTION IN MUSKETRY.

It was so called in the Orders for the week,
because it is rather a fine phrase. I believe,
however, that the real technical unvarnished
name of this performance is " Preliminary Drill
for cleaning Arms." A select class attended
Captain Strongbow's first instruction lecture on
the Wednesday evening, but I shall better be
able to give an account of their proceedings by
adopting the dramatic form:

SCENE—Captain Strongbow's rooms. Evening.
Moderator lamp alight in centre. Captain
Strongbow at head of table, a Long Enfield rifle,
and two very ominous-looking red books by his
side. Privates and sergeants of the Corps gathered
round him. Ensign Rivers standing immediately
behind the Captain, where he has the least chance
of being seen by him, and looking doubtfully on.
The opening portion of the lecture has already
been given.

Capt. Strongbow (proceeding). Now, gentlemen,
I will once more run through what I have
said, before questioning you. Now, gentlemen,
the principal parts of the rifle are the stock and
the barrel. (He takes up rifle and points to each
part as he names it.) The stock is divided into
the nose-cap, the upper, middle, and lower bands,
the swell, projections, lock-side, head, small,
trigger-guard, trigger-plate, trigger, butt, and
heel-plate. Once more! (He repeats all the
names.) Now, Mr. Lobjoit, what is this called?
(Laying his hand on the nose-cap.)

Lobjoit (who is a horsy man, and is always
wishing we were cavalry). Nose-bag!

Capt. S. (disgusted). What do you say, Mr
Pruffle?

Pruffle (a slow, middle-aged gentleman, who has
entered the force with the sole object of learning
how to defend his large family). Night-cap!

Capt. S. (more disgusted). Now, Mr. Skull,
what is it?

Skull (looking blankly at it through his
spectacles). 'Pon my soul, I don't know!

Capt. S. (profoundly disgusted). Really this is
too bad! Is there no gentleman present who
can remember what this is called?

Sergeant Fluke. Eh? of course, yes! I can!
It's the—the—the nose-cap, of course! (Aside
to next neighbour.) Gad! what a good shot!

Capt. S. (overjoyed). Very good, very good,
indeed, Sergeant Fluke! Ensign Rivers, I
must trust to your honour not to prompt the
gentlemen!

Ensign R. You may rely upon my doing
nothing of the sort, sir! (N.B. This is strictly
correct, as Ensign Rivers knows rather less about
it than any one in the room.)

Capt. S. Now, Sergeant Fluke, can you touch
any other parts of the stock, and tell me their
names?

Fluke. Oh, yes, of course! (Glibly.) This is
the barrel, and—-

Capt. S. Parts of the stock, I said; the stock
and the barrel are two distinct things.

Private J. Miller (the funny man of the Corps
- aside to his neighbour). Not at a cooper's or
a brewer's; there, the barrels constitute the
stock!

Private Miller's neighbour (derisively). Ho!
ho! ain't you funny!

Capt. S. Silence, gentlemen, pray! Now,
Sergeant Fluke?

Fluke. Well, you know, this is the trigger, and
this is the butt.

Capt. S. Which is the heel of the butt, Mr.
Pruffle?

Pruffle (touching the wrong end). This, sir.

Capt. S. No, no! that's not the heel,
that's the toe!

Private Miller. Heel and toe! I say, Pruffle,
my pipkin, which is the double shuffle?

Capt. S. Mr. Miller, I shall be compelled
to call upon you to retire, if you persist
in this buffoonery! (Private Miller makes
a grimace of preternatural ugliness behind his
neighbour's back, hums the Dead March in Saul,
and crosses his hands to simulate a handcuffed
deserter about to be shot.)

Capt. S. Now, then, let us take the barrel.

Private Miller. Ah! some of us have taken
to that kindly.

Capt.S. Taken to what?

Miller. To the barrel, sir! Don't mind me!
Go on!

Capt. S. (touching them). The muzzle,
foresight, back or elevating sight, nipple, breech,
breech-pin. Component parts of the breech-pin:
face, tang, and breech nail-hole. What
are the component parts of the breech-pin, Mr.
Lobjoit?

Lobjoit (rapidly). Face, fangs, and breeches-nails!

Capt. S. (in despair). This is dreadful! I
don't know what they'd say to you at Hythe!

Miller. He'll never go there, sir, no more
shall I. I say, Lobjoit, old boy, fancy their
catching us playing at Hythe among the Sikhs.

Capt. S. (with dignity). I shall leave you out
of the course, Mr. Miller! (Miller feigns to
weep, and dry his eyes on the back of his hand.)
Now, once more, before I give up. The com-