in a large garrison town, like Chatham,
Portsmouth, Dublin, or Plymouth, or near the camps
of Aldershot or the Curragh, half a dozen
drunken soldiers are seen every night, civilians
exclaim against the army, and cry what a
drunken lot we are. But they might see four
times the number of artisans or navvies the worse
for liquor, and not say a word. Not two months
ago, I happened to be standing at the Great
Eastern Rail way station in London when the
train arrived from Colchester, and out of it got
an infantry soldier, who, although quite able to
look after himself, was certainly by no means
sober. In five minutes he was surrounded by a
score or more of people, looking, as he told
them, "as if they never had seen a poor fellow
the worse for liquor before." He found his way
to a cab, and made off. Half an hour later, an
excursion- train arrived, filled with a number of
Foresters, or Odd Fellows, or other beings
wearing aprons, badges, paper bands round their
caps, and all the paraphernalia which free-born
Britons are wont to parade on such occasions. Of
the "Ancient Order" there present, I saw some
two score in all the various stages of intoxication,
from "slightly screwed" up to very drunk.
But no one seemed to think it at all extraordinary
that working men, when out on a very hot
day, and for their one annual holiday, should
take a little too much; though they had stared
at the poor soldier with all their eyes, and made
very frequent allusions to "those drunken
fellows in the army." The same spirit prevails in
our military rules and regulations, as well as in
the Mutiny Act. They all appear to think that a
soldier should, in his conduct, be little below an
angel, and that the slightest failure in the path
of duty should be visited with the utmost
severity.

THE FENIANS.

WE have to go very far back to discover
anything about the true Fenians, who were a very
different class of heroes from those who have
been recently trying to revolutionise Ireland,
and whose head-office must surely be in some
Dublin Tooley-street. Some fourteen or fifteen
hundred years ago, Ireland was distracted
by the battles of two enormous clans, who
represented both halves of it pretty fairly
the — Clan Boisgne, which included the Leinster
and Munster warriors, and the Clan Morna,
those of the north. Morna sets us thinking of
Ossian; and, indeed, the whole of that poem is
strongly tinctured with Fenian colouring and
manners. In these disturbances, figured Con of
the Hundred Battles, Art the Melancholy,
Cumhail (pronounced cool), and other poetically-
named chiefs. The struggle was carried on by
an enrolled standing army massed over the
country in regular battalions, and called the
Fionians. Finnians would be, therefore, a more
correct representative of the Irish word than
Fenians. "Cool," the father of "Fin," was
killed in battle by a general called Goll, but
who had a more showy name in "The Son of
Morna," who was succeeded by young Fion, who
became the famous Finn Mac-Cool.

Such a leader would have been invaluable
at the present crisis. The origin is easily
explained. He watched seven years at the Boyne
for the Salmon of Knowledge, and when he had
caught that invaluable fish (now-a-days the
Fenian salmon are in deserved repute), his patience
was rewarded by being appointed leader of the
Fenians. Never was a simple act — in itself its
own reward — so handsomely recompensed.
Epicures might certainly wait seven days for
a "cut" of Boyne salmon.

The strange body of men over which this
youth was called to rule, were surprisingly
disciplined. They are the men who wore those
elegant and exquisite golden ornaments that are
dug up now and again. Their proceedings were
as chivalrous as King Arthur's court. The
whole picture of those days, as displayed in the
Irish poems and romances of the Ossianic period,
are so rich in the colour of the figures, the
dresses, decorations, actions, and exploits — so
entertaining and amusing — that it is quite
surprising they should not have attracted more
attention from the general reader. The postulant
was obliged to have certain physical
qualifications, and "pass" satisfactorily in the
following branches: He had to parry nine javelins
thrown at once, with only a hazel stick. He had
to run at full speed through a wood, and tie his
hair up so as it should not come down. He
was to run under a stick as low as his knee,
and jump over a stick as high as his chin, while
pursued at full speed by the examiners. He
had to tread on a rotten stick without breaking
it, and to pull a thorn out of his foot when
running. He had to be musical, to write verses,
and to recite poetry. He had to take an oath
to relieve the poor, and never to offer an insult
to a woman. Nothing more chivalrous than the
Fenian behaviour to the "fair sex" can be
conceived. Anything a lady ordered her lover to
do, must be done — such as leaping across a fatal
chasm. Finn was once required, by a lady he
admired, to jump over a pillar as high as his own
chin, with another pillar of the same height in
the palm of his hand. He succeeded; but, in a
private conversation with his father-in-law, he
afterwards owned that it was the most ticklish
thing he had ever attempted.

A Fenian had great privileges, as indeed such
an accomplished fellow deserved to have. He
was at free quarters wherever he went. Salmon,
deer, and game of all sorts, were kept strictly
for hunting and shooting. If a common fellow
killed a stag, he had to replace it by an ox, and
was well off if he did not fare worse. The
Fenian knights had all sorts of accomplishments,
were fond of playing chess, kept paid bards to-
sing to them, and could do feats (or some of
them could) that rivalled professors at
Franconi's. We all have seen the gentleman with
the symmetrical legs and fleshings, and with the
silver fillet about his head, who keeps his footing
on a large globe as it rolls down an inclined