of pity for his misfortune the colonel overlooked
the offence more than once, he was obliged at
last to try him by a court-martial, and reduce
him to the ranks. There never was a kinder-
hearted or a better man than that old colonel.
Even after the man was reduced to the ranks,
that colonel did his best to redeem him, and
with this view made him his orderly. But
it was of no use. He drank in sheer despair,
as he said, and was continually under
punishment. At last, thinking he might do
better in another corps, the colonel
persuaded him to volunteer to a regiment under
orders for India. He did so, and, in order to
give him a fair start, his new commanding officer
—who knew his story and pitied him—
promoted him at once to be corporal. He got on
better for a long time, and there was every
chance that he would ere long reform and be
more steady, for in every respect save drinking
—such as riding, drill, cleanliness, smartness,
respect towards his superiors, reading, writing,
accounts, and appearance—he was a first-rate
soldier. The regiment he joined was detained
some considerable time in England before it
embarked for the East, and, previous to going
on board ship, the man wrote to his old
captain in his former regiment, to say he had
been promoted to the rank of sergeant. His
end my relative learned later. On board ship the
men of his new regiment were ordered to bathe
on the forecastle whilst in the tropics. The
man stripped himself to have a wash like the
rest of his non-commissioned comrades. No
sooner had he done so than the marks ef the
lash were discovered on his back, and some of
those about him, not knowing his story, began
to chaff him about the "cat that had scratched
his shoulders." He said nothing, but dressed
again, sat down, and wrote two letters: one
addressed to his only relative, a sister, who was
governess in a gentleman's family: the other to
his old captain. He then managed to load his
carbine, and, the same afternoon, when the men
were nearly all out of the way on the upper
deck, shot himself. In both the letters he left
behind him, he declared that his only reason
for committing suicide was, that he felt himself
to be a disgraced man.

Any soldier who reads these anecdotes will
see that they are written by one of his
own profession. Did the Conductor of this
periodical give me leave, I could fill four or five
numbers of ALL THE YEAR ROUND with similar
stories about the working of the flogging system,
We want better men in our ranks; but, until
we abolish the use of the cat, it is hopeless
to try to get better men. To say that a soldier
cannot be flogged except for this or that offence,
or unless he belongs to this or that class, is
nonsense. The labourer, the artisan, the poor
gentleman's son, the hundred-and-one classes
who would enlist, merely ask, "Can I be
flogged?" "Yes." "Then l don't enlist." They
go as diggers to Australia; as shepherds to
Tasmania; as stock-keepers to South America;
as overseers on Indian railways; as adventurers
anywhere; "on the loose" everywhere.
I read in a paper* the other day that the
abolition of the lash would add ten thousand
men to the number of recruits we could select.
from for our army. My belief is that it would
give us double that number.
* The London Revlew, 23rd of March.

But my space is at an end. With permission
of the Editor, I will very shortly publish what I
believe to be the real reason why so stout a
stand is made for the retention of the lash by
some of our military men, and how the abolition
of the disgraceful punishment will most easily
be brought about.

FENIAN FACTS.

"DON'T drink that water, sir; it's full of
Feeneens," said the aged and feeble sextoness of
our parish church to my little son, one sultry
Sunday in August, 1865. "Feeneens!" replied
I. "Pray what on earth are Feeneens?" I
poured out some of the condemned water into a
tumbler. It was bright and clear, but swarmed
with a multitude of black, wriggling, doubling,
worm-like insects, darting to and fro in every
hideous variety of form. "These, then, are
Feeneens?" said I. "Ugly creatures they are
at best,"

Next day, looking at a stack of clover,
I saw all round the base of the rick a layer
of impalpable dust, of a light yellow colour,
like tlie pollen of flowers. "What is this?"
I inquired of James Fitzpatrick, the factotum
who managed my little farm. "That's the
Feeneens," he answered; "they ate up all the good
of the clover-seed, and leave that dirty stuff
behind them." So I concluded that the word
"Feeneens," or, as it is usually pronounced in
Ireland, "Feenyceens," denoted a multitude of
any ugly devouring creatures which destroyed
what was intended for the use of man and beast.
It has been supposed that the word is derived
from some mythical Irish king called Fin, or
Finn, or from a Celtic root signifying "chivalry"
or "militia," but whenever I heard of the
Fenians afterwards I could not help remembering
the creatures who spoiled the bright water
and my clover-stack.

It was in August and September, 1865, that
the existence of biped Fenians first became
experimentally known to me. Afternoon services
were held on Sundays in the parish church, at
four P.M. These services were much more
largely and fashionably attended than those in the
morning. A walk in the country lanes
and by the fields, teeming with harvest, was
delightful. The officers from a neighbouring
garrison seemed to think that an hour's
sojourn in a pretty neatly furnished church
gave a pleasant rest, if nothing more. The
afternoon services were semi-choral, and the
preacher, a clergy man of high collegiate reputation,
thought he could say as much in fifteen
minutes as his hearers would be likely to retain.