to overcome the surly churlishness of that most
sulky host (who really seems always determined to
try how much he can insult and annoy those who
seek a lodging in his fifth-rate caravanserai), I
heard my name called, and, turning round,
beheld once more my friend Benton, but this
time resplendent in one of those fancy chess-
like uniforms, which the English officers of the
Turkish legion appeared at all times to delight
in. On his head was a helmet of the shape
worn by the Life Guards, but in colour and in
material like unto those shaved white felt hats
which all classes of Englishmen affect so much
in the summer time. On the top of this astounding
head-dress was a red horsehair plume, whilst
the most splendid of gold laced pouch and
swordbelts, the hugest of jack-boots, the most sounding
of large spurs, and the heaviest of cavalry
swords, completed his costume and accoutrements.
Very different indeed was the dress and
belongings of the warrior before me to those
of the man who a few weeks before had driven
me to the London-bridge station in a Hansom
cab.

We sat next to each other at the table d'hôte
the same evening, when Benton told me that
whilst a clerk, reading in the papers that a
legion was forming for service against the
Russians, he at once applied for a commission
in the corps. Although he had served
but a short time in the Indian army, his
testimonials were good, and he had found no
difficulty in obtaining an appointment. A
friendly loan office, on condition of insuring his
life, had offered to lend him money enough to
purchase the needful uniforms, and a
portion of this he had invested in the gorgeous
war-paint in which I met him. Like many
others who went to the Crimea at that
time, Benton thought that the war with
Russia would last as long as the Seven Years'
War, if not longer, and that all who drew swords
for the Turkish cause were certain of honour,
promotion, and prize money, and Heaven knows
what besides. It was amusing to see how many
pure John Bulls in that ill-omened corps which
was officered by Englishmen, believed that they
only had to survive the fighting, and learn the
Turkish language, in order to be advanced to
any post they might desire in the Ottoman
Empire, and to roll in wealth for the rest of their
natural lives.

Benton, it so turned out, was one of the few
fortunate men in the unfortunate band of officers
who went to the East in the Anglo-Turkish
Contingent. From the very first he held
appointments which were well paid, and,
notwithstanding the quarrelling which distinguished the
proceedings of the leaders in the force, he so
managed his affairs as to be always on the
winning side. We happened to be posted
to different regiments, but I saw enough
of him to believe that he was at last in a
position which he liked, and which would
keep him from wandering in the future. But
I was again wrong. Before peace was
proclaimed, Benton had become tired of the country,
the people, the contingent, the cause he was
fighting for, and all belonging to the war. After
hesitating for some time, his final resolve
appeared to be come at in a hurry. One evening
at Shumla I heard that he had resigned his
commission, and the next morning he appeared
at my quarters to bid me a hurried adieu, as he
was just starting for Constantinople, on his way
home.

The Crimean war had come to an end, I
had rejoined my corps in India, had again
visited England, and had once more gone eastward
to take part in that fearful struggle, the
mutiny of 1857. Wounded, ill, and out of spirits,
I at last obtained leave to resign the service,
and was slowly making my way homewards
through the Continent, when I stopped for a
few days at Paris, on my road to England.
Resolved to dine well, and to make some amends
to my stomach for all the bad food it had put
up with during the last few years, I was seated
at a table in the Café de Paris, endeavouring to
make out what English news I was in arrears
from the columns of Galignani. Behind me was
a noisy party of six, composed partly of
English, and partly of Frenchmen. They were
speculators—stock-jobbers, or men who worked the
oracle on the Bourse—and both from their high
spirits, and the expensive wines and dishes they
ordered, it was easy to perceive that they had
latterly been fortunate in their ventures. From
time to time I could hear one voice amongst
the rest that seemed familiar to me, but it was
only when the party had all risen with the
intention of taking their coffee outside, that, as
they passed me, I discovered Benton. We
recognised each other at the same moment, and
he seemed delighted to meet me again, although
the style of his dress, the magnificence of his
chains, rings, and diamond shirt-buttons, made
me almost discredit the evidence of my own
eyes. He had been for the last two years a
financial agent, and had made a great deal of
money, both in London and Paris. I found
my old friend installed in a magnificent bachelor's
apartment in the Rue de Rivoli, with
furniture which he told me was his own, and
which must have cost not less than a couple of
thousand pounds. When I arrived, he was seated
at breakfast, although it was nearly twelve
o'clock, and the plate, china, and glass on his
table was such as neither Padre Paulo, the
Agra missionary, nor the officer of the Turkish
Contingent—to say nothing of the London cab-
driver—could have ever hoped to possess.

My friend's rise to wealth appeared, from
what he told me, to have been rapid. He had
begun with less than nothing, for he owed some
few hundred pounds. Commencing with trifling
purchases of shares, he went on incurring
greater risks, which, however, invariably
increased his wealth. He was now a rich man.
In appearance, dress, ornaments, and even in
manner, he was quite a Frenchman, but a Frenchman
of a bad school, and very vulgar withal.
I thought, on looking at him, that I had greatly
preferred Benton in his poverty, even when he