each Poona trooper, is twenty-seven rupees,
or two pounds fourteen shillings, per month.
This stun is not, however, considered sufficient
with the present prices of grain in the Deccan,
to feed and maintain both horse and man as
they ought to be kept. Notwithstanding this,
no sooner does a vacancy in the corps happen,
than there are twenty applications for it.
Natives, who would never think of taking
service in the regular cavalry or infantry,
travel hundreds of miles on bare chance of
finding employment in the irregular horse.
These, unlike other troops, require no
commissariat, either when stationary in cantonments,
or upon taking the field. In quarters,
and on the march, each man caters for himself
and his charger. The baggage is carried by
ponies, of which there is one to every three
privates, and so on in proportion with the
other ranks. Of European officers, there are
but three with the whole corps of Poonah
Horse—a Commandant, a Second in
Command, and an Adjutant. The Native Officers
are, of course, much more numerous: there
being two or three with each troop, besides a
Native Commandant, and Native Adjutant,
who carry on the duties of the regiment, under
the immediate direction of their European
superiors.

Judging from the letters which have been
received from the Crimea for the last twelve
months, what is more wanted than anything
else with our army, is a body of real
light horsemen? By this term I do not
mean merely such cavalry soldiers as are
of light weight, but self-dependent dragoons,
who require little or no care taken of them
in the way of providing commissariat, and
who are capable of acting as the eyes, arms,
and feelers of the army, when it is requisite
either to know the whereabouts of the enemy,
or to follow him up when routed. Since my
return to England, much has been said and
written about light horsemen for service in
the Crimea, and this has induced me to pen
these few remarks regarding English Hussars
and Indian Horsemen. In the various
discussions which have taken place about the
amalgamation of the Indian and English
armies, I have never yet seen it mooted
that some practices of the one service
might be copied by the other, although I
feel certain that such a fusion would be
perfectly feasible, and in many instances highly
advisable.

                       COMFORT.

HAST thou o'er the clear heaven of thy soul
                Seen tempests roll?
Hast thou watch'd all the hopes thou would'st have won
                 Fade, one by one?
Wait till the clouds are past, then raise thine eyes
                 To bluer skies!

Hast thou gone sadly through a dreary night,
                 And found no light;
No guide, no star, to cheer thee through the plain—
                 No friend, save pain?
Wait, and thy soul shall see, when most forlorn,
                 Rise a new morn.

Hast thou beneath another's stern control
                 Bent thy sad soul,
And wasted sacred hopes and precious tears?
                 Yet calm thy fears,
For thou canst gain even from the bitterest part,
                 A stronger heart!

Has Fate o'erwhelm'd thee with some sudden blow?
                 Let thy tears flow;
But know when storms are past, the heavens appear
                 More pure, more clear;
And hope, when farthest from their shining rays,
                 For brighter days.

Hast thou found life a cheat, and worn in vain
                 Its iron chain?
Hast thy soul bent beneath earth's heavy bond?
                 Look thou beyond;
If life is bitter, there for ever shine
                 Hopes more divine!

Art thou alone, and does thy soul complain
                  It lives in vain?
Not vainly does he live who can endure.
                  O be thou sure,
That he who hopes and suffers here can earn
                  A sure return.

Hast thou found nought within thy troubled life
                  Save inward strife?
Hast thou found all she promised thee, Deceit,
                  And Hope a cheat?
Endure, and there shall dawn within thy breast
                  Eternal rest!

CORALIE.

IN one of the streets branching off to the
right, as you go up the Champs Elysees
towards the Barrière de l'Etoile, exists Madame
Sévèré's Pensionnat for young ladies: a tall,
white, imposing building, as befits its
character and purpose. Almost conventual
discipline is observed at Madame Sévèré's; the
young ladies are supposed to know nothing of
the gay doings in their neighbourhood. But
as they pace round and round the monotonous
garden, their eyes being in no way
amused, their youthful imaginations go
wandering to an extent little dreamed of by
their revered directress or their reverend
confessor.

Love, lovers, and weddings are, sad to say,
the staple of the conversation of that nearly
grown up pair of friends, whispering as they
walk. They are in fact discussing their pretty
under teacher.

"Go away, my dear," says Miss Sixteen to
Miss Twelve, who comes bounding up to her.

"But what are you two whispering about I"
asks little Curiosity.

"Never mind, my dear," says Miss
Importance, unconsciously imitating her own
mamma's way of sending herself out of
the room on the arrival of a confidential