“Our schooling at Hythe terminated on Friday last, on which day 100 lunatics were let loose upon society. I say lunatics, because all of us just now have but one idea, and talk, think, and dream of nothing but the rifle (call it Miss Enfield) morning, noon, and night. Colonel Welsford, the chief instructor, is a charming man and a delightful lecturer, and withal a greater lunatic than any of us—just the right man in the right place. I shot fairly, but did not distinguish myself as Harry did.” I spoke of his “_vers de société_” just now, and in this connection will here give you a specimen of them. The expenses of the corps of course considerably exceeded the Government grant, and the deficiency had to be met somehow. My brother started a theatrical performance in the Town Hall, Hitchin, as a method at once of making both ends meet, and of interesting the townspeople in the corps. The last piece of the entertainment was one of his own. The characters were played chiefly by members of his own family. He himself acted the part of a pompous magistrate, and at the close spoke the following EPILOGUE. “Silence in Court! what’s this unseemly rumpus? Attention to the parting words of Bumpus. Tired of disguise, of borrowed rank and station, Thus in a trice I work my transformation. His wig and nose removed, the beak appears A simple officer of Volunteers, Who to himself restored, and sick of mumming, Begs leave to thank you each and all for coming, Spite of cross roads, dark lanes, tenacious clay, And benches not too soft, to hear our play. Next, to those friends my warmest thanks are due Who give their aid to-night, but chief to you Who for my sake, and only for to-day, O’ercome your natural shyness of display. Now comes the hardest portion of my task, A most momentous question ’tis to ask. I pause for your reply with bated breath— I humbly hope you’ve not been bored to death? Thanks for the signal which success assures; Welcome to all, but most to amateurs. Thanks, gentle friends, your welcome cheers proclaim We have not altogether missed our aim. Not ours your hearts to thrill, your tears to move, With Hamlet’s madness, Desdemona’s love. We dare not bid in high heroic strain Wolsey or Richelieu rise and breathe again. We walk in humbler paths, and cannot hope (To quote the spirit-stirring verse of Pope) ‘To wake the soul with tender strokes of Art, To raise the genius and to mend the heart; To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, Live o’er each scene and be what they behold.’ No—with deep reverence for these nobler views, We seek not to instruct you, but amuse; To make you wiser, better, we don’t claim— To make you laugh, our only end and aim. And as the test of everything, men say, Is just this simple question—does it pay?