The press and steam, right mental culture—proper social organization and international co-operation, may do wonders; so long, however, as war continues to be the “_ultima ratio regum_,” the arbiter, for want of a better, of national differences, let all honour be shown to those who, in wielding its powers, display, as British soldiers do, some of the noblest qualities of our nature, and who, though yielding to the necessity of shedding blood, still love to temper courage with humanity, and to mitigate its inherent evils. At length, as all things must, our exercise came to an end. The parade was dismissed. The officers, European and native, fell out on dismissing their companies and advanced towards the commandant, who, as is customary, waited in front to receive them. Having saluted, and returned their swords to their scabbards, there was a general unbending, and the laugh and the joke and the news went round. “Well, Rantipole, how does the grey carry you? What did you give for him?” “Two hundred and fifty dibs” (_i.e._, rupees); “wouldn’t take four hundred for him at this moment.” “Isn’t he a little puffed in that off fore-leg?” said Captain Syphax, drily. “No, not that I know of.” “Who was at Mrs. Roundabout’s hop last night? they say that old Crosslight, the brigade major, was more than ordinarily attentive to the widow.” “Oh! I didn’t hear that—by the way, Tom, when does your affair come on?” “Nonsense! how do I know?” “Hear him; hear him! hear the Benedict!” “Rantipole, I’ll bet you five gold mohurs,” said one of the subs, “that my old Toorkie beats your new purchase once round the course, P. P.” “Done! but I don’t sport gold mohurs; say five chicks,[30] and it’s a bet; or I don’t mind if I make it ten.” “Chicks, Tom,” said I, aside; “isn’t it rather an odd thing to bet fowls on a horse race? this is another of your Indian customs, I suppose, the reasonableness of which is not apparent at a glance.” Tom stamped and laughed at my query, like a madman, to the astonishment of all present. “Here,” said he, in a whisper, and pulling me aside “you great griff you! chicks are sequins, or chequins abbreviated to chicks;—not fowls, as you imagine: have you never heard that before?” “Never,” said I. “What’s the joke, Rattleton, what’s the joke?” said the colonel, good-humouredly; “come, let’s have it, and don’t keep it all to yourself.” “Oh, nothing, sir, nothing particular, sir,” said Tom; “nothing, but rather a griffinish query of my friend Gernon’s, which tickled me a little.” “I am afraid you are rather too hard upon him,” said, the colonel; “remember, Rattleton, I could tell a few stories of griffins if I chose.” Tom felt the rebuke, and had the laugh turned against him.