spectacle to the world of a great, prosperous, and, what is more, an enduring empire established by England in the East. We have, indeed, but one course to pursue. Military service at home in time of peace is naturally of a less interesting character than travels and occasional expeditions in distant lands; and the training of young soldiers at Woolwich, which fell to my lot for some time after my return to England, did not present incidents of a striking character. At one period, I remember, there was a considerable dearth of recruits, especially of drivers for the horse artillery, partially due to the frequent changes in war office regulations as to the height and dimensions of the men enlisted. We were allowed to take short men, provided they were of exceptional width of chest and shoulders. Meeting an old recruiting serjeant one day, I inquired if he had been successful, but he was by no means sanguine; and, on my pressing him for the reason of his comparative failure, he replied: 'Beg your pardon, sir, but the Almighty doesn't make the men the shape you order 'em.' I received occasional curious letters from soldiers, one or two of which are worth quotation. The first was from a gunner who was anxious to be married, as in the days of long service it was necessary to obtain previous permission from the commanding officer. It is as follows: 'Sir, I beg you will pardon the liberty I take, in requesting the favour of your permission on a subject which depends on my future happiness. During my stay in Winchester, I have formed an attachment with a highly respectable young person, to whom I wish to develop my sentiments, by a matrimonial engagement, for which purpose may I beg, sir, the favour of your liberty?' The man, so far as my recollection goes, was duly married, and happy ever afterwards. The second letter accidentally fell into my hands, and is of a romantic character, from a soldier to a girl to whom he was devoted. 'My darling Jane, it is with great Plesur that I sit down to right a fue lines to you, with the intenchun of cheering your drooping sperits, for the tempest that ranges before you, the storm is hie, the tempest's winds blows through the parish, the throushes is warbling their songs of melode, but by far the sweetest song thare singing, his hover the water to Charley' ... and so on.