of seeing them interred. Bearing our sticks under our arms, points downward, we followed the procession to its destination, and mounting our little brass cannon on the wall of the graveyard, let it off, when the soldiers fired over the grave, with all the solemnity in the world. Of course when we returned we used to get up a burial on our own account-and I often think now that our mock interments were, after all, as real as many a funeral it has since been my bad fortune to see 'performed.' When we could, we used to get some young maiden to follow our sham processions and sob; and when I think of it, it seems astonishing how naturally the dear little thing used to do it.

Our third and last military pastime was going to Palace Yard to hear the band. This was a pleasure indeed! If one of us could only get a piece of music to hold (we all shirked the trombone, as he used sometimes to hit us on the forehead with the end of his instrument), he had enough to boast about for a week. I haven't been to hear the band for many a long day; but I remember one or two little things in connexion with it years agone that may, for historical purposes, be jotted down. I remember a flag was

always set on a pole in the centre of Palace Yard, and that one or two young officers used to stand about it, listlessly drawing their gauntleted hands up and down the glittering blades of their swords. Of course I thought, at the time, those blades were sharper than razors, and used to admire the Saladin-like temerity of the scarlet-coated young gentlemen who thus durst tamper with them. I remember again there was a fat, puffy old fellow bearing a gilt-ferruled baton, who used to go round the yard, and, with much unnecessary fussiness and fury, thrust the end of his wand into the stomach of every civilian standing the least in advance of the crowd. What a quaint and curious old place that Palace Yard used to seem to me—what quaint and curious old folks used to turn out from the crumbling, red-brick houses! As the full gusts of music rose in the clear sunshine, the faces of comely lady's-maids, with dear little caps stuck on the backs of their heads, would show themselves out of the topmost windows, and then the hands of those young officers would run up and down their swords in the most daring and blood-freezing manner. After the band had finished its performance— what a reverence I had for the little chap all

B

over white buttons who tinkled the triangle!

6

we used to follow it down the Mall' and up Constitution Hill, and there, under the trees, we generally saw the helmets of the Horse Guards glittering in the sun. It was a pretty sightthe black steaming flanks of the horses, with the radiant breast-plates, clattering sword-chains, white gauntlets and black plumes of the soldiers making, in our eyes, the noblest picture in the world. I am afraid there are some children of a larger growth who, just now, hold the same ridiculous notion. In fact and this makes a tolerable tag-the military weakness of my boyhood seems to have fallen upon certain venerable statesmen in their dotage. And so-as Tennyson says of Gama

'Men redden in the furrows of their brows!'

III.

'NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS.'

W

HO are they? Come, Mr. Editor, make a clean breast of it, and tell me honestly that these correspondents of yours are all myths. They can't exist. It is impossible there are men and women who still wish to know in what year the late Madame Vestris was born, and how tall the Duke of Wellington stood in his stockings. Imprimis, what is the use of knowing such things? and then, supposing it was of use, do you mean to tell me -now be fair!-that everybody mustn't have seen those two questions answered at least a thousand times within the last ten years?

But assuming, for the sake of charity and the argument, that these correspondents are not imaginary personages, and that you Editors have all the inquiries put to you that you attempt-and

a pretty attempt you very often make!-to answer, I want to know the class of people who require the information. I know, because I have had ocular proof of it occasionally, that there are always a number of Bedlamites at large. I know Martin Tupper is allowed to write his poetry without a keeper at his elbow. I know the Editor of the Morning Tankard is permitted to go about the office without either strait-waistcoat or mufflers. I know there are several people -God help 'em-who send conscience-money (would they could send a conscience) to Mr. William Ewart Gladstone. I know there is a Constitutional Defence Committee. I know there are at least three electors in the city of London who still believe in Lord John Russell as a Reformer. I know there is a drivelling idiot who says he doesn't see much in my writings. Still, knowing all this, I am yet puzzled to account for the balance of insanity that evidences itself in these Notices to Correspondents.

For see: Supposing all the Bedlamites write to the Editors; presuming Martin Tupper indites as many letters to the newspapers as he turns sonnets; assuming the Editor of the Morning Tankard cares to correspond with less spiritual