But there is a far more serious reason in favour of such a change, and that is the fact of the rank and file of the army being greatly discontented, and daily becoming more so, with the so-called justice meted out to them. The fate of Lilley and his two companions has for months past been the talk and the conversation of every barrack-room, every canteen, and every sergeants' mess in the English army; nor has the feeling caused by the death of the sergeant-major been lessened since the acquittal of Colonel Crawley, whose trial, the men say, in their quaint way, was nothing more or less than what in the ring would be termed “a cross;" and that from the first the prosecution was "made safe to lose the fight."

To all lookers-on who take an interest in the army-and certainly to all officers in the service who take a higher view of military matters than can be afforded by mooning about country quarters well got-up in mufti, or running up to town to partake of dinners at the Rag-to all, in short, who wish the real good of the service, and wish it to take a higher social position than it has hitherto enjoyed, there is one thing very certain connected with our troops; and that is, if the standing of the army is ever to be improved, we must induce a better class of men than those who now enlist to become soldiers. To effect this two things are necessary: first, that a man of good education can feel, with some degree of certainty, that with good behaviour, and qualifying himself to become a smart soldier, he may look forward to a commission in due time; and together with this he should have confidence-perfect confidence-in the courts of justice to which he is amenable. At present neither of these requisites to the improvement of the army exist. Of our very best non-commissioned officers-and no army in Europe possesses any thing like so good a body of sergeants and corporals as we do-not more than one in seventy obtains higher promotion; and of those who are promoted and obtain commissions, not one in a hundred ever rises to the rank of captain,-for the twofold reason, that in the English army, besides merit, a man must have money to rise in the service; and secondly, that of every dozen non-commissioned officers who are promoted, seven or eight are too old to hope for further advancement. With such prospects before them, what wonder is it that the men of a more respectable class who enlist are so very few, that the desertions from our army are so very many, and that our military prisons and military punishments cost the nation every year such an immense sum of money?

Nor is the English soldier's confidence in what are to him his lawcourts greater than his hopes of professional advancement. However good a man he may be, he feels very soon-and the barrack-room traditions confirm his belief-that his punishments for all faults, whether great or small, are entirely in the hands of a class who has little or no practical knowledge of his wants, his temptations, or his provocations, and that from the award of these judges he has no appeal whatever. How many soldiers are there now working out their time in penal ser

vitude, who have been taunted or bullied by some tyrannical non-commissioned officer into acts or words which were nothing short of mutiny, and which were punished by a court-martial with a sentence which in civil life would be the award of a forger or a housebreaker? It is true that, above all things, discipline must be maintained in an army; but the sternest officers must allow that there may be in such cases extenuating circumstances, and that, although a court-martial may have merely done its duty in awarding the severest sentence possible upon the offender, the service would not suffer in the least if the latter had the right to appeal to a higher tribunal.

Amongst the officers of the army there is unfortunately something stronger than prejudice against every thing like change in their profession. With few exceptions (amongst which few, however, we believe that the Duke of Cambridge may be numbered), any thing like public opinion is decried, and any thing like reform sneered at, by the service at large. Unlike all other professions, alterations for the better amongst our troops have never been proposed by those within, but have always been forced upon the army from those without the military circle. So much is this the case, that to the present day it is very much the fashion in the service to lament the days when one hundred, one hundred and fifty, and even two hundred lashes, could be inflicted for certain crimes by a court-martial. This spirit of headstrong anti-reform will no doubt help much to prevent any alterations in our present system of military tribunals; but the change must come, and that too ere very long. It is abuses like this, together with the promotion of officers by purchase, and the non-promotion, or very rare promotion, of non-commissioned officers to commissions, that tend to keep all the best men of the middle classes out of our ranks, which fill the police Hue and Cry with lists of deserters, and oblige us to spend thousands of pounds every year in military prisons and military punishments. The nation cannot afford this. Our army is paid for the service of the country, not to be a plaything with which the upper ten thousand can amuse themselves and pass away the idle years between leaving college and settling down to work in earnest. As we understand the term, "army reform” means making our land-forces as efficient as it is possible to do, filling our ranks with the best men we can get, and officering those men with commanders who are soldiers, and not merely rich young men who are playing at soldiering. Not least, or farthest off, or less important than other reforms in the service, is that of our courts-martial as they now exist; and that a total change in the system must soon take place seems almost certain. Out of evil often cometh good; and even the Lilley persecutions, and the trial of Colonel Crawley, may not be altogether without fruit. The late trials at Mhow and at Aldershot have drawn public attention to the subject of military justice, and the result must be the entire reform of abuses which can no longer be tolerated in a land whose greatest boast is, that in the eyes of the law all men are equal.

The Trials of the Tredgolds.

BY THE AUTHOR OF 46 A PRODIGAL SON," &c.

CHAPTER XXXVII,

A DEBT OF VENGEANCE.

THERE is always some risk of failure attendant upon a project which aims to give enjoyment to one's friends by taking them by surprise. Coming upon them suddenly after a prolonged separation, it is easy enough to succeed in startling, but we cannot be equally sure of con. ferring pleasure upon them. A safer plan is certainly to give timely warning and prearrange meetings, so that both parties to the treaty of friendship may come together having had opportunity to subside into a fitting state of mind, and prepared to resume their understanding with each other upon the same terms of intimate friendliness upon which they parted. This is so busy a world, events come crowding on in such quick succession, that men imperceptibly, and without intention, under. go an inevitable process of change, induced by the new crop which each day brings forth of hopes and thoughts and plans to occupy and divert; and it is not, therefore, simply a question of time which has to be considered in the case of separation from our friends. Who has not felt the difficulty of taking up again, precisely at the point at which it was quitted, a friendship which unavoidable circumstances have for a long time suspended? Who has failed to perceive that, during the unfortunate interval, many ties that erst seemed substantial enough have completely worn away; others have become terribly unravelled, or tried to the uttermost by the strain put upon them; and that altogether there is very much work to be done over again? It is not a comfortable reflection, perhaps, that the love or the friendship which can withstand the trials of time and separation is exceedingly rare. We must carry the charge to the debit of our human frailty: although that side of the account is already heavy enough, in all conscience.

The meeting of Noel and his three friends, travellers from the northwest, was friendly enough; they interchanged cordial greetings; and yet on both sides was a feeling that verged in some way upon disappointment. Noel could not but be sensible that about the arrival of his old associates at such a moment there was something inopportune, all things considered; while, on the other hand, Mr. Puckle and his companions were conscious that their coming was to some extent a failure -had not conferred either upon themselves or the subject of their visit the gratification they had anticipated. The three excursionists agreed among themselves, grieving the while, that "the laddie" was rather con strained in manner; wore a preoccupied, a suffering air; had lost his old, bright, frank, gladsome look; that, in short, there was something decidedly wrong about him,

"His hand was very feverish," Williams the doctor observed,"very feverish indeed. I noticed it directly. And he's lost flesh; one can see that at a glance. He's been working too hard, perhaps; and I don't like that sort of hungry look he's got-it's a bad sign; and he's no appetite, not a bit. I watched him at breakfast. He drank his tea eagerly, but he didn't touch a morsel of food. But I think I could soon put him right, if he'd let me. I could make him up a pill, to be taken at night"

“I'm sorry we didn't keep him down in Wales," Cluny Puckle interrupts. "He was hearty enough there; but now he's very peakish looking, certainly. He's as white and as lean as any Cockney of them all. But I never thought much good would come of his graving images up here in town. As for pills, Williams, no, thank you; I say, a stiff tumbler or two of whisky-toddy, real Glenlivat, boiling hot, the last thing before he gets into bed."

The curate said nothing, though perhaps he too had a remedy to propose, and was bethinking him of a chapter or two in a certain Book, full of sure and exquisite consolation, which he would have had Noel read diligently, and devoutly lay to heart. He had watched the young man with tender, thoughtful eyes, and had assured himself that his old pupil's malady was of the mind rather than the body.

The lofty-mannered footman in Cumberland Crescent was not much given to emotion; prided himself rather upon his apathy, and nonliability to external influences. Yet even he was much perturbed when a knock at the door, very late at night, summoned him to admit his master, faint and trembling, leaning for support against one of the pillars of the portico.

66

"Help me into the library, Joseph. Is any one up ?"

"Missus has retired, sir. Miss Clare is in the drawing-room."

"Tell her to come to me at once," Mr. Gifford said, speaking with a sort of gasp.

It was with difficulty he could walk across the hall to the library. He sank into his easy-chair, leaning back, panting for breath. Soon Clare was with him.

"What is the matter?" she inquired anxiously, as she twined her arms round him. "You are not well, papa; you are quite cold."

"It is nothing, Clare-nothing; a little cramped and chilled, that's all. I hardly thought I should find you up, Clare."

"I could not go to bed until I had seen you. What is the matter? Tell me. Have you had bad news of-of Herbert? Have you any news of him?"

Not unnaturally she attributed Mr. Gifford's state of agitation to some new discovery touching the misconduct of his son. Of Herbert's unfortunate marriage she was well aware. The runaway had left behind him a letter addressed to Clare; it informed her in tolerably coherent

terms of the rash step he purposed to take, beseeching her, his " dearest sister," as he called her, to do all in her power in the way of intercession on his behalf to obtain Mr. Gifford's pardon, or at least his forbearance. Clare had not hesitated to undertake, for Herbert's sake, the painful duty imposed upon her. But Mr. Gifford had stopped her peremptorily at the outset; he declined all conversation with regard to Herbert's flight and clandestine marriage. The subject, therefore, had been a sealed one in the drawing-room. Not so in the kitchen, you may be sure, although there was not in that region much genuine information about the matter. Still, Mr. Herbert's absence had been canvassed freely enough, with a vivid appreciation of the mysterious and marvellous, on the part of the lofty-mannered footman and his fellow-domestics, that did them infinite credit.

"Yes, I can tell you, now," said Mr. Gifford. "I knew before, but I wished to spare you. It little avails now, however. Herbert has brought shame upon us, as you know, Clare. He has fled, after contracting a disgraceful marriage; he is in Paris with his wife, the daughter of William Moyle, my discharged servant. He has brought shame upon usshame; yes, and worse than that,-ruin!"

"Ruin?" cried Clare.

"Yes, Clare. He has committed a forgery upon the firm; he has given acceptances to a large amount-larger than, at such a time as this, I can possibly hope to meet. But justice shall be done; the law shall take its course. It is due to my other creditors that this should be so. He must prepare to pay the penalty of his crime. He is no longer a son of mine; he has disobeyed me, and I cast him off. He is no more to me now than any other man who has committed an offence against justice. He has sinned; and he must suffer."

"No, no, papa; not so.

him?"

"It is not possible, Clare.

You will be more merciful; you will spare

It is due to others—"

"But I am rich, papa; I have a fortune. Count it as yours, or Herbert's. Let it go to meet these forgeries, and spare him. Think how young he is. He has been the victim of others; he has fallen into some cruel snare. He would not have done this of himself, be sure he would

not."

"My poor Clare," Mr. Gifford said, in a low hoarse voice, "you have a noble heart; but this money of yours-can you bear to hear it? indeed I did not mean to wrong you-but-it has gone with the rest; it has been swept away, involved in my misfortunes. The firm has stopped payment. Ruin has been impending some time. Do what I could, this was not to be averted. Pity me, Clare, if you can. I am bankrupt !' And he covered his face with his cold, thin, shaking hands. "I am bankrupt, Clare," he repeated; " and I have robbed you, my poor child, of every thing that you possessed. All has gone."

She was silent for a moment, pale, frightened by his deep emotion;