much to the discomfort of the service, and almost oblige soldiers to abandon the interesting, as well as remunerative, amusement of gardening; an occupation for which a very large portion of them are fitted, previous to entering the service. All who have visited either the former French camp at Boulogne, or the present one at Chalons, must have remarked to what perfection soldiers can carry both flower- and kitchen-gardening, when they have even ordinary means of working afforded them. The same liking for these kinds of cultivation is to be witnessed amongst French troops in Algeria, and our own living under the burning sun of India. In England alone-except latterly in a slight degree at Aldershott-soldiers have no means afforded them of gardening; and this in a country where garden-cultivation is carried to greater perfection than in any other part of the world. But so long as troops are certain to be moved every year, and may have to change quarters every six months, any settled scheme or plan of regimental gardening would be out of the question. No man cares to sow where another is sure to reap. But passing, as the great majority of our soldiers do, the best part of their lives in the Colonies, it is greatly to be desired that they could practise at home an occupation which they could turn to such good account abroad. Not only should the home-service of a regiment be made useful in teaching the men all that pertains unto cultivation and gardening; but they should have regular professional gardeners to teach them; and thus be able, when they go abroad, to take with them a practical knowledge of an art which is always valued wherever Englishmen are settled.

As we said

The limits of this article will not allow of pointing out more in detail what can and what ought to be done with our troops in making them useful and steady citizens, as well as good soldiers. before, much has been done, but more remains to be done. The theory of making soldiers any thing more than mere machines for parade or guard, of which no care was to be taken in their leisure hours, is new in England; the practice is still more so. It is only within the last ten years that any means have been taken to prevent vice amongst our troops by training them to good; and even now what has been done has been effected slowly. But a movement like this goes faster as it advances; and therefore we may hope that in the next five years much more will be effected towards occupying and amusing our men, and abolishing punishments, which avenge and degrade without reforming the soldier, than has been the case from the Crimean War to the present time.

Not wisely, but too well.

You ask me what is the matter? why seem I so full of care?

Why am I silent and stupid? why am I wasted and wan?— Will you take a cigar, old fellow! sit down in that great arm-chair, Put up your feet on the fender, and hold your tongue—if you can.

While you smoke, I will show you the matter: I have no new story to tell;

But my version is not yet published-only written in fire and tears; Yet it's the old, old story of loving less wisely than well

I've heard it told by another, and listened with scornful ears.

We are always so brave in enduring the pain that another bears!
We quote how sublime it is to suffer and yet be strong!
All so prompt to undervalue the weight of another's cares,

So practised at preaching patience as cure for another's wrong!

Is there a drearier story than that of a love betrayed?

Is there a greater bore than the tale of a lover's wound? Better an asinine history by a donkey honestly brayed

Than the tales by such idiots told, full only of fury and sound!

Yet the story I have to tell is the old, old tale of wrong,

Of an earnest love obtained, and then trampled with cruel feet; Of a man with a loyal heart, of a girl with a traitorous tongue,

Of a wasted life and a wasted love, through a woman's idle conceit!

You remember that evening at Brighton-the night of the archery ball? You remember that girl from the North-the one with the chestnut curls,

Her with the violet eyes, with the shape so slender and tall,

With Cupid-bow lips, and pearly skin, and teeth far whiter than pearls?

I loved her the instant I saw her-I had never loved before-
Even ere we had spoken I felt that my fate was set:

There was the woman at last for my heart and my soul to adore!
God! it were better far I had died that night ere we met!

With words like dewdrops from heaven, with looks such as angels

wear,

With smiles from Paradise borrowed, with glances tender and sweet, She made me think I was welcome, and tempted me on to the snare,

Brought my soul down to her level, and forced my heart to her feet. The springs of my being were opened, the waters rushed up from the deep,

O'er the ocean of feeling long stagnant came the waves of love and

of life,

All the world for me was transfigured, my Faith was aroused from its

sleep,

And prone on the knees of my spirit I knelt and worshipped my

future WIFE.

Oh, the light that came out of the darkness! oh, the clouds that broke up into blue!

Oh, the blackness that covered the light, and the clouds that came after the rain!

When the horror of naked deceit filled the shrine that I fancied was

true,

And rapture was changed into anguish, and hope was smothered in

pain!

As a river swells over its banks, so my love flowed over through me; My heart was too full for endurance-I felt I must speak or die: Love's torrent was rushing within me and bearing me on to the sea:

She saw the sweep of the current-knew its force far better than I!

At length the design was accomplished; the victim was down at her feet:

Then out from its treacherous lair came the demon of woman's

caprice:

Oh, the anguish, the shame of her scorning! oh, the curse of her cruel

deceit!

Death can have nothing more bitter-nay, hell itself must be peace!

I said I would show you the matter-but I cannot tell it you all; There are parts of my shameful story that must never be heard by ears,

Must never be heard by ears save those that hear when a call

For help goes up from a sinking heart drowning in bloody tears!

Yet the strangest thing is this, that the passion is living still:
Though my peace be for ever departed, and my life be for ever cold,
A memory clings to me yet, and, reason and strive as I will,

I cannot silence a voice within that sings as it sang of old

Singing of golden days when my Faith was pure and strong;
When Hope sat high on her throne, and my spirit was born again;
When Love with her magic harp sang the primal Eden-song,

That brought once more the legend up that the angels talked with men!

Yes, I grant that this is unworthy, unmanly, and weak, if you will, That I know she is falser than fair, and her life is one acted lie: Yet I also know this, that I love her-by Heaven, I love her still!— I love her despite of it all, and must love her until I die!

F.

Broken to Harness.

A STORY OF ENGLISH DOMESTIC LIFE.

BY EDMUND YATES.

CHAPTER XXXII.

HALF-REVEALED.

As Kate Mellon had soliloquised, some time had elapsed since Mr. Simnel had visited The Den. A wary general, Mr. Simnel; a man who, like the elephant, never put his foot forward without first carefully feeling the ground in front of him, and trying whether it would bear; a man who, above all, never was in a hurry. He had not gone through life cautiously and with his eyes wide open without remarking how frequently a little impulse, a little over-excitement or yielding to headstrong urging, had led to direful results. "No hurry" was one of his choicest maxims: to sleep upon an idea; to let information just received mellow in his mind until he saw the very best way to utilise it; to brood over the most promising projects, carefully sifting the chaff from the grain; to wait patiently until the two or three shadowy alternatives had, after due inspection, resolved themselves into one broad path, impossible to be shrunk from-that was Mr. Simnel's way of doing business. He never allowed the iron to be overheated. So soon as it was malleable, he struck, struck with irresistible force and sure aim; but he never dallied with the half-heated metal, or tried warpings with pincers, or blind struggles with solid resistance. If he had a fault in his worldly dealings, it was that he delighted in hiding the power which he was able to wield, even beyond the legitimate time for its manifestation. There are men, you will have observed, who in playing whist and other games of chance and skill,-long-headed calculators, far-seers, sticklers for every point of Hoyle,―yet cannot resist the temptation of withholding their ace until the best time for its production is long past, solely for the sake of a sensation, for the sake of creating a feeling of astonishment among their fellow-players that the great card has been all that time in hand. So it was, to a certain extent, with Robert Simnel.

He had known nothing of love, this man, during his youth. He had had no time for the cultivation of any tender passion. He had been brought up roughly, with his own way to make, with his own living to get. He was not pretty to look at, and no ladies felt an interest in smoothing his hair or patting his cheeks. The matron at the Combcardingham grammar-school,-a sour blighted old maid, a poor sad old creature, who yet retained some reminiscences of hope in her forlorn frame; in whom head-washing, and looking after linen, had not obliterated all traces of feminine folly, and who remembered early days, when she dreamed that some day some one might make her some kind