frock, glazed hat, white neckcloth and
boots named after himself, of Waterloo: the
rich field-marshal's uniform, covered with
orders, of the snowy-headed old patriarch
who smiles upon the baby Prince, in Winterhalter's
picture. Or, to offer a stronger contrast,
what can be more antagonistic, to the
pigtail and the ankle-jack, than the gorgeously-
attired old hero, his peer's robes
above his glittering uniform, carrying the
sword of state before the Queen of England
at her coronation?

There has been of late days a general outcry
against, and a vehement demand for, the
radical reform of the costume of the
British army. Common sense at home has
cried out against some of its most manifest
absurdities, and experience has inveighed
against it from the tented field. The agitation
for the remodelling of Mars has been much
more vehement among the civilians than
among the followers of the warlike god
himself. Captain Nolan modestly hints at
the superiority of wooden over steel scabbards
for cavalry. Some military authorities
gently presume to doubt the benefits
arising from hussars having an extra jacket
into whose sleeves they never put their arms;
of their wearing caps like ladies' muffs, with
red silk bags hanging from the side, and
shaving brushes atop; they suggest a sensible
alteration here, a strap the less there. Without
fuss or parade, they quietly object to gold-
lace. But your great civil authorities will have
no half measures. " Reform it altogether!"
they shout wildly. No more stocks, no more
white ducks, no more epaulettes, no more shaving,
no more button-brushes, no more cherry-
coloured pantaloons, no more bearskin caps,
knapsacks, pipeclay, belts, facings, lace, or
embroidery. They write fifty thousand letters
to The Times, in which the absurdities
of military dress are dwelt upon with
savage irony and excruciating humour.
The dress, and accoutrements, and discipline
of the troops of his Majesty the
King of Candy, his Majesty the Emperor of
the Patagonians, and her Majesty the Queen
of the Amazons, are vaunted to the skies: to
the deep disparagement of our own miserable,
worthless, absurdly clad, troops, who can't
breathe, work, stoop, walk, run, stand, or fight.
The Candian chasseurs owe their superlatively
greater skill in hitting a mark to their
unimprisoned arms and wide trousers; the
Patagonian sappers and miners survey, plan,
dig, sap, and mine in an infinitely superior
manner because of their comfortable boots;
even the Amazonian bashi-bazouks—dressed
in a reasonable manner; and not in the
infamous, atrocious, absurd, hideous, stifling,
choking, murderous way that ours are—do
greater execution in the field.

Now, this is all very well up to a certain point.
That there is a great deal to be mended, in
the equipment of our fighting men, and that
a great deal must be mended, no reasonable
person can doubt. Comfort, expediency,
safety, and economy, demand many changes
in the uniform of cavalry, infantry, and artillery—
of the general camp, pioneers and all.
I shall be glad to see these changes made
speedily; though not without deliberation. If
they are not found to be advantageous, try
back and begin over again. Remember
Bruce and the spider. Only last Saturday,
at the little club where I enjoy my harmony,
pending the arrival of my election at the
Carlton, I heard a gentleman attempt Norah
the pride of Kildare no less than seven
times. He broke down regularly, and
always at the same place, but was not the
least disconcerted at being requested to " try
back," and at last accomplished the ditty to
the entire satisfaction of the room. In military
tailoring, as well as in singing, the illustrious
performers may try back with great
advantage.

In this great "Reform your (military)
tailors' bills," however, I cannot go so far as
the fifty thousand letter writers in The
Times. I will not pin my faith upon Justitia
who shrieks for shooting jackets; I will not
swear by Veritas who screams for short
blouses with leather belts, and plenty of
pockets in front; I will not adhere to the
excited letter writers who vehemently demand
the immediate abolition of all epaulettes,
plumes, and embroidery as abominable.
In this somewhat (to my mind) fierce and
sweeping denunciation of military smartness
and finery, I trace the presence of that indefatigable
sect of religionists who swear by
bristles, snouts, grunts, and curly-tails.
It was but a fortnight ago that I had
to deplore the presence of the whole hog in a
teetotal procession; I confess, with sorrow,
that I find him in this clothes' reform agitation,
a military whole hog: a hog in armour,
but still a hog, and a whole one.

There are many absurdities, many
inconveniences, many ridiculous dandyisms, in the
costume of the army. Granted. Frock coats
protect the thighs better than coatees;
epaulettes are useless lumps of bullion; helmets
are preferable to shakos; buttons anil lace are
so much metal and lace thrown away. Granted,
granted, granted. Therefore dispense with the
slightest attempt at ornament, and stop short
of a button beyond the number absolutely
necessary. No, I cannot quite come to that. I
cannot in anything whatsoever, yield myself
up, bound hand and foot, to the uglifiers
—men who have an innate, though I am
willing to believe an unconscious, hatred of
every thing in which there is the slightest
trace of beauty, symmetry, or fancy. I tremble
for the day when the British grenadier, attired
by whole-hoggery in the severest style of
utilitarianism, would be nothing but a slovenly,
slouching, tasteless, hideous guy. I don't
want him to be a guy. I want him to be
sensibly, comfortably, and usefully dressed;
but I would leave him a little pride in him-