may go from those places to the seat of war
Some think that if the war lasts long, the
Rampshire may even see fighting. Please tell
Master W. Warner this.

My dear, I keep putting off saying the
good-bye, that I have to say. Two days
since the order came for us to march down to
Rampling and embark at once. Not one
half-hour had I to write to you till now, on board
the Mars. There never was anything like the
kindness with which we were hailed, all the
way along; and particularly this morning,
when we were coming on board. When the
band played the Girl I Left Behind Me, you
may guess who I thought of, and how my
heart swelled to the music. What do you
think I have left for you with your cousin
Bob, in the regiment? You would never
guess. Why, a cat. Some boys were worrying
a kitten, and half-drowning it, before I
entered the Guards, and I took it from them,
and brought it up, thinking to see it by our
fire-side, and I hope you will think it pretty, and
that you will like it, on account of my saving
its life.

Now, no more,—only this. It is a true
story, Sir Henry Arundel declared, when he
told it us, on the march; and it made that
impression on me that I shall never forget it.
Many years ago, there was a regiment of
ours in India, where the climate is not
pleasant to the English soldier, and all have
much to bear with, besides the great distance
from home (much further than I am going
now). That regiment had been out many
many years, and had gone through much
sickness and hardship, and fought well, and
gained a good reputation. When the time
drew near for going home, the men found the
months and weeks grow very long,—so much,
they wished themselves back in their own
country and their old homes,—with all the
honour upon them that they had gained. But
their feelings were not known, or not
considered (our colonel himself said that) at
head-quarters, and, almost at the last minute,
the order came for the regiment to be broken
up, and the men drafted off,—some to the bad
climate of the West Indies, and some to
the cold parts of Canada, and some to remain
where they were. These fellow-soldiers were
to be parted in this way, and the very name
of the regiment lost! Well, this seemed to
be more than the men could bear; and if
men could ever be forgiven for mutinying,
it would have been then; and it was a very
near thing indeed, their not doing so. But
their commander was a good soldier,—
luckily for them. After morning parade, he
formed them, and read the order, and heard
the beginning of a growl before he had done:
and what did he do? He said, " My lads, I
am as sorry for this order as you can be.
But we know our duty, and we'll do it.
Now, my lads—not a word! " and he signed
to the band which struck up—before any one
could speak—

            "The King commands, and we'll obey;
             Over the hills and far away."

Now, my girl,—the Queen (God bless her!
she would lead us out to the war—if she
could as she led out the fleet last month)—
the Queen has put no hardship of the sort on
us; so we may be willing to go. Therefore,
love,—not a word!

            "The Queen commands, and we'll obey
             Over the hills and far away."

Yours till death,

NED BARRY.

SECOND-HAND SOVEREIGNS.

HAS ever any one, or is any one supposed
ever to have gone over the whole of the
museums of the Louvre? I know there are
people who will tell me that they have done
it. The sort of tourists who " do" the
Rubens's at Antwerp in half a day; who
scamper through the Vatican as though they
were running a race; who dot down the
castles on either side of the Rhine in their
note-books, like dry-goods' clerks checking off
entries of pepper and raisins; who work
through the sights of Paris, in Galignani's
Guide, as the Englishman did through the
dishes in the carte at the restaurant,
beginning with the soups and ending with the
cheeses and salads: these are the sort of
people who will confidently assert that they
have inspected the Louvre in its entirety.
Go to, I say. Nobody can have
accomplished the feat. M. de Nieuwerkerque, the
Director-General of the Louvre, may know
something of the museums, but he is not
omniscient. The guardians in the cocked
hats who sell the catalogues, and who
yawn piteously during the long hours—as
well they may; for Salvator Rosa becomes a
drug in the mental market at last; Raffaelle
a bore; Gerard Dow intrusive, and the
treasures of art toujours perdrix—know
little or nothing beyond the departments
immediately confided to their care. As to
the flying tourists: they may say that
they have been here, there, and
everywhere, and that they have seen—the whole
concern; but I don't believe them. I
know how Mrs. Cruggs from Manchester
goes up the wrong staircase and loses her
way; how Splattertrees the great connoisseur
gets jammed up in a dark corner, among the
artists' easels and platforms; how Pry
wanders into a guard-room by mistake, and is
dreadfully afraid of being bayonetted for his
intrusion; and how Miss Cleverboots is
continually making short cuts, and as continually
coming back to the room she started from,
until at last she sits down on a crimson velvet
ottoman in the salon carré, and cries. As for
the valets de place and cicerones from the
hotels, they are all humbugs; from Paris to
Peru, from Venice to the Valhalla, they are