troduced to insure a legitimate flow of promotion is one which must end in destroying the edifice it was meant to construct. This is the clause limiting the age up to which officers can continue to serve. Every officer now joining knows that he has a certain number of years to put in: those past, and he must go, and the profession he has adopted will be his no more. His pension will be the same whether he has done well or ill. Worse than all, if he has been lucky in his promotion, and as a young man obtains the command of his regiment, he must quit it for good after four years at the utmost. What professional man would serve on such terms? Where is the incentive to master the details of a profession when, just as by experience and incessant application he has got it by heart, he knows that he must be turned adrift? his own years do it for him; every birthday is a fresh nail in his coffin; circumstances over which he has no control tell him to go, and he obeys, and withdraws to the town in which he knows the greatest number of friends or relations, and endeavours to eke out a scanty retiring pension by becoming the agent for the sale of bottled beer, and being a terror to his friends and acquaintances in consequence. And if the younger men feel this, the older ones feel it a great deal more. They feel that they are not wanted; that they are out of place in the new régime-they have been told so in so many words; the sooner they get out of it and take their pensions the better. It is not a wise way to educate the rising generation, to see the men who have already climbed the tree they too are climbing, pushed off the topmost branches, and told to think themselves lucky if they "fall soft" and only break a leg or two. argument, that our army has done what was required of it and become professional; and we have shown how officers are being assisted in their endeavours to fall in with our reformers' wishes; and we trust the argument will bear fruit. For, in truth, talk as we may, we have not got a professional army; nor are we one jot nearer that end than we were a dozen years ago. What we have got, to leave the men out of the question, is a body of young officers, educated up to the same level as they always have been: they enter the "service," and begin to run the gauntlet of innumerable. examinations; they must get through them, they know, or their promotion will be stopped, and they do get through them, somehow or anyhow, certainly not in the way those who instituted them had anticipated, and they emerge from the ordeal with a smattering of many military subjects; but in the name of all that practical education has taught us in this nineteenth century, how much better is the boy who, on a sudden, is called upon to make a bit of a fort to cover his men, and who remembers that the garrison-instructor told him that the "superior slope "should be 1 over 6, or that the width of a "banquette" was 4 feet 6 inches, than another who under the same circumstances builds his fort according to his own common-sense? Educate our officers by all means, but don't try to make them "Jacks of all trades and masters of none." A system such as our reformers have given us is seen through by the people experimented on, and is apt to beget a feeling which finds vent in the expression "don't care.' Now "don't care " is a fatal disease,-one which will destroy any constitution, unless taken in hand We have allowed, for the sake of at once. Our reformers will point to Telel-Kebir for the proof of their pudding-a victory admitted on all sides, and by Lord Wolseley himself, to have been due to the gallant way in which the officers led the men. But he went out of his way when he sang the praises of the system of which he is the part proprietor, putting down the victory to the ability for fighting displayed by "short service." We have since learnt that the men who stormed the parapets of Telel-Kebir averaged something like twenty-five years in age, and had over four years' service. The mention of this fact brings us to the end of our paper. We have given our opinion about Mr Cardwell and Mr Childers, but in fairness to those officials we cannot let all the measure of our censure rest on their shoulders. They took up a complicated machine of which they were entirely ignorant, and did with it what seemed to their unprofessional minds the best both for it and for the people who had need of it. As was natural, they had to rely very much on those about them, and were soon surrounded by clever men, who, being dressed as soldiers, would know something about their own trade and have its interests at heart. And it is on the shoulders of these professional advisers that the blame rests. What War Minister would have pursued his theoretical reforms unless he had been backed up by the people he was reforming? What War Minister would think himself out of the right track when such a practical soldier as Lord Wolseley was at his side, content to fall in with all the pet schemes of his civilian friend, and to stamp each reform with approval, while keeping his own opinions in the background? Ask any soldier outside Pall Mall, and he will tell you that the man he blames for all this disintegration which has come over our army is the soldier Lord Wolseley. Lord Wolseley not long ago took occasion to disclaim the imputation which had fastened on him that he was a political soldier, who owed his success in life to his Liberal tendencies; but the public have got rather tired of its "only general's" disavowals of late, and put up this last one with the rest, in which they believed not. No one denies Lord Wolseley's talents as a soldier; while every one is sorry to see that so much genius is not content to follow that straight path which is the aim of every true soldier, but is pleased to branch off into the devious short-cuts which political bias offers in its haste to gain the goal. Lord Wolseley has gained the goal, and speedily; but at the price of those feelings of love and devotion which soldiers hold towards their successful Generals. A letter from a Highland soldier which was published lately puts the matter in words so unmistakable, that a few of them are worth taking to heart. He says, "After all the fuss that was made about the war in Egypt, it makes our blood run cold to read of the treatment of the sick and wounded. There was no such mismanagement in the Cabul-Candahar campaign; everything was perfect, because the General had the confidence of every officer and man. The whole of us would lay down our lives willingly for Sir F. Roberts, because we know how unselfish he is." When a plain "common soldier" writes like that of Lord Wolseley, it will be a bigger feather in his cap than is Tel-el-Kebir, and will make victory a much greater certainty in his next war, than will any number of reforms fired up to red-heat to please the fancy of his political admirers. THE LITTLE WORLD: A STORY OF JAPAN.-CONCLUSION. BY RUDOLPH LINDAU. DR WILKINS had not a large practice, for the health of the youthful foreign community was extraordinarily good; but the few patients he had could boast that they were well taken care of, and received numerous and regular visits from their medical adviser. Since Jervis had been taken ill, the Doctor had seen him at least once a day. On the day after the M'Bean banquet, where the elder Ashbourne had told the story of Hellington, Dr Wilkins paid his usual visit to Jervis about ten o'clock in the morning. After inquiring about his patient's health, he lighted a cheroot, asked for a glass of brandy-and-soda, stretched himself comfortably in one of the bamboo chairs on the cool verandah, and said with a yawn— "Well, I have done my day's work. A climate like that of this blessed country does not exist elsewhere! Nobody will be sick here. They should send life insurance agents here; physicians have nothing to do. We were at M'Bean's until nearly three o'clock, and on coming out early this morning I met the two Ashbournes with Gilmore, coming back from a long ride, and looking as bright and fresh as if they had had their regular seven hours' sleep." 66 Ah, until three o'clock at M'Bean's! Who won most?" "We didn't gamble." 'Well, what did you do all night?" "Daniel Ashbourne told us story of Limerick." a VII. sitting in a bamboo chair a little behind the Doctor, so that Wilkins could only see his face by turning round. He waited a few seconds as if he expected an invitation to repeat the Hibernian tale, but when Jervis kept silence, the talkative Doctor began of his own accord. He did not, it is true, give the story in detail like Ashbourne, but he did not, on the other hand, omit a single essential circumstance. Jervis did not interrupt him, and the Doctor was agreeably surprised at the patient attention of his listener. "So you say Ashbourne knew that man personally?" inquired Jervis in a low voice, when the doctor had ended. "Knew him? As well as I know you; had seen him hundreds of times," replied Wilkins, turning round to look into Jervis's face. "Hallo!" he continued, rising, "what's the matter with "Nothing at all." u?" you But Wilkins was determined to fulfil his duties as medical adviser, and the answer of his patient did not satisfy him. So he rose, felt Jervis's pulse and forehead, ordered him a sedative powder, and only went away when the patient expressed a wish to be left alone that he might lie down. "Lie in this hammock," said Wilkins. "It is cool and fresh out here. I will look in again before dinner." When Wilkins had gone, Jervis remained motionless for a long Jervis remained silent. He was time, his usually restless eyes fixed upon the ground before him. Then he rose, wiped away the perspiration that was moistening his forehead, and with slow and unsteady step entered his room. There he was found by Wilkins when the latter returned towards six o'clock. Jervis now had to undergo another careful examination, and that over, Wilkins said he would send him a few powders, of which he was to take two at once,-two before going to bed and two in the morning. He repeated his advice several times as if it were of great importance, to which Jervis only replied seriously and thoughtfully-"All right, Doctor; all right." The powders were brought; but Jervis did not take them. He sat down to dinner about seven o'clock, but hardly tasted the food that was placed before him, and retired early to his room, where he remained alone. When the servant brought the lamp he ordered it to be taken away again, telling the man to keep the parlour dark, as the mosquitoes had been very troublesome of late. Ashbourne's rooms were brightly lighted, and Jervis could distinctly see everything that was going on there. He seemed to take a great interest in this, for he had got out his opera glass, and did not remove his eyes from the house. The two brothers remained alone talking together until nearly nine o'clock, when Thomas sat down at his desk to write, while Daniel, taking his hat and followed by a servant, left the house. On the following morning Dr Wilkins called as usual on Jervis, and found his patient very much fatigued and in low spirits. In the hope of cheering him up a little, the Doctor told him they had been very merry at the club the night before. "Daniel Ashbourne," he said, "is a bright cheerful fellow, and for hours and hours he entertained the company with stories from Ireland." "And what did Thomas Ashbourne say," asked Jervis, "if another talked for such a long time?" "Thomas had to work for his newspaper, and Dan came alone. We were all very glad to see him, and I am sure you will like him. He is anxious to make your acquaintance, for he is a thoroughbred Irishman, and would like to see the best horseman in the settlement. If it suits you, I will bring him with me to-morrow morning and introduce him." "No, thanks; I would rather not," replied Jervis calmly. "I am really not well enough just now to take any pleasure in making new acquaintances." "Well, just as you like," replied the Doctor, adding, after a short pause "If you care to take a little walk this evening, I would be glad to call for you: I have promised Ashbourne to initiate him into the mysteries of the Yankiro. We have an appointment at nine o'clock, and as we pass your house I will call out for you.' "No, thanks, Doctor; not tonight." When Wilkins was gone, Jervis walked up and down the verandah for a long time in deep thought. One of his servants came with a message that had been left for him; but the man was frightened at the wild expression of his master's face, and withdrew without speaking to him. About half an hour later Jervis called his porter and sent him to Yedo to make some purchases. The servant replied that it was very late, and that he could not possibly return the same night. Jervis said it was of no consequence; he might return next morning. The man was glad to get a holiday in Yedo, and in half an hour was gone. At nightfall Jervis summoned his Chinese comprador, the chief servant of his household, and said to him "The porter will not be here tonight. Take care, therefore, that by ten o'clock every light in the house and in the stables is put out. People here are very careless with fire." At nine o'clock Jervis was sitting on the dark verandah looking intently towards the brightly lighted dwelling of his neighbour Ashbourne. In one of the rooms he recognised three persons-the two brothers and Dr Wilkins. At half-past nine Thomas sat down to his desk, and the two others left. Jervis heard them talking as they passed his verandah, and saw them take the road across the moor towards the Yankiro, followed by two native servants. The sound of their footsteps was soon lost on the soft turf. For a short time Jervis's eyes followed the two lanterns; these, also, were soon lost to sight in the sultry dark night. Then everything around became deserted, silent, and lonely. The heavens were black; and the sea rolled heavily and gloomily on the shore, with a sound like distant thunder before an approaching storm. Jervis was still on the verandah, breathing hard, listening attentively to the slightest sound. The comprador had extinguished all the lights in the house. Everything lay buried in deep, black darkness. Towards midnight four mentwo Europeans and two Japanese -left the Yankiro, and, walking leisurely, took the road to Yokohama. The servants walked in front, lighting up the narrow uneven path way with their lanterns, while their masters were engaged in lively conversation. They had reached nearly the middle of the swamp when one of them turned suddenly round, and saw a dark mass leap forward. At the same instant he heard a dull thud, followed by a short terrible shriek, and saw his companion wildly beat the air with his arms, rush forward a few steps, and then fall with his face to the ground. "Help! Help! Murder!" The two servants darted back and held up the lanterns. About twenty yards ahead of them they saw a human figure flying across the moor. Two shots from a revolver followed at brief intervals, but the fugitive, apparently, was not hit, and he was soon lost in the darkness of the night. Thomas Ashbourne was working with open doors and windows when he was startled by a terrible shriek. Then the cry "Murder! Murder! Help!" resounded through the silent night. He rushed out on the verandah, and saw several lanterns, which, in the swamp, were flickering and moving to and fro. In a few seconds he was outside, rushing towards the place. Stretched on the ground, with a wide gaping wound in his back, a man was lying; by his side were Wilkins and the two servants. "He has been murdered," said the Doctor, lifting up his pale terrorstricken face. The murdered man was weltering in his blood, giving still some signs of life. "What can I do, Doctor?" shrieked Thomas Ashbourne. "For God's sake, help! Oh, Dan! My brother Dan !" He knelt down and took hold of the hand which was already grow |