SINCE the modern Volunteer movement began, these words of command have been made very familiar to us in the mouth of the drillsergeant. No one other sentence which he has to use in the discharge of his duty in setting us up as citizen soldiers is so constantly on his lips; for of course we all know it is the first means he adopts to correct our mistakes, to recall us to a simple attitude, from which we may start fresh in our attempt at new movements, combinations, and formations. They are to bring us back, so to speak, to a sense of our position and what we have before us, and to inculcate the habit of retrospective examination ofour training. Now, if that mightier and more inexorable drill-master, Sergeant Time' of the 'Royal First, World's Own,' regiment, would more frequently pull us up, and put us back a few years, with the same command, and for the same purpose, it is not too much to say that we might occasionally turn out better soldiers. We should be better able to fight the battle of life, or at least be better able to understand what advance we may have made in our march along the dusty high-road before us, leading towards that unknown country, the future. We should at least be able to understand if we were steadier, and if the way had really been made easier by the pioneers. If Sergeant-major Time could only now and then put - us back to the goose-step, or, as the red book has it, the balancestep without gaining ground,' we should be less likely to trip than we have been, and when the gradients were steep and rugged, be less likely to stumble and fall, weary

and footsore, out of the ranks; in a word, be less liable to commit, and go on committing, those innumerable blunders which have lost us so many battles. For we are aware the battle of life, as well as the battle of the sword, consists of a succession of blunders, he only winning who commits the fewest.

However, as Sergeant Time never utters this useful command aloud, and only seems to hint at its advisability in our private communes with him, it is well for us, perhaps, sometimes to give it out to ourselves in a good clear ringing voice, and imagine ourselves occasionally as we were.' Then we may be able at least to check a too great complacency or inappreciativeness of the value of our present condition. For instance, let us parade ourselves on any one of the old familiar drill-grounds, where we may have taken our earliest marches, spots familiar to us all as connected with our goose-step or extension movements, and saying to ourselves 'As you were!' look at ourselves as we then appeared.

One of these aspects particularly occurs to us, closely associated with our early training. To give the word, 'As you were to any amongst us who first went through their goose-step in the ancient barrack where Clive Newcome got his drill, will beget a picture of ourselves as a people as we were, after the fashion of what we mean. The great school of Charterhouse, now that it has just been removed from its old demesne to the stately pile at Godalming, affords a splendid opportunity for considering ourselves as we were' in respect of such matters, and there are plenty

of us who will obey the self-given order. But while they are doing so, it will not be inappropriate to look at a certain adjacent neighbourhood of which we are now thinking, and of which we see a sort of dissolving view, that we would try for a moment to perpetuate. Let Sergeant Time put us back a few years, and let us see if it be not useful as an index of what we are, as compared with what we were.

Let us, as we behold that handsomely designed and executed scene supplied by the great meat market of the metropolis, try and remember some of the characteristics of the spot, when commerce was there carried on in live instead of dead stock. Let us try and recall the general effect of Smithfield as we first knew it, if for no other reason, at least that we may not forget in the present advantages and benefits enjoyed that there was once a state of barbarism and cruelty existing within our time, so monstrous as nearly to equal, only in a different way, the stake-andpile doings which gave to the locality its infamous historic interest, and that we may not lapse into perfect complacency without a wholesome recollection of the evils from which we have been freed.

First, then, there was the intolerable nuisance occasioned by the passage of huge droves of sheep and oxen on their way to sale and slaughter through every thoroughfare converging on the market. Beginning far away on every country high-road leading to town, notably of course from the northern pasturages, these herds were to be seen periodically throughout the week dragging their weary march, stage by stage, until they reached the suburban cattle-lairs, even by that time sadly tried by their journey, footsore, weary, and watercraving.

The scenes up to this point often

presented painful exhibitions of cruelty, consequent upon the unusual exercise the beasts were called upon to take. With all the advantages of sweet country air, fresh grass, water, and smooth roads, it was often pitiable to see their suffering when urged beyond their strength by the long whips of their ponymounted bucolic drovers. But the real distress, the real agony of these poor creatures' last days commenced when the crowded streets were reached, and they were intrusted to the guardianship of the greasy, brutal, foul-mouthed London drover and his savage dog. This functionary, freely using his heavy and often sharp-pointed stick on their besmirched and sweltering sides, twisting their tails, and fiercely hurling forth imprecatory yells, as he guided his suffering charges amongst vehicles and footpassengers, was not a pleasant addition to the City population; but the sight of the cattle themselves was the thing to call up a real shudder, especially when we remembered they were to become our food. It was not appetising to see a poor exhausted bullock or sheep fairly beaten and done up lying in the gutter, his tongue and eyes protruding, the big round tears coursing one another down his innocent nose,' his nostrils dilated, and emitting jets of steaming breath with a sound equal to a small locomotive engine, whilst the street boys and a knot of idlers congregated round him, watching with complacent interest the tailwrenching, the prodding, beating, and the pulling efforts of the infuriate drover to bring the poor beast once more to his legs, and then get out of him another half-mile or so of weary plodding. Failing success in these highly humane efforts, however, the arrival of the slaughterer, the despatch by poleaxe, and eventual transfer of the carcass by

cart to the enterprising butcher who had stepped in to purchase, circumstances considered, at a reduced rate, did not altogether serve to stimulate the cravings of one's stomach. It was just as well not to remember these ordinary street exhibitions when we sat down to our next sirloin, or to remember the unhealthy fevered state such a preparation for the table as this would induce in the meat.

Unfortunate sheep as frequently supplied the same entertainment for street passengers, which was only the less terrible on account of the smaller bulk of the animal rendering him more easy to deal with. The filial distress of calves and lambs on their inevitable separation from their mothers as the drove was broken up into a thousand straggling items by wheels and horses' legs; the occasional successful attempt of a recalcitrant bullock to disengage himself from his fellows, and go off down a side-street full tilt, followed by shouts of 'Mad bull!' from the excited multitude, and his eventual lodgment in the doorway of a china or butter shop, lashed by yells and fear into a state bordering finally indeed upon madness-were familiar episodes upon market-days, witnessable on every highway and byway within the metropolitan district. Naturally, the nearer one got to the rendezvous, the more inevitable became such sights, whilst the ordinary traffic was brought constantly to a dead-lock in consequence; for although there were distinct regulations against driving the beasts through the streets during certain daylight hours, they were never carried out, and the night was only partly utilised and made hideous' for the filling of the great Smithfield pens.

So much, and a great deal more, for the getting the live-stock thither, and still a great deal more of the

same nature for the getting of it away again; for the driving of it in little lots of twos and threes and fours and sixes to the butchers' shops, and for the repetition in detail of the horrors and cruelties just described as the poor brutes were finally hustled and cudgelled through narrow courts and yards, low entrances, and shop-doors to the slaughter-houses.

Yes, to the slaughter - houses; for, be it remembered, the picture of ourselves 'as we were' recalls to mind the fact that every fairly wellto-do butcher possessed such an adjunct to his trade, quite handy, in our very midst; and not less remarkable was it, that at that time members of corporations were found to advocate the perpetuation of such establishments under our noses, and often within sight from our back windows.

Let us, however, as we have said, try to recall the look of the market itself; that great irregular oblong open space of over six acres, with the surrounding mean sordid dwellings, nearly every other one a public-house or tavern, and against which the noble hospital of St. Bartholomew vainly seemed to be setting its face in calm and dignified protest. On Mondays and Fridays the scene almost beggared description. On Mondays particularly, every feature was a little exaggerated. From dark on Sunday night, all through the small hours, up to the following midday, the saturnalia began and culminated. From Islington and the north down St. John-street, narrow and dingy; from the east by Barbican, equally narrow and dingy; from the west and south by Cow-cross, Skinnerstreet, Snow-hill, and Giltspurstreet, more narrow and more dingy, came the panting, steaming, lowing, bellowing, bleating throngs, as the live-stock, generally to the number of four thousand bullocks and thirty

thousand sheep, were driven, hustled, and crowded into the narrow pens, slimy and evil - smelling.. These, by their inconvenient structure, afforded no room for rest to the poor brutes. They could not lie down, or recover from the fatigue to which they had been subjected. There was but a scant supply of water or straw; of food they had none.

If rain was or had been falling, it helped the general filthiness, and made the narrow pathways between the pens intersecting the open space at all sorts of angles more slippery and abominable to traverse; whilst if any elements of the London fog were hanging about, as they generally were, they mingled with the heavy masses of steam sent up from the reeking animals, and created a louring noxious atmosphere; the only fitting canopy, perhaps, for such a mingling of man and beast.

The hustling, chaffering, greasy crowd of drovers, farmers, meatsalesmen, butchers'-men and butchers, and the hangers-ón; the unlovely following in the shape of porters, refreshment stall-keepers, and nondescript houseless idlers; the going to and fro from publichouse to public-house, the drunkenness, the oaths-were all items inseparable maybe from such traffic, but quite well for us to be rid of, and quite well for any civilised community to be rid of from its very centre.

On the off-days, when hay was the commodity dealt in, and it stood in rows of unhorsed wagons and carts on such parts of the grounds as were freest of pens, and when such as were movable of these latter were piled up and crowded together, like the skeletons of misshapen dwarfs, or stores of miniature gibbets, gallows,and guillotines, forming a wonderful gymnastic apparatus for the street arabs abound

ing in the neighbourhood, the state of things was only one degree less bad. The smell of the fresh-dried grass partially counteracted the otherwise perpetual evil odour of the place, the supply of which was admirably kept up by the refuse of the previous day's market, and by the proximity of innumerable slaughter-houses, the establishments of the skinner, the fat-boiler, the dealer in bone and offal, and the rest of the callings indigenous to the commerce in cattle.

'Impassable' was morally written up at every approach to this plague-spot, lying within a stone'sthrow of the great channels of London traffic east and west, and yet for years every effort for its abolition was successfully frustrated by that fiend of selfishness called ' vested interests.'

A nice place this, too, for a fair to be held! Yet, if we would look upon ourselves as we really were, we must not omit to make record of a saturnalia so entitled, and bearing the distinguished appellation of the patron saint of the adjacent hospital; and which, taking place annually in Smithfield, presented a culmination of ribaldry and blackguardism which the normal condition of the neighbourhood only required to make unique.

Giants, dwarfs, pig-headed ladies, Richardson's shows, menageries, and the minor attractions of fairs, when patronised by a Smithfield population, have only to be thought of to be understood. If any of us think that a retrospective examination of ourselves after this sort will occasionally do us good, there are a host of similar pictures of the past at hand, and for the summoning-up of which it is only necessary to remember the drill sergeant's oft-repeated command, and imme diately to obey it.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

LIZZIE DEEMS IT NECESSARY TO CALL CUNNING TO HER AID.

THE first thing Lily saw when she recovered consciousness was Lizzie's face bending down to hers. In that instant Lizzie began to act as all women do, upon every possible occasion. If those who enlist in the ranks of the drama would but act on the stage as they act off it, there would be no talk of the decadence of dramatic art. Every trace of anxiety vanished from Lizzie's face as Lily's eyes looked into hers, and she smiled so brightly and nodded so encouragingly as to infuse strength into the heart of her friend.

The

'Where am I, Lizzie?' 'With friends, my dear. theatre was so hot that I almost fainted myself.'

'Did I faint, then? How foolish of me!' A look of joy filled her eyes as they lighted on her brother. 'O Alfred!'

He knelt by her side, and she took his hand and retained it. By this time the theatre was fast being emptied.

I remember now what it was that overcame me. The horrible sight of that man dying!

She shuddered, and Lizzie said briskly,

'Never mind; we're not going to think of that any more. It was only a piece of acting, after all. We'll go to see something more lively next time.'

And Lizzie nodded emphatically at Alfred, who answered,

VOL. XI.

'Yes, we will.

I didn't know

what sort of a piece this was, or I shouldn't have brought you to see it.'

'But Mr. Sheldrake knew,' remarked Lizzie, with a sharp glance in the direction of that gentleman.

'I assure you I did not,' was Mr. Sheldrake's reply. 'You do me great injustice, and not for the first time to-night. I have too high a regard for Miss Lily to cause her pain. She knows that, I am sure; and so does Alfred.'

6

'I know it well,' interposed Alfred eagerly; and Lily knows it too. How can you be so unjust, Liz?'

"This is the first time I have seen the play,' continued Mr. Sheldrake, ' and I had no idea it was anything of this kind.'

He spoke the untruth with a perfect air of injured innocence.

During the passage at arms, Lily had regarded Alfred with anxious solicitude, and now he asked,

'Isn't Liz mistaken and unjust, Lily? To put the blame on Mr. Sheldrake!'

Lily turned to her friend. 'I am sure you are mistaken, dear Lizzie,' she said. 'I'm so sorry for all this. I am the only one to blame for being so weak and foolish.'

This brought Mr. Sheldrake out in full force; he was almost tender in his expressions of sympathy for Lily, and he even relented so far towards Lizzie as to hold up a warning finger to her as a caution not to be unjust to her friends for the future.

'And now,' he said, when Lily

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