little horses can lay legs to the ground, the brigade retires, and goes bodily, sans façon, to the rear, a movement which, if practised before an enemy, would go far to transform a retreat of the most orderly troops in the world into a panicstricken rout. What its effect would be on irregulars, if followed up by a few 6-pounders, and a threatened descent on one of their flanks, we had rather not consider. Possibly the failure of their steeds might stop the flight, but in all human probability no other cause on earth would bring them to a halt. Yet Omar Pasha himself, despising the great principle of 'always showing a front,' and overlooking the wholesome system of retiring by alternate squadrons, regiments, or brigades, will work his cavalry on this pernicious plan, and send them all to the rear at once, 'every man for himself-sauve qui peut ! "There are few prettier sights than a squadron of Bashi-Bazouks going out to skirmish. We can only compare the rapidity with which they scatter, to the breaking of a string of beads; while their flowing garments, wild appearance, and animated gestures add greatly to the picturesque nature of the evolution. They are also unerring shots, even with their inefficient fire-arms, and will put a bullet into an object considerably smaller than a man, while themselves going at a gallop, without the slightest difficulty. It is only in regular movements that we perceive their inferiority to regular cavalry, and even these movements are performed in a creditable manner when we consider the short space of time in which the force has been formed and got together.

A variety of simple evolutions are performed, and again the division forms in line, the inspecting general's approbation, and a few words of advice and suggestions are conveyed to the officers-European and native-and the BashiBazouks move off the ground towards their quarters. But an Arab regiment has expressed its desire to show the Ferik-Pasha its national game of the jereed,' and it calls a halt accordingly, while the men form themselves into a kind of lists, for the exhibition of this Oriental

tournament, the object of which is to encourage to the utmost the art of equitation, inasmuch as the greatest amount of horsemanship, the greatest possible flexibility of hand and seat, is required for its perform

ance.

The game is played in the following manner:-Two parties, of some twenty or thirty each, take up their position fronting each other, at about a hundred yards apart. Suddenly one champion gallops furiously forward, and stops dead short (all Orientals consider this proceeding a great act of horsemanship); an antagonist rides at him full speed. When a collision appears inevitable, he turns suddenly away, and the first becomes his pursuer. The object seems to be to dodge and escape each other at the fastest possible gallop, and the manner in which the poor horses are turned and twisted about for this purpose is indeed astonishing to witness.

Ere long others join in the fray. each man choosing his antagonist, till the whole fifty or sixty are engaged, when the scene becomes spirited and picturesque beyond description. The Arab blood begins to boil, lances are pointed, swords drawn, pistols snapped, but no mischief done, save by the occasional fall of man and horse on rough or slippery ground

they never seem to be hurt, but 'pick up the pieces' in perfect goodhumour, and at it again.' Here a wild-looking chieftain rides fiercely, lance in rest, at a well-mounted follower. Just as you think he must be transfixed, the follower wheels to his bridle-hand, and becomes in turn the pursuer of a stalwart negro (there are many Africans in the ranks); the negro dodges him with his body flat on his horse's neck, and drawing his sword, rushes at yonder stately 'bin-bashi,' who scarcely seems to move an eyelash, as he sits watching him like a statue. Just as the black reaches him he springs into life, snaps his pistol in the negro's face, and is off himself in turn like a hawk upon the wing, his lance quivering as he poises it for the thrust. Now he nears his man, two other antagonists interpose, half-a-dozen more come shrieking into the mêlée, there is a confused mass of rearing horses,

think they have had enough for their money?

These are questions we have no means of answering, but we cannot help thinking that if disturbances were again to arise in the East, if England should once more put forth

her strength, and send an army into the field, she would think twice ere she re-organized the force of irregulars which she has but just disbanded. She would have nothing further to do with the Bashi-Bazouks.

I

THE LAST HOUSE

AM not a believer in ghosts in general; I see no good in them. They come-that is, are reported to come-so irrelevantly, purposelessly --so ridiculously, in short-that one's common sense as regards this world, one's supernatural sense of the other, are alike revolted. Then nine out of ten 6 capital ghost

stories' are so easily accounted for; and in the tenth, when all natural explanation fails, one who has discovered the extraordinary difficulty there is in all society in getting hold of that very slippery article called a fact, is strongly inclined to shake a dubious head, ejaculating, Evidence! a question of evidence!'

But my unbelief springs from no dogged or contemptuous scepticism as to the possibility-however great the improbability-of that strange impression upon or communication to, spirit in matter, from spirit wholly immaterialized, which is vulgarly called a ghost.' There is no credulity more blind, no ignorance more childish, than that of the sage who tries to measure heaven and earth, and the things under the earth,' with the small two-foot-rule of his own brains. Dare we presume to argue concerning any mystery of the universe, It is inexplicable, and therefore impossible?"

Premising these opinions, though simply as opinions, I am about to relate what I must confess is to me a thorough ghost-story; its external and circumstantial evidence being indisputable, while its psychological causes and results, though not easy of explanation, are still more difficult to be explained away. The ghost, like Hamlet's, was 'an

IN C- STREET.

honest ghost.' From her daughter -an old lady, who, bless her good and gentle memory! has since learned the secrets of all thingsI learnt this veritable tale.

'My dear,' said Mrs. MacArthur to me it was in the early days of table-moving, when young folk ridiculed and elder folk were shocked at the notion of calling up one's departed ancestors into one's dinner-table, and learning the wonders of the angelic world by the bobbings of a hat or the twirlings of a plate;-'My dear,' continued the old lady, 'I do not like playing at ghosts.'

Why not. Do you believe in them ?'

'A little.'

'Did you ever see one?'

'Never. But once I heard-' She looked serious, as if she hardly liked to speak about it, either from a sense of awe or from fear of ridicule. But no one could have laughed at any illusions of the gentle old lady, who never uttered a harsh or satirical word to a living soul; and this evident awe was rather remarkable in one who had a large stock of common sense, little wonder, and no ideality.

I was rather curious to hear Mrs. MacArthur's ghost-story.

'My dear, it was a long time ago, so long that you may fancy I forget and confuse the circumstances. But I do not. Sometimes I think one recollects more clearly things that happened in one's teens-I was eighteen that year-than a great many nearer events. And besides, I had other reasons for remembering vividly everything belonging to

1856.]

this time, for I was in love, you must know.

She looked at me with a mild, deprecating smile, as if hoping my youthfulness would not consider the thing so very impossible or ridicu lous. No; I was all interest at

once.

In love with Mr. MacArthur,' I said, scarcely as a question, being at that Arcadian time of life when one takes as a natural necessity, and believes as an undoubted truth, that everybody marries his or her first love.

No, my dear; not with Mr. MacArthur.'

I was so astonished, so completely dumb-foundered-for I had woven a sort of ideal round my good old friend-that I suffered Mrs. MacArthur to knit in silence for full five minutes. My surprise was not lessened when she said, with a little smile

He was a young gentleman of good parts; and he was very fond of me. Proud, too, rather. For though you might not think it, my dear, I was actually a beauty in those days.'

I had very little doubt of it. The slight lithe figure, the tiny hands and feet,—if you had walked behind Mrs. MacArthur you might have taken her for a young woman still. Certainly, people lived slower and easier in the last generation than in ours.

Yes, I was the beauty of Bath. Mr. Everest fell in love with me there. I was much gratified; for I had just been reading Miss Burney's Cecilia, and I thought him exactly like Mortimer Delvil. A very pretty tale, Cecilia; did you ever read it?'

'No.' And, to arrive at her tale, I leaped to the only conclusion which could reconcile the two facts of her having had a lover named Everest, and being now Mrs. MacArthur. Was it his ghost you saw?'

No, my dear, no; thank goodness, he is alive still. He calls here sometimes; he has been a good friend to our family. Ah!' with a slow shake of the head, half pleased, half pensive, you would. hardly believe, my dear, what a very pretty fellow he was.'

One could scarcely smile at the odd phrase, pertaining to last-cen

393

Don't call it that; it sounds as if you were laughing at it. And you must not, for it is really true; as true as that I sit here, an old lady of seventy-five; and that then I was a young gentlewoman of eighteen. Nay, my dear, I will tell you all about it."

We had been staying in London, my father and mother, Mr. Everest, and I. He had persuaded them to take me; he wanted to show me a little of the world, though it was but a narrow world, my dear, -for he was a law student, living poorly and working hard. He took lodgings for us near the Temple; in C- street, the last house there, looking on to the river. He was very fond of the river; and often of evenings, when his work was too heavy to let him take us to Ranelagh or to the play, he used to walk with my father and mother and me, up and down the Temple Gardens. Were you ever in the Temple Gardens? It is a pretty place now -a quiet, grey nook in the midst of noise and bustle; the stars look wonderful through those great trees; but still it is not like what it was then, when I was a girl.'

Ah! no; impossible.

'It was in the Temple Gardens, my dear, that I remember we took our last walk-my mother, Mr. Everest, and I-before she went home to Bath. She was very anxious and restless to go, being too delicate for London gaieties. Besides, she had a large family at home, of which I was the eldest; and we were anxiously expecting the youngest in a month or two. Nevertheless, my dear mother had gone about with me, taken me to all the shows and sights that I, a hearty and happy girl, longed to see, and entered into them with almost as great enjoyment as my own.

'But to-night she was pale, rather grave, and steadfastly bent on returning home.

We did all we could to persuade

her to the contrary, for on the next night but one was to have been the crowning treat of all our London pleasures we were to see Hamlet at Drury-lane, with John Kemble and Sarah Siddons! Think of that, my dear. Ah! you have no such sights now. Even my grave father longed to go, and urged in his mild way that we should put off our departure. But my mother was determined.

'At last Mr. Everest said-(I could show you the very spot where he stood, with the river-it was high water-lapping against the wall, and the evening sun shining on the Southwark houses opposite.) He said-it was very wrong, of course, my dear; but then he was in love, and might be excused,

66

Myself, Edmond?'

'Pardon me, but would it not be possible for you to return home, leaving behind, for two days only, Mr.Thwaite and Mistress Dorothy?'

"Leave them behind-leave them behind!' She mused over the words. What say you, Dorothy?'

I was silent. In very truth, I had never been parted from her in all my life. It had never crossed my mind to wish to part from her, or to enjoy any pleasure without her, till-till within the last three months. Mother, don't suppose

I—'

But here I caught sight of Mr. Everest, and stopped. "Pray continue, Mistress Dorothy.'

No, I could not. He looked so vexed, so hurt; and we had been so happy together. Also, we might not meet again for years, for the journey between London and Bath was then a serious one, even to lovers; and he worked very hard-had few pleasures in his life. It did indeed seem almost selfish of my mother.

Though my lips said nothing, perhaps my sad eyes said only too much, and my mother felt it.

She walked with us a few yards, slowly and thoughtfully. I could see her now, with her pale, tired face, under the cherry-coloured ribbons of her hood. She had been very handsome as a young woman, and

was most sweet-looking still-my dear, good mother!

66

Dorothy, we will no more discuss this. I am very sorry, but I must go home. However, I will persuade your father to remain with you till the week's end. Are you satisfied?'

No,' was the first filial impulse of my heart; but Mr. Everest pressed my arm with such an entreating look, that almost against my will I answered 'Yes.'

'Mr. Everest overwhelmed my mother with his delight and gratitude. She walked up and down for some time longer, leaning on his arm-she was very fond of him; then stood looking on the river, upwards and downwards.

I suppose this is my last walk in London. Thank you for all the care you have taken of me. And when I am gone home,-mind, oh mind, Edmond, that you take special care of Dorothy.'

These words, and the tone in which they were spoken, fixed themselves on my mind-first, from gratitude, not unmingled with regret, as if I had not been so considerate to her as she to me; afterwards-But we often err, my dear, in dwelling too much on that word. We finite creatures have only to deal with 'now'-nothing whatever to do with afterwards.' In this case, I have ceased to blame myself or others. Whatever was, being past, was right to be, and could not have been otherwise.

My mother went home next morning, alone. We were to follow in a few days, though she would not allow us to fix any time. Her departure was so hurried that I remember nothing about it, save her answer to my father's urgent desire-almost command-that if anything was amiss she would immediately let him know.

Under all circumstances, wife,' he reiterated, this you promise?' 'I promise.'

Though when she was gone he declared she need not have said it so earnestly, since we should be at home almost as soon as the slow Bath coach could take her and bring us a letter. And besides, there was. nothing likely to happen. But he fidgetted a good deal, being unused