And wherefore was he thus partially pensive? Because nearly three years had elapsed since he had last seen London, and his return to the capital revived a thousand reflections which were indeed sufficient to touch his heart painfully. He thought of his early youth—the hopes which he had cherished when the future was bright before him—the crushing disappointments and accumulated miseries that had suddenly fallen upon his head—and his present position, so different from what it ought to be. Yes—and he thought, too, of one whom he had loved so fondly—oh! so fondly, that his passion was a worship—an idolatry, and whose image was indelibly impressed upon his soul. Time had taught him the necessity of resignation to a lot which he could not alter—a fate which he could not change—a destiny which he could not subdue: and though that same resignation, aided by the faith of a sincere Christian and a firm reliance on Him who disposeth of all things, had deprived his anguish of its sting and blunted the iron that had entered into his soul—there were, nevertheless, moments when the cloud came over the handsome countenance, and the soldier’s heart swelled almost to bursting. And this was now the state of his mind as he passed along the fashionable quarter of that metropolis where he had arrived with his regiment only the evening before. He had no particular aim in view—he was not on his way to see any friends: the only being on the face of the earth in whom he felt interested, was she whom he had once loved so devotedly—whom he still loved with the mellowed and almost embittered affection of disappointment—and whom he dared not inquire after, much less venture to visit. His return to the capital had unsettled him: he felt no inclination to remain in the barracks and pursue his favourite recreation of reading—and he had therefore walked abroad in the hope of diverting his mind from the unpleasant thoughts that intruded upon it.

The handsome dragoon had just entered the arcade of the Quadrant, when he was suddenly struck as if by paralysis—or as it were with a violent blow dealt by an invisible hand: he stopped short—then staggered back a few paces—and leant against one of the pillars for support,—his countenance the while denoting the most intense emotions. For, issuing from a shop, were two persons both of whom he instantaneously recognised, but on one of whom his eyes became rivetted as if by enchantment. Yes:—there was Ellen—the Ellen whom he had loved—whom he still loved—leaning on the arm of her old husband—that man who had robbed him—Leonard Mitchell—of the object of such a fervent and undying affection! But neither the lady herself nor Mr. Gamble observed the young soldier: for, on issuing from the shop, they passed down the Quadrant; and thus their backs were almost immediately turned upon him. Recovering his presence of mind, and passing his hand hastily across his brow, as if to tear away a mist that hung upon his eyes, Leonard Mitchell—for he indeed was the handsome young dragoon—was already pushing his way amidst the crowd and hurrying after Ellen, when the thought flashed, like blasting lightning, to his soul, that she was an elegantly dressed lady, leaning on the arm of a husband who was evidently a gentleman of substance—and he was a common soldier! Oh! never—never were the accursed class-distinctions of an artificial state of society felt so bitterly as on the present occasion. Not that Leonard mistrusted Ellen’s heart—not that he feared of experiencing a cold reception from one of her generous nature: but a sense of propriety—a deep conviction of what was due, under circumstances, to herself and her husband, caused him suddenly to stop short;—then, in obedience to the new impulse which was received from this revulsion of his feelings, he turned abruptly from the Quadrant into one of those streets that stretch towards the district of Golden Square.

Walking on, like one intoxicated, and with eyes that saw nothing—as if all the powers of vision, physical and mental, were absorbed in the necessity of internal contemplation—the young man felt as if he were going mad. There was a fearful hurry in his brain; and yet, palpable and distinct, as it were, in his heart was the image that for years had been there, but each feature—each lineament of which had suddenly received the most vivid colourings of revival. She was beautiful as ever—more beautiful, if possible, in the glory of her womanhood; and, although her countenance was somewhat pale and had a melancholy—yes, a very melancholy expression—this only added to her charms, in his estimation, by rendering her the more interesting. By degrees, his thoughts grew more settled—the whirlwind that raged in his brain, abated in violence; and suddenly there sprang up in his soul a feeling of pleasure at the idea that her features wore that shade of mournfulness. For, oh! there could be no doubt as to the cause: she was unhappy—unhappy on account of him! She had not, then, forgotten him—she remembered their youthful loves: perhaps he was still dear to her? That thought became more delightful, as it seemed more consistent with probability; and now he was not altogether so thoroughly devoid of hope—so profoundly a prey to black despair, as he had been a few minutes previously. Hope, indeed! what could he hope? He knew not—he did not immediately pause to ask himself the question: but he abandoned himself to the delicious reverie into which the altered current of his thoughts thus madly hurried him. When he awoke, as it were, from this day-dream, he was astonished to find that it had lasted so long, and without interruption: for, while wrapped up in that vision, he had threaded many streets—accomplished a considerable distance—and was now close to the toll-gate of Waterloo Bridge. Entering upon that mighty viaduct, he seated himself in one of the recesses, and again gave way to the meditations which the incident of the afternoon had conjured up.

But how was it that Leonard Mitchell had taken the direction of Waterloo Bridge, in that species of somnambulism under which he had been labouring? Because it was the way to Stamford Street; and, in his walking reverie, an irresistible impulse had influenced his footsteps, even while he appeared to be proceeding at random. And what now was the nature of his reflections? He experienced an ardent longing to cross the bridge—to enter Stamford Street—and to behold once more the house where all his early years were passed: yes—and to behold also the dwelling of her whom he loved! But did he know that Mr. and Mrs. Gamble still resided in Stamford Street? He was completely ignorant on the subject; and an ardent curiosity impelled him to clear up the point in question. Still he hesitated: amidst all the feelings by which he was now animated, and the longings by which he was prompted, a sense of duty rose up in his mind,—of duty towards her whom he loved,—towards her husband—and towards himself. Why should he incur the risk of meeting her, and perhaps unsettling her studied attempts at unmixed devotion to him whose name she bore?—why should he do aught that might arouse the suspicion or excite the jealousy of the old man who doubtless treasured his young wife as a peerless jewel?—and why should he resuscitate all his own griefs and sorrows, by an encounter with one who was lost to him perhaps for ever? These questions did he ask himself over and over again: they were the basis of the reasoning which he held with his own heart—his own soul—in order to crush the promptings that urged him towards the scene of past and happier days. Alas! with all his natural rectitude of principle—with all his generosity of disposition—with all his honourable feelings, Leonard Mitchell was but a poor weak mortal, like the rest of us;—and while still arguing with himself, he was traversing the bridge—he was directing his way towards Stamford Street!

As he drew nearer to the end of the long thoroughfare—that end which joins the Blackfriars Road—he relaxed his speed; and though his pace was slower, his heart beat more rapidly. At length he came within sight of the three corner houses: he paused—he stopped—heaven alone knows how acute were the emotions that agitated within him then! Again he moved onward—he called all his courage, all his presence of mind to his aid;—and now he passed by Mr. Gamble’s house. Irresistibly he glanced towards the window: his eyes met those of Ellen;—and he heard the faint scream of astonishment that burst from her lips! But the beauteous countenance had disappeared: had she, then, fainted? No—her feelings had doubtless overcome her for a few moments;—but she speedily recovered—she reappeared at the window—and a rapid sign conveyed to him the intimation that she would come forth and join him presently. All this passed so quickly as to be unobserved by any of the neighbours; although it is probable that had ten thousand pairs of eyes been rivetted on the house, Ellen would have not acted differently—for she saw no one save him of whom she had heard nothing for three long years. Leonard, half intoxicated with joy at the signal that had been made by her fair hand, and aided in its interpretation by the expression of her countenance,—scarcely believing, however, that such happiness could indeed await him—and not pausing for a single instant to ask himself whether he were acting well or even prudently—Leonard, we say, passed on. The central of the three houses was still occupied by Mr. Pomfret; for his name was on the brass-plate on the front-door:—but the corner house—the house where Leonard had dwelt so many years, and where his revered father had died in so sudden and awful a manner—was shut up, a board intimating that it was to let. The young soldier had not, however, many minutes’ leisure to reflect upon the scenes of past days; for, aware that Ellen could not prudently join him within a few yards of her own door, he crossed the Blackfriars Road, and loitered at the corner of Holland Street. In a short time he beheld her approaching: she saw him—she followed the direction which he took;—and he proceeded farther down the comparatively secluded place which he had deemed most fitting for this interview. At length he halted; and in another minute his heart’s idol was by his side. She had purposely put on a cottage-bonnet and a plain shawl;—and thus the few people who passed saw nothing very remarkable in a modestly dressed female in company with a private dragoon.

But even if they had attracted disagreeable notice, what was it to them who had now no thought—no eyes—no ears save for each other? Without a word at first—but after a brief though earnest pressure of the hand—Leonard gave the young lady his arm; and they passed along Holland Street. A few low, but anxious inquiries were rapidly interchanged, and as speedily answered;—but frequent, long, and tender were the looks they fixed upon each other. A few minutes’ walk brought them to Southwark Bridge, to which they ascended; and when seated in one of the recesses of that almost entirely deserted viaduct, the restraint under which they had hitherto laboured was immediately thrown aside.

“At length we meet again, Ellen,” said Leonard, taking her hand and retaining it in his own, while he gazed fondly upon her.—“Yes,” she replied, murmuringly, and holding down her blushing countenance: “but do you think the worse of me, because, yielding to a sudden and irresistible impulse, and availing myself of my husband’s temporary absence, I thus stole forth to meet you—to hear from your own lips that you are happy?”—“Happy!” repeated Leonard, bitterly: then, unwilling to cause her additional pain, for his ejaculation had already brought the diamond-tears to her violet eyes, he said, “How can I think the worse of you, Ellen, when you come forth as a sister to pass a few minutes with a brother who can not, dares not visit you at your own abode? But rather let me ask, whether you, Ellen, are happy?”—The young lady endeavoured to give utterance to a reply: but, overpowered by her emotions, she burst into an agony of weeping. Unable to restrain his own feelings any longer, Leonard caught her in his arms, strained her to his breast and imprinted a thousand kisses upon her moist lips and her tear-bedewed cheeks: for no eye, save that of God, beheld them at this moment. Several minutes passed ere either could recover the faculty of speech; and then they spoke so low—so feelingly—and in such accents of deep, deep sorrow, that it was easy for each to perceive that the love of the other had not become impaired by time, separation, or circumstances.—“You were wrong, oh! you were very wrong, Leonard,” said Ellen, “to abandon your home and your friends, the moment after your father’s funeral. It is true that you did not leave us altogether in uncertainty and suspense relative to your fate—that you left for me a note acquainting me with your determination to enlist and earn your bread honourably! But, oh! wherefore have adopted that distressing alternative?”—“Can you not understand my feelings, Ellen?” asked the young man, almost reproachfully. “My father’s death left me without interest to obtain the situation that had been promised to me through him; and his income likewise perished with him. I had no claim upon Mr. Pomfret: neither would I have accepted eleemosynary assistance. What could I do? I disposed of the furniture to pay off the few debts owing by my father and the expenses of the funeral; and I made all my arrangements with as much haste as possible, in order to be able to leave that once happy neighbourhood before you and—and—your husband should return to it. I then repaired to Hounslow, and enlisted. Yesterday my regiment was ordered to London; and within a few hours of my arrival, I experience the happiness—the indescribable happiness of thus encountering you. And now, Ellen, let us think—or, at all events, let us talk no more of the past. I cannot bear to look back upon it. But, my God!” he exclaimed passionately, and suddenly interrupting himself: “wherefore should I dread to retrospect, since the happiness of the present is only transitory, and there is no hope for the future?”—Thus speaking, the young man covered his face with his hands and moaned audibly.

“Oh! this is dreadful!” exclaimed Ellen, with accents of despair. “Leonard! I implore you not to give way to affliction thus. Listen to me, my beloved one—for you are as dearly and as fondly loved as ever; and I hesitate not to give you that assurance.”—“Oh! is it possible? can I believe my ears?” cried the young dragoon, now turning upon the lady a countenance suddenly lighting up with the animation of indescribable joy and bliss, as the rays of the setting sun played upon those handsome features. “But you forget,” he said, after a brief pause, and with a cloud again appearing upon his face, “that you are the wife of another?”—“Then it is you who love me not!” exclaimed Ellen, in a tone of disappointment and reproach.—“Not love you!” repeated Leonard: “Oh! how cruel of you thus to speak!”—and again snatching her to his bosom, he covered her lips and cheeks with kisses—kisses which she as fondly and as passionately returned. “Yes: Ellen, you know that I love and adore you!” he added in a voice of the tenderest sincerity.—“And I am not ashamed, Leonard, to give you a reciprocal assurance,” said the young wife of another. “Oh! wherefore should I attempt to restrain my natural feelings? Believe me that I am much changed since last we met: I no longer see things in the same light. For, to speak candidly, I have a deep conviction of the disgrace of having been sold and bought for that dross which men so much prize. I cannot help the thoughts that steal upon me; and therefore it is that I have long ceased to look upon my father with respect. I feel that he sacrificed me—me, his only daughter, whom he might have made so happy! I feel also that he who is my husband hesitated not to immolate the hopes of my youth to his own selfishness. These are sad—nay, terrible thoughts, Leonard: but I again assure you that I cannot combat against them. It is true that my father is now rich and prosperous, and that he sometimes thanks me as the authoress of his fortunes: true also is it that my husband treats me with the utmost kindness. But never—never ought I to have been placed in the position to receive such thanks from the one, nor such kindness from the other: for, between them, they have wrecked my happiness, blighted my hopes, ruined all my youthful dreams of felicity. There are times, then, when I feel as if it would be a relief to fly from the neighbourhood of a father whom I am almost compelled to look upon as an enemy, and from the arms of a husband who is loathsome to me!”—As she uttered these last words, in a low tone but with a bitter emphasis, Ellen bent her countenance—her burning countenance—over her lover’s hand, which she pressed to her lips.—“Then you would fly with me even now, dearest,” he said, in a voice rendered tremulous by indescribable emotions, “did circumstances permit me to accompany you?”—Ellen made no verbal answer; but the rapturous manner in which she again pressed his hand to her rich, red mouth was a sufficiently significant response—“Alas! that may not be,” resumed Leonard mournfully; and now the young lady absolutely shuddered in his arms, as if an ice-chill had suddenly fallen upon a heart an instant before so warm with passion. “No—that may not be,” continued Leonard, determined not to leave her in the least degree of suspense. “Behold this uniform—a uniform which is accursed under all circumstances, not only on account of the soul-crushing, merciless discipline and degrading servitude of which it is the badge, but also because it constitutes the barrier to the wishes which you so generously intimated and which I so enthusiastically share.”—“But your discharge can be purchased, can it not?” asked Ellen, bending down her head to conceal her deep blushes.—“When I enlisted, Ellen,” solemnly and mournfully replied Leonard, “I swore within myself an oath—an oath ratified by all I deem sacred in heaven and by all my hopes of an hereafter—to follow the course of this new destiny which I carved out for myself, and, if possible, to rise to distinction in this service which I dare not quit. I was young when I made that vow; and the hope which dictated it never will be fulfilled;—for the English soldier is a serf—a slave; and the idea of rising—ha! ha!”—and Leonard laughed wildly. “At all events,” he added hastily, and again assuming a solemn tone, “I respect the oath that I took; and you, who love me, will not counsel me to break it. But we can see each other often, Ellen—we can meet, as we have met to-night——.”—“Then with that assurance must I content myself, Leonard!” interrupted the impassioned young lady, in whom, as the reader may have surmised, the hand of affliction, the tyranny of a parent, and the selfishness of the old man who bought her with his gold, had deadened those delicate feelings and even undermined the virtuous principles which had characterised her in her days of happy innocence.—“Yes,” returned Leonard, “with that understanding must we endeavour to console ourselves! And now, my beloved one, it is time for me to leave you: remember,” he added bitterly, “that though a man in years, I belong to a service where I am treated as a child and limited to particular hours.”—“Would to God that you were emancipated from this dreadful thraldom!” exclaimed Ellen, weeping.—“Nay, I was wrong to say aught to afflict you,” returned Leonard, embracing her tenderly. A few minutes more did they pass together, exchanging the most passionate caresses and earnest protestations of unalterable affection; and when they separated at last, it was not without having arranged for another meeting at an early day.

It would be scarcely possible to describe the feelings which animated the young lovers as they respectively hastened to their abodes—the one to his barracks, the other to her home. As we have before stated, circumstances had so warped Ellen’s mind, that she paused not even to reflect for an instant upon the dangerous course on which she had entered: she had no longer any ties to bind her with filial love to her father—and she never had any bond of affection to link her to her husband. Therefore all she now thought of, or cared to think of, was that she had recovered a lover whom she adored; and she would have ridiculed and laughed at the idea of disgrace and of a ruined reputation, had any friend counselled her in the matter. On his side, Leonard was less hardened—for such indeed is the term which might be applied to Ellen’s state of mind—to the consequences of this new phase of his existence. He shuddered at the thought of inducing a young wife to conduct herself in a manner so injurious to her husband’s happiness; and he resolved, in his calmer moments, that when he met Ellen again, according to the appointment already arranged, he would represent to her the necessity of their eternal separation. But when they did meet, and in a secluded place, she appeared so ravishingly beautiful, and spoke with so much tenderness, and seemed so completely happy in his society, and was withal so unfeignedly loving, that he could not bring himself to give utterance to the words that trembled upon his tongue—words that would have chased away those charming smiles, dimmed with tears the lustre of those melting eyes, hushed with sighs that language of fervid passion, and changed to dark despair all that bright and glowing bliss. Therefore they separated a second time with an arrangement to meet again:—and on the occasion of the third interview Leonard found himself less disposed than before to make a representation which would be fatal to the happiness of both. To be brief, interview succeeded interview, Leonard resolving that each one should be the last,—until at length love’s dalliance became irresistible in its consequences; and, opportunity serving in all respects, the lovers were criminal! From that day forth Leonard thought no more of the impropriety of their meetings, which thereafter grew more frequent and longer in duration.

We shall here interrupt the thread of our narrative for a brief space, in order to make a few observations upon the condition of the private soldier. And, in the first instance, let us record our conviction that there is not a more generous-hearted, a nobler-minded, or a more humane set of men breathing than those who constitute the ranks of the British Army; while there is not a more tyrannical, overbearing, illiberal, and self-sufficient class than that composed of the officers of this army. But how is the latter fact to be accounted for? Because the Army is the mere plaything of the Aristocracy—a means of providing for the younger sons of noblemen, and enabling titled mammas to show off their striplings in red coats. What opinion can we have of the constitution of the army, so far as the officers are concerned, when we find Prince Albert suddenly created a Field-Marshal!18 Such a spectacle is nauseating in the extreme; and the German must have execrably bad taste, or else be endowed with inordinate conceit, to hold the baton of a Marshal when he has not even the military knowledge of a drummer-boy. Since the Army is thus made a mere tool in the hands of a rascally Aristocracy, what sympathy can possibly exist between the officers and the men? The former look upon the latter as the scum of the earth—mere slaves on a level with shoe-blacks; and hence the barbarous cry of “Flog! flog! flog!” But there is no love lost between the classes: for the soldiers hate and abhor their officers, whom they naturally and most justly look upon as their tyrants and oppressors. It is enough to make the blood boil with indignation to think that those fine, stalwart, gallant fellows should be kicked about at the caprice of a wretched ensign or contemptible cornet just loosened from his mamma’s apron-strings,—or bullied by older officers whose only “excellence” is their relationship to nobility, and their power to obtain promotion by purchase. The generality of the officers in the British Army are nothing more nor less than a set of purse-proud bloodhounds, whose greatest delight is to behold the blood streaming down the backs of those men who alone win their country’s battles. When the Duke of York (who was a humane man, though as great a scamp as ever had a COLUMN OF INFAMY erected to his memory) limited corporal punishment to 300 lashes, the full amount was invariably inflicted in nineteen out of twenty cases: but even this would not satisfy the bloodhounds, who annoyed and pestered the Duke on the subject to such an extent that he was literally bullied into empowering them to hold General Regimental Courts-Martial, by whose decision 500 lashes might be administered to the unhappy victim. For years and years was the torture of military flogging in England a shame and a scandal to all Europe; and it was absolutely necessary that a fine fellow should be murdered at Hounslow by the accursed lash, before the barbarous Government would interfere. All the world knows that a BRITISH SOLDIER was murdered in this revolting manner, and in the presence of his horror-stricken comrades: for be it remembered that when these appalling spectacles take place, the eyes that weep and the hearts that grow faint are those of the soldiers—never of the officers!

Again we ask, then, what sympathy can possibly exist between the privates and those in command? None: the soldiers would be more grovelling than spaniels if they could possibly kiss the hands that cuff them, or lick the shoes of those who kick and spurn them. The British soldier has his feelings as well as others—aye, and his spirit too; and he feels the iron of a cruel discipline and a heartless system rankling in his very soul. The celebrated John Wilkes was wont to say, “The very worst use you can put a man to, is to hang him.” We agree with the dictum: but we aver in addition that it is an equally vile use to flog him. In fact, the whole treatment of the soldier, from the day of his enlistment until that of his discharge, is one continuous system of tyranny. Deception is made use of to ensnare him into the service—a crushing despotism is maintained to render him a docile, pliant tool while he is in it—and the basest ingratitude marks his departure from it, when he is turned adrift on the world without a penny to help him. The infamy commences with the recruiting sergeant—is perpetuated by all the officers—and is consummated by the Government. Take the case of Leonard Mitchell, in respect to enlistment. The young man was assured by the recruiting sergeant that his pay would be a guinea a-week: it however turned out to be only 9s. 4d., from which 5s. 10d. were stopped for messing and washing, 2s. 7½d. for clothes, and 3½d. for articles to clean his uniform with—leaving 7d. per week, or one penny a-day, for pocket-money! And this is the condition of a British dragoon—with less pocket-money than a school-boy receives from his parents!

The Government relies upon the fidelity of the Army from the fact that it is officered by the scions of the aristocracy, who are of course interested in upholding all kinds of abuses. Hence the belief which the Government entertains that in case of a popular convulsion the troops would be certain to fire upon the people. But, in spite of the lordlings and aristocratic offshoots who command the army, we firmly believe that it all depends upon the cause in which such popular convulsion might arise, whether the troops would really massacre their civilian-brethren. If it were a glorious and just struggle for rights pertinaciously withheld and privileges doggedly refused, the Army would not act against the people. Even the Government itself has fears on this head, ignorant though it be of the real state of feeling anywhere save in the circles of the oligarchy;—for on a recent occasion19 when tremendous military preparations were made to resist an expected outbreak of the working-men of London, the Government set policemen in plain clothes to act as spies in respect to the private soldiers. These spies threw themselves in the way of the soldiers, enticed them into public-houses, plied them with drink, and, in an apparently frank and off-hand manner, questioned them as to their political opinions. Some of the gallant privates, thus treated and interrogated, and little thinking that they were in the fangs of the Government mouchards, candidly expressed their sympathy with the popular cause, and as generously declared that they would sooner cut their hands off than draw a trigger against the people—adding, “The working-men and the soldiers are brethren.” What was the consequence? The spies followed these brave and open-hearted men home to their barracks, and laid information against them; so that numbers of British soldiers, thus shamefully entrapped, found themselves suddenly placed under arrest. Their commanding officers did not dare bring them to punishment; but they are doubtless marked men, and will be persecuted with all imaginable rancour and bitterness. To conclude this portion of our observations, we must remark that if any disturbance had really occurred on the great public occasion now especially alluded to, the troops were resolved not to fire upon the people; but they were equally determined to avenge themselves most signally upon the police.20

The day has gone by for the British soldier to permit himself to be made the tool of despotism: he will not be behind the French soldier in noble sentiments, generous conduct, and enlightened feelings, any more than he is inferior to him in bravery or discipline. But the British soldier must have his wrongs boldly proclaimed and speedily redressed. In many, if not in most regiments, the love of self-improvement is looked upon by the officers as a crime; whereas reading should be encouraged as much as possible. The barrack-room should be made more comfortable: at present it is so miserable and cheerless, that the private soldier is driven to the public-house in spite of his better inclinations. In many instances, men have become drunkards from this very fact, and are then entered in the Proscribed List; though all this might be avoided, were they encouraged to remain and pass their evenings at home. The food provided for the mess-tables is seldom of a good description, and frequently of the very worst: the meat especially is too often of the vilest kind, and unfit for human food. Yet the poor soldier dares not complain—no, not even in respect to that for the supply of which he is so heavily mulcted out of his miserable pittance. Drunkenness even every now and then is a heinous crime in respect to the private soldier; whereas the veriest stripling that was ever dubbed ensign or cornet, may get as tipsy as an owl every night of his life with utter impunity. In fine, the condition of the British soldier is wretched in the extreme; and while the officer, who buys his rank, enjoys every privilege and riots in luxury and dissipation, the unfortunate private, who is basely inveigled into the service by a damnable fraud, is persecuted for the slightest offence, and treated on all occasions as a mere dog.

And now to return to our narrative. Six months elapsed; and during that period Leonard and Ellen met as often as the duties of the former would permit, while the latter cared not to what extent her husband’s suspicions were aroused by her frequent and unaccountable absences from home. And that the old man did speedily entertain the most heart-rending suspicions, was a fact: but if he questioned his wife, she either took refuge in a stubborn silence, or answered him in a manner that only provoked him the more. Pride prevented him from complaining to her father; and he felt that he was now righteously punished for his selfishness in sacrificing the happiness of the fair young creature to his own desires. At length, unable any longer to endure the tortures of uncertainty, and anxious to know the worst at once, or else acquire the conviction that he had misjudged his wife altogether, he watched her movements: but she, aware of his proceeding, and without affecting to notice it, adopted such precautions as completely to outwit her husband, and to hold meetings with her lover, undiscovered as before. Up to this period—nearly three years and a half—the young man had conducted himself in his regiment with the utmost steadiness: he had never been reported—never incurred the slightest reprimand from his superiors. This was an extraordinary case, inasmuch as the private soldier has so many persons to please: first, the corporal—then the serjeant—then the serjeant-major—then the subaltern of the troop—next the captain—and lastly the commanding-officer. No—not lastly: for he must likewise please the Regimental Serjeant-Major, the Adjutant, and the Riding Master. Well, all these difficult objects had Leonard accomplished with success; and he was likewise beloved by all his comrades. He was ever in barracks of an evening at the proper hour; and during the first six months of his amour with Ellen, not even her sweet society had caused him to be late.

We must state that the more completely to enjoy the company of her lover, Ellen Gamble had taken a furnished lodging in the neighbourhood of his barracks; and there they were wont to meet. The landlady of the place asked no questions, her rent being regularly paid, and so little use being made of the apartments. It was Ellen’s delight to provide succulent suppers for Leonard; and these he did not hesitate to partake of with her: but as for direct pecuniary assistance—when once she had offered it in as delicate a manner as possible, he refused it with so much firmness and with such a glowing countenance that she did not again allude to the subject. One evening,—it was at the expiration of the six months already alluded to—the conversation had become more than ordinarily interesting to the pair—the supper was later than usual—and Ellen had ordered a bottle of champagne by way of an additional treat. Leonard was remarkably temperate in his habits; and the wine excited him considerably. He was not however tipsy—only very much animated; and the time passed away more rapidly than the lovers had imagined. At length, a neighbouring clock proclaimed the hour when Leonard should be in quarters: and, starting up, he snatched a hasty embrace, and hurried away. He reached the barracks ten minutes after the proper time; and as he was traversing the yard, deeply regretting that he should be even such a trifle too late, he met a young cornet who had only joined the regiment six weeks previously. “Holloa, you sir!” cried Lord Satinet; for such was the officer’s appellation: “what the devil do you mean by coming in at this hour?”—Leonard, perceiving that his lordship was so tipsy as to be scarcely able to stand, endeavoured to get away without making any answer.—“Stop there, damn your eyes!” exclaimed the nobleman. “What’s your number? Oh! B 57. Very well. But, damn your eyes!” repeated his lordship; “you’re drunk—as drunk as a beast, I declare.”—“I am not, my lord!” cried Leonard, indignantly: and again he made for the door leading to his quarters.—“You infernal scoundrel!” vociferated the splendid specimen of aristocracy, flying into a furious passion: “how dare you tell me you are not drunk? Why, curse you, you can hardly stand.” It was his lordship, however, who staggered.—“I am sober, my lord,” responded Leonard, still keeping his temper: “and pray permit me to inform your lordship that I once was a gentleman, and that your lordship might have a little more consideration for a person so unfortunately circumstanced as I am!”—“A gentleman once!” repeated Lord Satinet, with an ironical laugh: “a pretty gentleman, I’ll be bound! Your father was a costermonger, I suppose; and your mother an apple-woman? A gentleman, indeed! Why, damn your eyes, you’ll be telling me you were a nobleman next. A gentleman, by the powers! a splendid gentleman! Of the swell-mob, most likely.”—“Were I now as I was three years and a half ago, my lord,” said Leonard, scarcely able to master his passion, “you would not dare to address me thus.”—“Holloa! you threaten me, eh!” cried Lord Satinet. “Come, sir: tramp off to the guard-room; and I’ll teach you what it is to insult your officer, and be damned to you!”

Poor Leonard was compelled to obey: but the mere circumstance of being forced to restrain his boiling indignation, gave him such an excited appearance, that when he arrived at the guard-room the Serjeant on duty immediately accused him of having been drinking. Leonard scorned to utter a falsehood; and he did not therefore deny the fact: but he declared that he was not inebriated—a statement which was treated with ridicule. To be brief, he was kept in custody for three days, at the expiration of which a court-martial assembled to try him. Lord Satinet made out the case as black as possible against the unfortunate young man, who in his defence most unwisely but very truly averred that his lordship himself was excessively tipsy on the occasion referred to. The nobleman denied the statement with much apparent indignation; and the judge-advocate declared that Leonard Mitchell had materially aggravated his own enormity by such an accusation—although the very officer who thus fulfilled the judicial functions could of himself have proved, had he chosen, that Lord Satinet was particularly disguised in liquor on the night in question. The result of that hideous mockery of a trial was that the accused was pronounced guilty of returning home late in a condition of extreme intoxication, and of grossly insulting and even menacing his officer. Leonard Mitchell was accordingly condemned to receive three hundred lashes with the cat-o’nine-tails: he was then removed to the black hole, where he passed a night scarcely enviable even by a man about to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. For, oh! how could he ever again look the world in the face?—how should he dare meet his much-loved Ellen? how survive this deep disgrace—this flagrant shame—this damning infamy? But we dare not pause to analyse the thoughts or describe the feelings of the wretched young man during the interval between his condemnation and the execution of the sentence.

The fatal moment arrived when the gallant British soldier, stripped naked to the waist, was tied up to receive the torture of the lash, in the presence of the entire regiment, which was marshalled for the purpose. Leonard’s face was ashy pale—but the compressed lip, sternly-fixed eye, and determined expression of countenance indicated his resolution to meet the horrible punishment with as much courage as he could invoke to his aid. On many an eye-lash in the ranks did the tear of sympathy—aye, of deep, deep commiseration tremble: but the officers looked on, the elder ones without emotion—the younger with curiosity, but with no better feeling. As for Cornet Lord Satinet—he could scarcely conceal his delight at the inhuman spectacle which he himself had caused to be enacted; and he thought what a “lion of the party” he should prove in the evening at his father’s house, when detailing to his noble mamma and his dear sisters the particulars of the military flogging of the morning. But, hark! the drums beat—and the accursed torture commences!—the first blow is inflicted—and nine long livid marks appear upon the back of the victim. Still he winces not—and not a murmur escapes his lips. Again does the lash fall—and of a livelier red are the traces it leaves behind. A third time the instrument of torture descends—and now blood is drawn. But still the young man is silent—although his well-knit frame moves with a slight convulsiveness. A shudder—passing throughout the long ranks like an electric shock, from flank to flank—denotes the horror—the profound, intense horror, which strikes to the hearts of the brave dragoons who behold the appalling laceration of their comrade. And now faster falls each murderous weapon—for there are two executioners employed at the same time: and when they have dealt a certain number of blows, they are relieved by others, so that the victim may gain nothing by the slightest weariness of arm on the part of his torturers. Still he maintains a profound silence: but he cannot prevent his countenance from expressing a keen sense of the mortal agony that he endures. Down—down comes the horrible weapon, each stroke inflicting nine distinct blows; and, while the blood streams forth in many crimson rivulets, the knotted cords carry away pieces of the palpitating flesh. Oh! that such infernal cruelty should be perpetrated in a country vaunted as the chosen land of freedom, and peopled by beings who boast their humanity!—Oh! that such a blood-thirsty torture should be sanctioned by the laws of a nation paying upwards of ten millions a-year for the maintenance of the ministers of Christ! Gracious God! do thy thunders sleep when a creature fashioned after thine own image is thus enduring the torments of the damned,—torments inflicted not in a paroxysm of rage, and by the hand of a savage individual vengeance,—but in cold blood, in unprovoked mercilessness, and under colour of a sanguinary law which would disgrace a community of savages! People of England! let us blush—let us hang down our heads for very shame when we reflect that such appalling scenes are enacted amongst us; or rather let us gnash our teeth with rage—and tear our hair—and beat our breasts, to think that we are unable to compel our legislators to receive even a scintillation of that humane spirit which animates ourselves. For we have a Society to prevent cruelty to animals—and the man who beats his ox or his ass too severely, is punished; and if a poor man only happens to jostle against a police-officer, it is construed into a savage assault and attended with penalties. But there is no Society to prevent cruelty to human beings; and the lash—the accursed lash may be used, until the blood flows down the back—the skin is flayed away—deep wails are made in the quivering form—morsels of palpitating flesh are torn off—and the muscles are laid bare,—oh! all this may be done—all these revolting atrocities may be perpetrated—all these hellish cruelties may be accomplished, and there is no Association patronised by Royal Highnesses, Bishops, and Noble Lords, to interfere in behalf of the victims nor to punish the offenders!

Leonard Mitchell bore his murderous punishment as bravely as man could endure such fiendish torture. A hundred and fifty lashes had been inflicted, without eliciting a moan from his lips: but his countenance betrayed all the intensity of the anguish which he suffered. His eyes lost their lustre—his under-jaw fell slightly—there was foam upon his mouth—and his tongue protruded somewhat. As for his back——But, perdition seize upon the blood-hounds! the indignation which we feel at this moment will not allow us to extend that portion of the painful description. Better—oh! better far to be the vilest beggar that ever grovelled in the mire, than one of those Greenacres of the House of Commons who advocate corporal punishment, or those Barkers of colonels who delight in having it inflicted! As for poor Leonard Mitchell, he received upwards of two hundred lashes without a murmur; and then the surgeon ordered a pause. Drink was given to him—and he revived. But was he then removed? Oh! no—no: the feast of blood was not accomplished—the cup of gore was not full enough—the sum of human tortures was not finished. Again fell the accursed weapon: and now—we know not whether it were that after a brief cessation the agony of the renewal was more intense than before—or that the interval of rest had allowed the fine spirit of the man to flag,—whatever were the cause, it is nevertheless a fact that a piercing shriek of anguish burst from his lips—a shriek so strange, so wild, and so unnatural, that long, long after did it ring in the ears of those who heard it; for it seemed to lacerate the very brain as, in its horrible inflections, the rending sound was sent back from the barrack walls in penetrating echoes and frightful reverberations. A thrill of horror electrified the startled ranks of the victim’s comrades; and the gloved hand of many a brave soldier was drawn rapidly across the countenance, to dash away the tears that trembled on the quivering eye-lids. For, oh! the British warrior may indeed well weep at such a scene,—weep—weep with mingled shame and sorrow—weep, too, with bitterness and indignation!

The punishment was over: soon as that piercing scream had died away, the prisoner fainted;—and he was forthwith hurried to the infirmary, where many hours elapsed ere he came to his senses. Then he awoke to consciousness amidst the most horrible tortures: for the means that were adopted to prevent his lacerated back from mortifying, inflicted the agonies of hell. Only fancy, Christian reader—a man in this country can be beaten into such a state that it is ten to one whether he will not die of his wounds, and all the surgeon’s art can with difficulty resuscitate him! But pass we over the lingering illness endured by the unhappy Leonard—-an illness of eight long weeks; and let us see whether the tortures of the lash have made him a better man. Alas! far from it! His fine spirit was broken: he saw that it was useless to endeavour to be good—that it was ridiculous to practise virtues which experienced no reward. His religious faith was shaken—nay, almost completely destroyed; and he no longer believed in the efficacy of prayer. Instead of harbouring feelings of a generous philanthropy, he began to loathe and detest his superiors and look with suspicion on his equals. A doggedness of disposition, a recklessness of character, a species of indifference as to what might become of him, displaced all those fine qualities and noble attributes that had previously graced him. For he felt that he was a marked man in his regiment, and never could hope for promotion—that his character was gone—and that, like Cain, he bore about him the brand of indelible infamy. Moreover, he longed for vengeance—bitter, bitter vengeance upon that young scion of the aristocracy who had lied against him—lied foully as only such a wretch could lie—and who had brought down all that disgrace on his devoted head.

In such a frame of mind was it that Leonard Mitchell met Ellen for the first time after a separation of nearly ten weeks. The young lady had learnt the misfortunes which had befallen her lover; and she was prepared, by an intimate knowledge of his character, to hear that he had been accused as unjustly as he had been punished savagely. She endeavoured to console him: but he assured her broadly and frankly that the only solace he could ever know was—vengeance! Ellen did not discourage this idea—did not rebuke this craving; for she also felt bitterly—bitterly against the despicable lordling who had persecuted him so foully. It was, nevertheless, with sorrow that she soon observed the alteration which had taken place in his disposition. He was still devoted to her: but his passion now partook rather of a gross sensuality than, of the refinement of love. How could it be otherwise? The best feelings of the man were blunted; and his brute impulses, unchecked by that delicacy of sentiment which had once so peculiarly characterised him, became the more violent. Especially did he soon manifest a loving for intoxicating liquors; and at the third or fourth interview with Ellen, after his release from the hospital, he suffered her to understand pretty plainly that he should no longer refuse pecuniary assistance at her hands. In the course of a few weeks he spoke out more plainly still, and unblushingly asked for the amount he required at the time; and ere many months had passed away, he never parted from her without receiving a portion of the contents of her purse. At first she herself was much shocked at this evidence of an altered disposition: but she was so deeply—so devotedly attached to him, that she reasoned herself into consolation even on that head; and the more selfish he became, the more anxious did she appear to minister to his wants. This was not all: for frequent intoxication irritated his temper—and he did not hesitate to vent his ill humour upon her. Sometimes, too, he failed to keep his appointments with her: and when they did meet at last, he abused her if she dared to reproach him. On one occasion he actually raised his hand to strike her; but the poor, loving creature, falling on her knees at his feet, turned up towards him a countenance so tearful and woe-begone, that the coward blow was stayed, and he implored her pardon. Nevertheless, she had received a shock which she could not forget: neither could she avoid contrasting the Leonard Mitchell whom military punishment had degraded to the same level as the brutes, with the Leonard Mitchell who formerly appeared the very type of a gallant, generous-hearted, and high-minded British Dragoon!