Buttevant Barracks—Army Life—Mess-room Talk—Condition of the Barracks—Balleybeg Abbey—Old Church—Native Wedding—Kilcoman Castle, Spenser's Home—Doneraile Court—Mrs. Aldworth, the only Woman Free Mason—Irish Wit—Regimental Plate—Departure from the Barracks.

In the barracks at Buttevant are at present quartered a battalion of the Dublin Fusiliers, a regiment which dates back to the days of Charles II., and which has spent most of its years in India. Now this battalion is back home and I doubt not that both officers and men find the cool grey skys and green fields a welcome contrast to the blazing heavens and burnt brown stretches of the Far East. Yet I imagine that there will be certain moments of longing for the land where they have made their home for so many years,—a land which never entirely releases her hold upon those who have dwelt there.

But that state has not arrived with these men yet and they are very contented to be "at home."

These barracks at Buttevant are spacious and, as barracks go, very comfortable. Situated in a good hunting country, one hears horse and hound talk intermingled with the many bugle calls and the stirring sounds of the fife. The campus or compound, a great green square surrounded by the quarters, is constantly a gay spot, often with lawn-tennis and cricket going on in its centre, and there are always the officers' wives and children, giving the scene just that touch and charm which can only come from women's presence.

Orderlies are leading or riding around the drive the hunters recently purchased at the neighbouring horse fair, and constant are the comments upon each nag as it passes,—mingled with much badinage at the expense of the purchasers.

The regimental band of fifty men discourses sweet music. Tea is on in the mess-room—soldiers in khaki and soldiers in scarlet coats are everywhere. Snatches of songs come from the different quarters and life does not seem hard to these soldiers, at least not now, and yet—the call to arms and the chance of a skirmish is always welcome at first, until they realise that "War is Hell" and once entered upon cannot be so easily stopped. There is no thought of war here now and life goes merrily onward.

At seven-thirty the dressing bugle sounds and we are off to reassemble in the officers' mess at eight for that most important function, dinner. I confess I feel slovenly in my black clothes amongst the scarlet and gold of the officers. The mess dress of the army is very effective, a scarlet jacket fitting closely and showing a generous shirt front, dark blue trousers with scarlet stripes, strapped over patent leather boots bearing spurs,—a dress becoming to any man. Once he knows you, a British officer is always very cordial and agreeable; there are few exceptions to that rule. I am certainly given a cordial welcome amongst them on my first evening.

Dinner announced, we file down to the mess-room where if you imagine things are crude or camp-like you are mistaken. The spacious apartment is adorned with the "colours" old and new of the whole regiment (as this is the headquarters of all its battalions and all such things are here stored), most of them torn with the strife of battle. The table, of Bombay oak (which travels with the regiment wherever it goes), is of great width and as long as the room will permit. For dinner it is decked with magnificent plate in the form of candelabra, cups and fantastic salt-cellars, etc. There are flowers and snowy linen of course, and the room is brilliant with scarlet coats and the mellow light of wax candles. The dinner goes merrily on, while outside the regimental band discourses its best. Towards the end we are brought to our feet with "Gentleman, the King," and so, to the national anthem, drink the health of his Majesty.

(I must compliment this band. It is excellent, and I believe is considered the best in south Ireland.)

After dinner, we adjourn to the smoking-room upstairs, and "bridge" comes in for proper attention.

Not caring for the game, Major Beddoes and I are seated before the fire. The room is a large one and, I am thankful to say, does not possess electric lights; a shaded lamp throws a warm glow downward upon the card tables while the flashes of the firelight bring the scarlet coats and gold braid of the players, and the tattered battle flags beyond them into bold relief now and then.

The air is full of tobacco smoke, but aside from our subdued voices and an occasional remark thrown at me by the players because I neither smoke nor play, the room is very quiet. Outside, the barracks and the town seem to have gone to sleep save for an occasional bugle call or sentry challenge.

There had been some commotion below earlier in the evening because of a young setter pup, which Capt. D. had shut up in his room, having eaten one of the Captain's new walking boots, and Major Beddoes had some words with his man, whom he had discovered wearing one of his, the Major's, best dress shirts. "Sure, Major, 'twasn't soiled enough to give to old Mag beyant there to wash, and I jest thought I would give it a wear or so mesell, knowin' ye wouldn't care."

But those incidents of barracks life have passed on, when I ask the Major what he thinks are the real feelings of the English for Americans,—do you like us?—he is enough like a Yankee to throw the query back at me with the parties reversed; but I came first upon the field and insist upon that advantage. After some moments of quiet pulling at his beloved pipe, he answers, "I think individually, yes,—as a nation, no, and you have probably discovered that for yourself, and the feeling on our part may be based on jealousy. You are also aware that the same holds in your own land toward our people. As a general thing we like your women, but not your men, and our opinion of the latter is probably influenced by those of your citizens who have turned their backs upon their own land and settled amongst us. Of these I do not include those who have come amongst us for business reasons,—they always expect to go 'home,' and are at all periods of their sojourn here Americans,—but those others who, drawing their entire support from their own country, settle here and become more anti-American than any Englishman ever was. We despise them, and no matter how hard they may work for it, they will never be looked upon otherwise than as strangers,—their children, reared over here, possibly, but never themselves, for whether we like you or not, we do think that one born in America should be proud of that fact and not a cad. Do you agree with me?"

"Assuredly, and personally whatever pride in the past I possess is centred in those of my ancestors who helped to make and preserve our great nation,—beyond them, while it is interesting to trace backward into the countries of the old world, it is simply a pastime."

"You certainly send us funny lots of people during the touring months."

"Yes,—but have you ever tried to talk to them?"

"Just recall that lot at Mallow the other day. Could any party on the surface be more unattractive?"

"You are quite correct, but if you had spoken to that most aggressive looking man and his more aggressive looking wife and daughter, you would have discovered well educated and intelligent people, such as form the real backbone of a nation. They have consumed six summers travelling in Norway alone, and thoroughly appreciate that beautiful country. They believe that the world is a better book than any ever enclosed between covers, and they intend to read it, and when the years bring old age upon them, all that world will still be an open volume, its changes and improvements fully appreciated and understood. Can you not excuse much that is unpleasant in people like these? And do they not compare favourably with the masses of English of a certain class found all over Europe."

As for the sentiments of one nation for another, it is summed up in the words of a recent author, "Moreover, the fine old dislike which Bretons bestow upon everything outside Brittany was hers both by inheritance and careful cultivation." There you have it in a nutshell,—not only as regards the English but all other nations. England certainly holds that feeling towards all the continent and I believe towards America; Boston has it for all the rest of our land. New York has of late years become more liberal, more cosmopolitan, yet I heard but lately a man make the remark in her best club that he had "a perfect horror of the middle West." How does that sound from an educated man in this twentieth century, and of cities which have long since passed their centennial? To be sure, far from being a criterion for the citizens of New York, he was one who had kept his nose down on the books of some counting-house and had never left the confines of the city.

As for California, I have known the dislike of everything outside of that State, especially Eastern, to separate husband and wife and destroy a family; where the wife's hatred of "outsiders" extended from her husband's parents to and including every friend he had in the East,—an impersonal sort of hatred because she was stranger to most of them, yet none the less violent, with the result as stated.

Again, did not such a feeling have something to do with our Civil War? Does not England even to-day believe that the cultivation was largely in the South, and yet how unjust such an opinion! I am half Southern, my mother's family having been slave-owners for generations, and I think I can speak without prejudice, and I say again "how unjust such an opinion." The cultivation in the South was sprinkled over a sparsely settled country and centred in a few thousands of planters and their families. In the North, it covered all of a densely populated section, and from ocean to ocean it would have been impossible to find a class like the mountaineers of Virginia, so ignorant that many of them not only could not read but did not know what "reading" meant. Furthermore where were, and still are, all the greater universities and seats of learning? In the North. Where did our great poets and essayists come from? The North again. I do not desire to decry the South,—far from it,—but the old idea was an absurdity; the South in her palmiest ante-bellum days sent the majority of her sons north to be educated, but——

Bridge in the meantime is over for to-night and the group before the fire increased thereby. So the talk drifts on and on. I am not given to slang and do not like it, but I happened to use a bit just here, "he monkeyed with a buzz saw." Attracted by the silence which followed I looked up to find every face gazing upon me in puzzled amazement, until finally Major—— felt that some explanation must be forthcoming.

"Monkeyed with a buzz saw? Now let me see, let me see. What exactly is a 'buzz saw,' and what happened to the monkey?"

My laughter forced them all to join in and for the next hour these defenders of the British flag took a lesson in American slang, until upon the soft air outside sounded the notes of the "last post" (or "taps" as we call it), the saddest bit of melody in the world of music, and so "good night," "good night." One by one the lights went out and sleep settled upon the living while the moon, turning her attention elsewhere, went off to light the fairies dancing on the river and the witches down in old Ballybeg Abbey.

The following day being Sunday the soldiers of the King go to service in full dress; the grim barracks are brilliant with hundreds of scarlet coats and to the music of Stars and Stripes Forever our one time foes move off to pray for peace while prepared for war. I notice that Hiawatha is the favourite tune for marching men, and am told that it is not only because it is a most excellent march but because the fife plays an important part in its rendering and the fife is the only instrument which can be heard above the din of battle.

There is a drummer in this band whose movements are simply amazing, and I find myself trying to imitate them with pole and cane to the peril of life and property. How he does swing those great sticks around his head and bring them down upon that huge bass-drum! A drummer surely whose pomposity surpasses anything of its kind within my memory. As the inspiring music grows fainter and fainter and the scarlet coats pass away down the streets of the old town I turn for an inspection of the barracks. On the top of the entrance arch are the offices, on the right the guard-house, and beyond it a large gymnasium. On either side of the green and running at right angles to the entrance are the officers' quarters, while a large barracks for the men forms the fourth side of the square. Back of this is another square surrounded by large barracks, while the married men have a separate building beyond these and the Colonel lives in a retired pleasant house off in one corner. Of that house and the dwellers therein I have some very pleasant memories.

To a looker-on in this twentieth century the disregard of sanitary measures in such a barracks as this is surprising and I doubt not the same holds in all others of the Empire and perhaps in all those of other countries, including my own. Of that I am unable to speak, but the outrage is an outrage all the same. One can understand the lack of such things in far western camps or in war times, but that a great stone place like this with a hundred years to its credit should have no proper baths or toilet-rooms for its officers is "an outrage" most certainly, and one which the nation should insist upon being promptly corrected. There are a few bathrooms with good tubs and hot and cold water for the men but the officers have nothing save the inconvenient, nasty little tin tubs, and it is practically impossible for a big man to keep himself in proper condition by their use.

These quarters are, as I have stated, massive stone buildings. Each officer has a sitting-room with two small rooms adjoining and so placed that either of the latter could be transformed at small cost into an excellent bathroom with hot and cold water laid on. As it is now, these gentlemen must use a little tin thing with an inch or two of cold water. It's a common saying amongst the officers of the army that nothing is done for them. What the government does is all for the rank and file. That the soldiers should receive everything needful is in all ways proper, but are not the men who lead them, the brains of this strength of the nation, entitled to like consideration? They offer their lives upon the slightest cause, and gladly too, yet their government is so far forgetful, not to call it by a harsher term, that it neglects their well-being in this manner. They are willing to put up with nothing when it is necessary, and surely are entitled to a bare something, and this is nothing more, when it can so easily be done and at such small expense. Cleanliness is certainly more essential to health than many brilliant coats and much silver plate.

There is often scorn expressed for our bathrooms with their modern appliances, but I noticed at P—— that one of the scoffers, who might have had his little "tub" (so constantly extolled) in his bedroom, waited and almost missed his dinner that he might use the only bathroom in that vast establishment. I do not desire to accuse the officers of uncleanliness—very far from it—but they should be better provided for in this respect.

I am also astounded to note the treatment of the common soldiers—"Tommy Atkins"—by the public. In time of war he is worshipped, but in time of peace is scarce considered to be a man, merely a servant to be pushed and shoved about and treated most discourteously, to say the least. I saw this done in a theatre the other night, to a soldier who addressed a simple, civil question to the man next him. The reply he got and the treatment he received would, in America at least, have resulted in a row, and justly too. However, that occurred in Ireland where the "red coats" are not liked.

I understand that the pay per year of the officers in the British army is about as follows:

A Colonel, £400 Sterling
Lt. Colonel, 300
Major, 240
Captain, 200
Lieutenant, 100

These figures do not seem very large when a man offers his life to his country, but they are in excess of many nations on the Continent, where the officers are forced into beastly poverty by the call for outside gorgeousness. At a late grand review the eye of a beholder was attracted by an officer quite resplendent in a beautiful white uniform, superb high black boots with glittering spurs, a silver breastplate, and glittering helmet, and mounted on a splendid black charger, his appearance was gorgeousness intensified. After the review the observer, passing the tent of this same officer, saw the entire gorgeousness as to uniform hung up to dry and on the wretched camp bed sat the man with no socks on,—"too poor to buy them," all the pay and far more gone in the useless display,—and yet not altogether useless, for without the uniforms these great standing armies would melt away like mist before the sun and many a throne totter to its fall. However, if the splendour must be maintained, and it is certainly beautiful to look at, then those forced to wear it and bear its expense should be better paid, remembering at the same time that the wearers are ready at any moment to stand up to be shot to death in defence of the home where you sit comfortably reading your paper—therefore "PAY, PAY, PAY!"

The officers of these Fusiliers are devoted to their cook. I suggested the other day that his coffee might be improved,—it was wretched, in fact, not coffee at all, while no fault could be found with the rest of the menu. They replied that they knew it, but he had been so devoted in battle, had cooked under a galling Gatling fire, had rushed so many times over death spots to bring them hot sausages which he was forced to carry in his hands, that they could not scold him. I drank his coffee with great pleasure after that. The heroes in this world do not always wear the most brilliant uniforms and has it not been proven that it is the commissary which in the end decides the conflict?

There is nothing going on in the barracks this morning which interests me, save perhaps a court-martial, at which I am told that my absence will be very precious. So I stroll off in the soft sunlight through the great gateway, where a sentry holds constant ward and watch, just for appearance sake, I imagine, as it cannot be to keep the boys in or strangers out, for just at yonder corner is a breach in the wall unguarded where any one may come and go at pleasure, and I doubt not many of the boys do go and for pleasure, though there can be little amusement in the sad town which clusters between the barracks and castle. Of young men it seems to hold none, and there are not many children, so that when these few old people pass onward and enter for eternity yonder churchyard, old Buttevant will wither away altogether. Many kindly faces come to the doors to watch me, knowing that I am an American, and their eyes have a questioning look as though to ask for some dear one in the land beyond the sea.

The place is indeed very old and every now and then as I pass through the streets I come across some vestige of its past greatness and a mile beyond its limits reach the ruins of Ballybeg Abbey, in a smiling meadow down by the river Awbeg. Something of a stately structure in its palmy days, there is little of that left now, but on the whole it is all rather sociable. The river is of that sort, and having loitered downward under its trees and through its grasses murmurs confidential bits of gossip about the castle yonder upon its banks. Yellow buttercups push their heads upward through the turf which climbs to the old grey walls of the abbey, and in the abbot's doorway the white face of a ruminating cow is silhouetted against the inner darkness. "They also serve who only stand and wait," must have been written of Ballybeg and its kind, for it has left no trace upon the pages of history. Yet withal, as I have stated, it's a sociable old place and I spend some time in its company, seated on the parapet of a neighbouring stone bridge where 'tis said the fairies dance when the moon is full.

I expected much from the name—Ballybeg—why I can scarcely tell but I cannot say that I am disappointed, though such stately structures as Fountaine and Tintern in Wales would scarce consider Ballybeg to be exactly "in their set."

Wandering up the banks of the Awbeg, I pass beyond the castle. We had tea there last season and a medieval castle which can descend to having afternoon tea served within its walls is not worthy of description. It is owned by an irascible old lady who occupies one part and rents out the other and who generally keeps such a strict eye upon her tenants that it results in driving them out. When we visited it the tenants were an officer and his wife, and just that shortly happened, so that on my second visit to Buttevant, the castle stares at me with vacant eyes of windows, and I pass onward up the river to the centre of the town, where the ruins of its Franciscan abbey raise their arches and columns and guard the dead of long ago, and those who come in this later day to sleep beneath its shadows.

If you enter its crypt, you will stand amazed at the vast quantity of human bones piled pell-mell there. Some say that they are but the natural accumulation of departing humanity and others that they all came from the neighbouring battlefield of Knockninoss,—others believe that when in the flesh they all lived yonder in old Ballybeg.

Be that as it may, they are here now, quietly awaiting that day of days, which shall summon them forth once more, and as I stand in the darkness with my foot on a skull, which might have enclosed the brains of an Irish king, downward through a broken casement comes the sound of a voice and the words "I am the resurrection and the life, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live," and I roll the skull gently back into denser shadows, wondering, wondering, and then, as we all must do, ceasing to wonder, and just continuing to—trust.

Passing upward into the sunshine and forward amidst the long grasses which cover the humbler dead, I find that one more has but now joined this silent company, and those who brought her here are slowly leaving the churchyard. Poor people, all of them,—there does not appear to be any others in this town of Buttevant,—but death seems to hold no terrors for any one of these and many sit round on the tombstones and do not hesitate to discuss the qualities, good and bad, of those asleep beneath them and to admire the inscriptions. Here is one quaint enough surely:

Yonder is a cross of wood under discussion at the present moment. It states that "here lies Kate O'Shea and also her sister Mrs. Mary Buckley," and that as "their father died last year, this is the end of the O'Shea family." That thereby hangs a tale is very evident, and yonder fat old lady on whose head a bit of a black bonnet is poised and round whose shoulders a comfortable shawl is wrapped could and would tell me if there were not so many listeners about, who knowing her love of gossip keep sharp watch and ward, so that of those who are gone I learn nothing, but of what is shortly to happen I hear more.

A wedding is to take place in the modern church just here and we sit round on the tombstones, awaiting the coming of the bride. There are hints as to this bride which rouse my curiosity, and I decide to await her coming, which shortly happens. She is a comely looking young woman, modestly dressed in a green gown, and a blue hat with red roses thereon. Her blue eyes do not possess a very happy look as they rest on the fat middle-aged bridegroom, and the old lady on the tombstone next to me heaves a sigh which tells unutterable things. Still, all seems going smoothly and we follow into the church. The ceremony begins, and progresses as usual to that point where the bride is asked if she takes this man to be her wedded husband, when upon the amazed and horrified ears of all falls the reply in sharp tones, "Indade, I won't," followed by a swish of a blue skirt and a flash of red roses down the aisle and out the door and the bride is gone. I leave a description of the hubbub which followed to your imagination.

Getting finally outside, I find myself once more near the old lady of ample proportions, and just in time to hear her remark "and him wid nine illegant fat pigs and sivin suits of clothes aich one better than the other." This entirely destroys my dignity and self-control and I double up with laughter upon a neighbouring tombstone, whereupon the old lady, after one look of grand amaze, gives me "the full of her back" and with her "nose trun in the air" passes majestically away. I learn later that of that bride they never again heard. Like the bubble on the river she was gone and for ever.

The neighbourhood of Buttevant is full of interest to those who will turn aside from the usual tour of Ireland. To-day we are off through the green lanes for a visit to Kilcoman Castle, the home for some years of the poet Spenser, and where he wrote his Faerie Queene. We shall later visit the scenes of that poem.

In 1586 Spenser received some fifteen hundred acres of land from the crown, and on them stood this ancient stronghold of the Desmonds, which he made his home for years. Those were troublous times and he saw much of their misery, and their sadness tinges his great poem.

He received but small acknowledgment for his work from Elizabeth, and even that was objected to by Burleigh,—"What—so much for a song!"

This castle was sacked whilst he occupied it and he fled to London, where he died in poverty.

The ruins rise from the midst of a green meadow some seven miles from Buttevant, and consist of a lonely tower, to the top of which we mounted by its ancient staircase within the walls. The tower chamber still has its roof intact, but at its best the castle must have formed a poor abiding-place even three centuries ago.

The prospect from the top is rather dreary, and we leave the spot without regret.

Doneraile Court, in whose vast park were laid the scenes of the Faerie Queene, is very different. It is now the property of Lord Castletown.

One more fully appreciates the comfort of a motor-car when forced suddenly as we were last night to take a jaunting-car for a ride of nine miles to Doneraile. That distance would be nothing at all in the former vehicle, but is every inch of nine miles in the latter. It's no easy matter to hold one's seat in these cars. If you happen to have a trotting horse it's not so difficult, but if the beast is inclined to canter, as ours was, the wheels of the car will almost leave the ground with every canter, and chances are that you will desert the car altogether. I came near doing so several times last night, and reached the court in a breathless state, which the horse, with a wicked leer in his eye, seemed to enjoy to the full. Tom, the driver, secure on his perch in front, rode most of the way with his back to the horse, which appeared to know whither we were bound, Tom the while discoursing to me upon the charms of hunting in Ireland and showing me several of the favourite jumping places. I did not enthuse; though I have ridden all my life and hunted some, still a jump composed of a stone wall, a hedge, and a deep drop on the far side did not commend itself to me, especially as a man had "broken his neck there but lately." One can scarcely understand such clumsiness on his part as the drop was quite sufficient for horse and rider to turn a complete summersault, and still come out right side up. However, I shall not try the trick, but that I would hesitate for an instant, for such a reason, to join in the national sport stamps me as unsportsmanlike—as one who will not buy a horse, and that settles my position, in Ireland.

We approached Doneraile Court through the village of that name, which clusters close under its park walls. Doneraile is quite the place in this section, and we find it a stately mansion presiding over one of the most beautifully wooded parks in Great Britain.

These houses in Ireland, mostly all dating from the Restoration, are commodious and ofttimes stately structures, and have a beauty all their own and very different from anything in England, hence one cannot compare them. This estate somewhat antedates that period as it was purchased from Spenser's son by William St. Ledger, President of Munster in Charles I.'s reign, and the town gives the title to the family.

Doneraile presents a lofty and attractive front to the park and the attraction abides as one enters the spacious halls filled with the trophies of the chase and with quaint arms gathered from all over the world. In the distance a stately staircase mounts to the upper floors and on the left is a suite of handsome withdrawing-rooms and a library, while the dining-room holds on its walls many interesting family portraits, one of which quite diverts my attention from the conversation during dinner. It is that of Mrs. Aldworth, and shows a very strong, determined countenance. The finger on that book indicates that you will believe what she tells you or she will know the reason.

I have another picture of the lady from a painting in Doneraile,—never photographed before,—but it is not so distinct as the one I give, and is merely that of a beautiful woman, a woman of the world before her character has been developed. Certainly none would dare claim—in her presence at least—that the character of the lady in the portrait I do give has not been developed, nor would it be well to cast any aspersions upon that character. You may think you know a thing or two, but if wise you will not dare the owner of that face yonder. Madam, I doubt not but that you were the very best Mason the sun ever shone upon, so let me alone, will you?

She was born in 1695, and her history is told us by Lord Castletown in the room where its great event occurred.

It is the first on your right in front as you enter the mansion, and the interest of the house centres there, for therein was being held in 1725 the Free-masons' lodge when the Hon. Mary St. Ledger, afterwards Mrs. Aldworth, hid herself, some say in the great clock, and upon being discovered was by those present condemned to death, when one man so plead for her that her life was spared and she was made a full-fledged Mason, the only one in the world's history. What could follow an incident so romantic save a wedding, and it did follow shortly. It is said that she was condemned for ever to wear clocks on her stockings, hence that name for that bit of embroidery. It is also stated that Aldworth at first voted for her death and she married him to pay him out again. Whichever tale is correct it is stated that in later years he more than regretted that he had not voted for her death, but he was probably a degenerate man, for the face in yonder portrait was worth fighting for. In the room where it all occurred are her masonic emblems, a "square" about three inches long, the stone above an amethyst, the rising sun above, gold, and the rays diamonds (or old paste), a greyish stone, and yellow amethyst in alternate rays. A little thing to last when she who wore it and created all this disturbance has been dust and ashes since 1775.

The room is a double or alcoved apartment with bookcases ranged around its walls, and still holds, I believe, the same furniture as upon the eventful night.

The talk drifted onward about her and many other curious persons and things, and the smoke from the cigars grew denser and denser until I dreamed that I saw all sorts of vanished faces in the space around me, and I fear that I was dreaming actually when aroused by Major Beddoes and told that "the ladies are retiring" and so we lighted their candles for them, and chatting a moment at the foot of the staircase, watched them disappear above.

Burne-Jones must have gotten the idea for his famous picture from such a scene. There is no place where a group of stately, beautifully gowned women show to better advantage than upon a staircase. I was strongly reminded of his painting on this occasion. After all the custom of good night to the ladies with the lighting of candles and its pleasant chat is a pretty one though you may object to their early disappearance and would greatly prefer an hour's more talk with them than with your own sex.

However, it is late to-night, and bidding our host adieu we move off through the glades of the park where Spenser wandered and dreamt so long ago, pausing a moment by the lake where the swans still drift as on a surface of molten silver. The midsummer air is balmy and delightful and a full moon lights up the woods until one almost fancies the Faerie Queene is out in their glades with all her court, or adrift on the lake with the swans.

My stay in the barracks is drawing to a close, and perhaps it is well. Major Beddoes threatens me with arrest, fearing a riot if I am allowed to wander around attending weddings and other functions to which I have not been bidden.

During my sojourn I have employed a boy named Tom who owns a sprightly horse and a jaunting-car not more than a century old, the latter harnessed to the former by means of strings. We have had many a rare drive between the hawthorn hedges, leaving the motor neglected in a shed: its day will come.

I have been desirous since leaving Achill to hear again that mournful cry for the dead,—"keening,"—and had arranged with Tom to bring two old women into the barracks after dark, to whom I was to give half a crown each and a bottle of—let us say "cologne"; but they did not materialise and when I questioned Tom he replied, "Sure, sor, I had 'em beyant Major Beddoe's rooms, but he druv 'em away."

"Certainly I did," chimed in the Major; "do you want me court-martialled?"

I would not object if it were in a good cause. I think there is also a bit of personal malice in his acts, as I laughed at him the other day. He has lately married a charming wife, and is at present quartered in Mallow, from whence he runs the nine miles in a motor-car of his new father-in-law. When he made his first appearance the other day on the barracks compound, with all the officers and their families assembled to greet him, said motor-car looked as though it had been through the wars, and was as pug-nosed as many of the aborigines of the land, caused by sudden contacts with stone gates and the sides of houses, to say nothing of unexpected excursions through old ladies' gardens and into gullies not intended for motors. I laughed, I could not help it, hence the malice aforesaid, with threats of arrest.

One day we are returning from a jaunt to nowhere in particular, having been out just looking for things to happen,—which they generally did,—when, as we draw near the barracks, we pass a dilapidated old trap with some men inspecting it. One hails our boy with the query, "I say, Tom, is that your family chariot?" Quick as thought comes the reply: "Yes, and I am in want of a mule; are you widout occupation?"

After that we find it advisable to order the car into the barracks enclosure when dismissing it—at which time I get a wink from Tom—we shortly find ourselves ensconced before a bright fire in the smoking-room.

The quarters are very comfortable. This room is a large double apartment with easy chairs and lounges, red rugs and carpets, two fire-places for winter use, and books and cards galore. Downstairs there is a billiard-room. The quarters of the officers are cleanly and comfortable, the dwellers therein a healthy, happy looking lot, though they all agree with what I have said about the bathrooms.

The regiment has collected its plate throughout all the years since its foundation, nearly two centuries and a half, and it forms a superb collection, which I examined with great interest.

When in 1661 Charles II. married Catherine of Braganza, Bombay was ceded to England by Portugal as part of the dower of that princess. This regiment of the Fusiliers was formed at that time and has been in existence ever since. As the years have gone by this plate, now amounting in value to some thousands of pounds, has been collected, and the designs and taste of two and a half centuries are interestingly displayed in the various articles, especially in the smaller pieces, such as salt-cellars, snuff-boxes, etc. There are, of course, the greater pieces, stately candelabra, drinking-cups, and epergnes. One piece especially attracted my attention, a train of silver cars, each holding its crystal decanter for port, sherry, brandy, etc., which after the cloth was removed was rolled around the ancient table. This plate and table go with the regiment at all times. It even went to South Africa.

Captain D. got it all out for my inspection one day and assured me that it was often in use even in war times.

Therein lies the difference between the English and Americans. They live and we spend our lives getting ready to live, and rarely reach the goal. A soldier especially realises that his life is but from day to day, and therefore uses each day, with all he owns, to the full. An American regiment would store such plate and it would be absolutely useless, rarely if ever seeing the light of day,—but throughout its two centuries and a half of existence this plate has had constant usage and shows it.

Ah, well, what, I wonder, will be our manners and customs when our nation, like this, has a thousand years to its credit? What will America be, what will England be then? Let us trust both better and greater and grander than they are now.

While I handle these dainty bits of silver that have outlasted the lives of so many great men, Captain D. pours bits of gossip about army life and the late war into my ears, and I notice that he does not hear very well on one side, and ask why. "Oh, nothing much; a Boer bullet hit me one day and clipped out a bit of my skull under my left eye, coming out behind my ear, and destroying my sight and hearing on that side,—it was not much." No! I suppose all soldiers would say it was merely in the line of their profession, yet life is the best thing given to us, and those who hold it at a nation's disposal should have the best that nation can bestow at all times. I have no doubt but that each nation intends to give all—they are careless, not ungrateful.

After these days of rest in Buttevant barracks, it is pleasant to see again our green car glide round the corner and draw up at the door—not that we have not used it while here. My sojourn with these soldiers of the King has proven a delightful experience which I shall never forget. As we are loaded up and the car is snorting to be off they crowd around us and we make all sorts of appointments for future meetings, few of which in the usual course of life will ever be carried out, but there is pleasure in the making. With a last handshake, I give the word and the car glides noiselessly forward, turns out through the great archway, and Buttevant Barracks are a thing of the past for us,—really so, as this regiment moves in September to Fermoy.