being withered flowers, little coffins, the corpses of sweethearts,
last farewells, and hopeless partings on the lonely shore. Tears flow;
ladies sigh; voices choke; hearts break; children die; lovers prove
untrue. It was tragic, and I confess I could have wept myself--not at
the songs, for they were stupid enough,--but to think of the grey
lugubrious life whose keynote was all too truly struck by this morbid,
melancholy stuff.

Tom Barter, who had been in the army, and was just convalescent from a
bad turn of _delirium tremens_, sang a song about a dying soldier,
visited on his gory bed by a succession of white-robed spirits,
including his little sister, his aged mother, and a young female with a
babe, whom the dying hero appeared to have treated none too well.

The song was vigorously encored, and Tom at once responded with a
second--and I have no doubt, genuine--barrack-room ballad. The hero of
this ditty is a "Lancer bold." He is duly wetted with tears before his
departure for the wars; but is cheered up at the last moment by the
lady's assurance that she will meet him on his return in "a carriage
gay." Arrived at the front, he performs the usual prodigies: slashes his
way through the smoke, spikes the enemy's guns, and spears
"Afghanistan's chieftains" right and left. He then returns to England,
dreaming of wedding bells, and we next see him on the deck of a
troop-ship, scanning the expectant throng on the shore and asking
himself, "Where, oh where, is that carriage gay?" Of course, it isn't
there, and the disconsolate Lancer at once repairs to the "smiling"
village whence the lady had intended to issue in the carriage. Here he
is met by "a jet-black hearse with nodding plumes," seeks information
from the weeping bystanders, and has his worst suspicions confirmed. He
compares the gloomy vehicle before him with the "carriage gay" of his
dreams, and, having sufficiently elaborated the contrast, resolves to
end his blighted existence on the lady's grave. How he spends the next
interval is not told; but towards midnight we find him in the churchyard
with his "trusty" weapon in his hand. This, in keeping with the unities,
should have been a lance; but apparently the Lancer was armed on some
mixed principle known to the War Office, and allowed to take his pick of
weapons before going on leave; for presently a shot rings out, and one
of England's stoutest champions is no more.

During the singing of this song I noticed