their beaks.

"A horn sounded. The white

smoke of the train rose in the air, and the sound of the carriages rolling on the rails was heard. A sudden agitation came upon all the men. As the engine passed the horses started and shied. The train stopped. The Prince's head was seen behind the window of a carriage. He, too, caught sight of his officers at once. He turned pale, then his face lighted up; he let down the glass, and showed himself, and saluted ceremoniously. Then all saluted him with the same stiff, military gesture, carrying the right hand up to their caps, rigid and erect in their saddles like simple troopers in their ranks. Then the Colonel drew back, and the Countess de Vermandois appeared in her turn, and waved a greeting to them. And all the officers uncovered, and remained bareheaded till the departure of the train.

After the train had gone, they stayed still a moment, looking after it. Then they turned their horses, and came back at a foot pace, without exchanging a word."

The relations between officers and men are much closer than in our army. This is to some extent explained by the fact that all

classes alike must serve their time in the ranks. It would certainly seem strange to us to think of a trooper going in full uniform to call upon his captain at his house in the town. It is true that Miserey was in a peculiar position, as being the son of a former officer of the regiment; but there seems to be nothing out of the way about this visit. Many little details strike us as strange,-such as the whole regiment on the march singing catches, led by one of the captains. Perhaps the queerest scene of all is that following the sudden irruption of Gresset, an officer, into one of the bedrooms, the night before the regiment starts for the

"But suddenly the men were amazed to hear his monotonous voice tremble and falter. 'If you had only suffered what I have suffered. And he began to relate to them in simple phrase, with expressions they could understand, how he had left the country, crossed the sea, and for six months had not slept in a bed, for six months sleeping in holes dug in the burning sand, where one woke up in the morning chilled to the bone by the dew,a whole campaign without receiving a single letter from home, exile and loneliness at eighteen. And his eyes filled with tears.' He explained to these men, all grouped round him now and listening attentively, that he was afraid he had lost his natural goodness of heart through intense suffering. He asked their forgiveness for the way he had worried and punished them, asked for pardon in the name of the great sufferings he had endured, and the obscure labours he had gone through. And then the ardour of eighteen returned to him. He regretted that accursed and beloved land of Africa, where the hardship of exile is largely compensated by the joy of battle and hard blows. He spoke to them of his Spahi's cloak and his olive-wood saddle. He declaimed against the dull existence of an officer in time of peace, the demoralising influence of garrison life. And the men, no longer able to distinguish clearly among all these complicated matters, of the narrative, and imagined, at the yielded to the illusion and the pathos sight of their packed saddles, of the forage-carts and ambulance wagons which blocked up the square, and the bedding folded as if for a start, that they were actually going off on a genuine expedition. They stood

with the grave joy of duty accomthere serious, with eyes moistened plished and the sadness of a farewell."

The story of the book consists of the rise and fall of Miserey,-the

earlier part, which is purely military, and by far the most interesting, treating of his gradual advancement till he receives his promotion. From that point he begins to fall. The author appears by this time to have exhausted his originality, and falls back upon the stock subject of his confrères, whose motto usually seems to be that it is no matter how dull a book may be, provided it be sufficiently indecent. We do not suppose that a French novelist of the present day, except with a very firmly established reputation, would venture to publish a book in which there was nothing risqué, but we may be allowed to regret that we cannot have one break in that long monotony of cheerless dirt which characterises contemporary fiction in France. So M. Hermant ploughs his way along through the mire till he shakes himself free at last, and regains his former liveliness and reality of description in the final scene of all, when Miserey, in the face of his regiment, is expelled

srom the army as unworthy to bear arms. He is marched along the head of the regiment, drawn up in line to witness his degradation.

"On the quay he turned right round as if he had been shot. They pushed him on, but it was impossible fast like a stone built in to the paveto make him go further. He stood ment.

"The 21st marched past,—first the trumpeters, then the first troop, then the second, then the others, four abreast. The regiment passed before Miserey, proud as it stood long ago in the barrack-square, under the kingly glance of the Comte de Vermandois, triumphant as in the plains of Pacy. Miserey stretched out his hands to it one last time in despairing supplication. But IT passed inflexible, living and glorious, in the apotheosis of its sounding trumpets and its triumphal flourishes."

We have scarcely touched at all upon the reigning school of French fiction in these notes upon some of the books of the day. It is an agreeable surprise even to the writer to find so many which can be handled without contamination.

main features of the existence of the rebel Burmese forces.

Burma have fully equalled the most sanguine expectations of all who are most interested in the pacification of that country. The change that has come over its face during the past few months may reasonably be said to be a surprise, a pleasing surprise, to those who were eye-witnesses of its disturbed condition during the hot and rainy season of 1886, and who have since seen the flame of rebellion brought well under control by a brief but arduous and energetic campaign of barely two months' duration. I, of course, except from the number of those to whom this surprise has afforded gratification the rebel leaders themselves and their adherents. What a change has come over the spirit of their dream! A few months ago all, or almost all, was for them couleur de rose. To loot mails and convoys, ambuscade small bodies of troops, shoot down officers and men from almost inaccessible places in scarcely penetrable jungle, to rush on unprotected and weakly garrisoned posts, to shoot sentries at night, to fire and pillage villages friendly to or under the protection of the British forces, and massacre their inhabitants; to quarter themselves and their adherents on any unprotected village, extorting supplies, money, arms, and recruits, the penalty of refusal being death and destruction of property by fire or plunder; to make stern examples of those Burmans whom they deemed traitors to the national cause by putting them to the horrible death of crucifixion à la Burmese (it is to be feared that

I say

"rebel," because such is the term in vogue. But, as a matter of fact, up to the close of the winter of 1886-87, the annexation of Upper Burma was rather nominal than real. The brief lull that followed the occupation of Mandalay and the deposition of Theebaw in November 1885, followed by the peaceful visit of his Excellency the Viceroy of India in January and February 1886, was but a temporary delusion. The rebel leaders, who have now become notorious by their prolonged and successful resistance to British domination, no doubt required time to collect and organise their followers, and prepare a plan of operations. The fire of rebellion was but smouldering, and the august visitors from India had barely shaken off the Burmese dust (it really was dust then, though if the British soldier were asked for what Burma is most remarkable, he would say emphatically "mud") from their feet, when it burst forth into a flame, strong, lurid, and menacing. From February to November 1886 almost every day was marked by some skirmish or engagement with the rebels. It has been the custom to designate the Burmese forces who took the field against us when King Theebaw's army was broken up, as dacoits. Such a term is erroneous. Undoubtedly some of the Burmese leaders were dacoits under Theebaw's rule; but in taking up arms against the British army of annexation they

may reasonably be credited with at least partially patriotic motives. The British troops were very far from being invariably successful in these brushes. In many instances they were greatly outnumbered, in others hampered by the long and inevitably straggling convoys that they had to protect; and, furthermore, in almost every case where the rebels attacked or stood to fight, they were in a position naturally advantageous, hard of access, and from which a safe retreat was easily effected.

Those who have watched the course of the recent guerilla warfare in Upper Burma will have remarked that only on rare occasions did our troops succeed in inflicting heavy loss on the enemy. This is mainly due to the nature of the enemy's tactics. With the Briton victory means the capture or the successful defence of a position, coupled, if possible, with a minimum of loss to his own side, and a maximum of loss and demoralisation on that of the enemy. It may happen, however, that the losses of the victor exceed those of the vanquished. We all know the historic exclamation of Pyrrhus-"One more such victory, and I am undone!" The Burman has, and rightly, a very different object in view. It matters little to him who remains master of the terrain, provided he inflicts serious and sustains little loss. He is an adept in jungle warfare. He knows every track and bypath through his native forests; and with his small, wiry, scantily clad frame he readily evades the pursuit of the soldier or sepoy hampered with arms, ammunition, accoutrements, and somewhat cumbersome clothing. If it is a close thing, the Burman promptly abandons his arms. "relicta non bene parmula" that

The

seems to have weighed somewhat on the mind of Horace, conveys no sense of shame to the Burmese conception of honour and duty. With him all is fair in war, even a weaponless flight. His first motto may be "Slay;" his second certainly is "He that fights and runs away, will live to fight another day." It is in conformity with these principles that the Burmese never, or hardly ever, commit themselves to the defence of a position in which they can be surrounded and annihilated. Many and many are the carefully laid plans of continued operations for attack on Burmese positions that have been arranged, but few and far between are those that have been crowned with success. During the past year, any Burmese force occupying a position within possible striking distance of any body of British troops has almost invariably been attacked, and generally forced to withdraw.

But on whose side was the loss the heaviest? I fear on Our side often. It would be exceedingly interesting to peruse a Burmese account of the past year's warfare (were any such obtainable), with details of losses sustained and inflicted according to their reports. As it is, we have only our own reports-at least officially-to go upon. It is a well-known and quite irresistible tendency in warfare to minimise our own and magnify our enemy's losses. And yet how often we have seen in the account of an engagement with our Burmese enemy the statement, "enemy's loss unknown." The reasons for this absence of known loss are the following in many cases the engagement resulted from a sudden attack, an ambuscade arranged by the Burmese. A column is marching along a narrow path or an open river