A SORE TEMPTATION.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXI, Issue 83, 7 April 1900, Page 11 (Supplement)

A SORE TEMPTATION.

[Published by Special Arrangement.]

By JOHN X LEYS,

'Author of "In the Toils," "The L^aEays," "The Broken Fetter," "A Million of Money," "The Thumb-print, etc. [Copyright.]

CHAPTER XXVI.

A VISION OF JUDGMENT.

It was the first week in December, and Mr Grenf ell's marriage was fixed for the thirteenth. Nobody in the parish had the smallest idea that he was about to marry a relation of the Hector Campbell who was wanted by the police for the murder of the old Squire. They only knew that the curate had resigned his charge for the purpose of being1 married somewhere down in the south country.

That was all that was known; but there was plenty of speculation about the match, and plenty of gossip and laughter among- the girls and women of the place. Certainly they were right in saying that the curate did not look like a happy bridegroom. He went about like a man go wrapped up in his own thoughts that he did not know where he was or what he was doing1. His expression was one of 'dourness," and he had strange fits of wild though subdued excitement. It was easy to see from his face that he was not himself, as people say—that he was labouring under an emotion that was too powerful for his peace of mind. He confided in no one, and went through the duties of his calling in ajaabseiitiminded, mechanical manner,very different from that of the man who had a few months before been so full of zeal.

When Richard CarcTale recovered from his fever he had been as a matter of course questioned by the police as to how he became acquainted with Hector .Campbell's address. These-in-quiries he received with sullen silence. So the police went away as wise as they had come. ■ '

Cardale had by this time convinced himself that he had nothing- to fear from the curate. If the man' had intended to speak he would have done so at first. If he were to tellliow what his mother had said to him on her death bed the chances were that he ■would not be believed. Still, it would be a relief, he felt, if he were out of the parish; and he looked forward to the day of his quitting- the neighbourhood with much satisfaction.

To George Grenfell the world around him was now a mere scene in dreamland, unsubstantial, and of no moment whatever. He scarcely knew more than that he was to leave Gardale on the twelfth of the month, never to return, and that he would on the day following become Estelle's husband. He had told her that they would go 'to Paris, and he supposed they would, but how long they would stay abroad, or what he should do on their return, he had not the faintest notion. lie was to be married to Estelle. That was the one point from, which his thoughts, all his emotions, started, and to which they all returned.

But in this first week of December a very simple matter—the finding of an old letter which, he had supposed to have been destroyed long ago — ffave his thoughts a new turn. He told himself that it was not safe to leave behind him that note book which he had deposited with his old tnTor at Exeter. Who could tell into whose hands it might fall? It was the o,ne existing witness of his perfidy. He knew well that if the story written there should ever come to Estelle's ears .it would destroy all friendly .relations between them. What would she think -of the man who had deliberately, for purposes of his own, suppressed the evidence of her father's innocence?

Then the question suggested itself: What was he to do with the note book? He would not dare to keep it beside him, for fear of his wife seeingl it. It would be better to burn it, lie said to himself. Campbell was in safety—living- in a small town on the coast.of Italy—and happy. No one would, disturb him there. The police were powerless to find him. As for his reputation, what did that matter? His-, very .name would soon be forgotten. True, he would lose his inheritance; but he seemed to be well provided with money, and what did he ■want with more? Grenfell had taken his. decision on that night when he had helped Campbell to escape, leaving him in ignorance of Mrs Cardale's confession; and the logical consequence of his action then was that the note book should be destroyed. He wrote to Mr Daintree, therefore, begging him to send him the packet he had left in his care. .....,■

He had calculated that the packet would be delivered in Cardale on Saturday evening, and he resolved that he wqujcl burn it that very night. Hut owing to Mr Daintree's. carefulness in registering the packet it did not .reach Cardale till Sunday morn'nß"- ~lt was put into the curate's hands just as he was setting out for morning service. Grenfell frowned and bit his lip. He hated to have the

two sides of hi si life brought into this juxtaposition. He did not like the idea ot going to read prayers in public and help tlie vicar to administer the sacrament just after destroying that death bed declaration. It hurt nim to think of it. So he threw the packet into a drawer, locked it, and putting the key into his pocket set out for the church.

It was a stormy morning and few people were out of doors. Occasionally the rain came down in torrents, and it was impossible to keep up an umbrella. But for the most part the force of the tempest, seemed to cow the rain and drive it away, that it might rage in undisturbed fury. The swinging sign at the White Lion, which had stood the storm of a hundred years, had come down during the night, and now lay a wreck in the middle of the road. 'The very sound of the bell was swept away by the blast, so that at times it could not be heard at all.

When the curate reached the church porch he found it full of wondering, terror-stricken people. Every timber in the tower over their heads creaked and groaned as though it were beingtorn in pieces by the hands of some monster. The mere noise of the wind shrieking round the gables and along the roof made it almost impossible to hear oneself speak.

Mr Grenfell passed through the porch into the church, and so on to the vestry.

The vicar w7as there before him, and at his side a tall, thin, grey haired man in a cassock. The vicar introduced the curate to the stranger, saying" at the same time that the Rev. Augustine Moore was an old friend of his, and. that he had consented to preach for him that morning. Mr Moore's name was well known to Grenfell, though he had never met him before. He knew •him to be an eloquent and successful mission preacher. But as Grenfell belonged to that school among the clergy who rather deprecate pulpit oratory, the recollection aroused no enthusiasm in the curate's mind. He merely bowed with the deference due from a younger to an older man, and after settling- with Mr Bellamy the order of the service, he put on his surplice in silence.

A few minutes later they entei'ed the church and prayers were begun, the vicar and curate sharing- the service between them, and the stranger sitting alone, a conspicuous figure, in the chancel. The congregation, in spite of the storm, was not smaller than usual, for several devout Methodists had come to hear the famous preacher. Outside the storm roared and raged so as almost to drown the. voices of the village children as they sang the psalms to the squeaking* accompaniment of a. wheezy old harmonium. But Grenfell's clear tenor could be heard in every corner of the church.

When the prayers were over and the hymn was sung the stranger rose and hastily, as if he were eager to begin the work he had undertaken, walked down to the stone pulpit and mounted the stews.

In a voice so low that it could scarcely be heard in the noise of the storm he read the account of the Last Judgment from the Gospel of St. Matthew. Then, laying aside the book and leaning with folded arms over the edge of the pulpit, he began to paint the scene over again in his own language. He described a number of people—not Jews of two thousand years ago, but Englishmen and English women of to-day—assembled to hear their doom. Bankers, lawyers, tradesmen, labourers, children, fine ladies, tramps, farmers —he pictured them all—waiting". Too late to alterthe past, by one hair's breadth —too late for mercy—the Day of Justice had at last come.

And now the clear tones of the preacher penetrated the rougher noise of the storm, as a sword would flash through semi-darkness. He did not seem to raise his voice, yet every ear in the church heard-—and listened. The appearance of the throne was described, the coming of the Judge, then the sentence, dividing- this way and that—to right, to left, to left, to right again.

Everyone listened, the curate among the rest. He admired the descriptive powers of the preacher immensely. One could almost feel that one had been transported out of the usual bounds of time and space— that the final human tragedy was then and there being enacted.

Suddenly the tall form of. the preacher, who had all this time been leaning bent over the edge of the pulpit, reared itself erect. Every eye was fixed on him.

"What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul, or be cast away?"

The very wind seemed to be hushed in the silence that followed. George Grenfell heard, and the foundations of his soul were shaken.

A violent tremor passed through every nerve and sinew. He sat there, pale" as the image of death, his eyes riveted on the preacher.

"What has it profited—what has it profited? I gained the coveted post, the fortune, the applause, I hungered for, and I lost—myself! Oh, the folly of it, my friends, the mad insensate folly of. it. The devils who tempt ns might pity us, if not for our weakness, at least for our madness. What sane man can risk the loss of himself, body and soul, for as long as God shall be God, for anything- this earth can offer?"

These were the last words George Grenfell heard of that sermon. They shook him, so that the sweat broke on his forehead

The question whether a man shaH yield to a certain temptation or not depends, in nine cases out of ten (supposing- that there is a struggle at all), on the direction in which he keeps his eyes fixed. If lie keep them steadily fixed on the desirable object, all exhortations, -whether i from within or from without, will fall on deaf ears. He will infallibly fall. But if the tempting vision can be shut out, and the attention forcibly ; twisted to look at the other side of I the picture—the punishment, the! suffering to others, the loss of honour, of self-respect, or whatever it may be, tliere is at least a possibilttyl that the will may follow the eyes , of the mind. Estelle was not there.; If she had been sitting beside him the very thunders of heaven might j have threatened him in vain. But j she was not there, and the Judgment was —there, before his eyes! What should he answer for this thin"- he was about to do? "For the love of a woman I tricked her. I hid the truth, and caused her father to wander forth, an exile from Ins country, that I might hi\ve my desire. If his daughter had not been left , alone, if she had been placed in the j seat that was hers by rights, I should | not have won her, for she did not

!." "" "" " "" truly love me. I have hidden the truth and gained a wife through deceit. I have denied my garments, and set my face as a Hint to do evil— 1, a man vowed to serve the Lord. : The curate walked into the vestry, the vicar and the preacher following : him. The congregation slowly melted away. Then the .Reverend George Grenfell took a sudden resolution. He knew it was but weak, and that if he did not act at that instant he might never be able to carry it out. So, interrupting the vicar, who was complimenting nis guest on his "magnificent sermon," he said to the preacher, suddenly: -'May J speak to , you for a moment?" and without , waiting for an answer, or looking I behind to see whether Mr Moore was following him, he led the way into | the empty church. | The liaise oi the storm seemed to |be greater in the empty building than lit had been when the pews were partly j filled. But in the chancel it was i quieter. The curate went into the j pew, sat down, and hid his face on the j bookboard. | When he knew by the sound that I the 131-eacher wa.s seated beside him, without any preface he said: "I have yielded to a sore temptation, and sold myself to the Evil One. I hope 1 have j repented. At least I wish to repent, | I want your help and advice." And so, step by step, lie told the stranger all. He ceased speaking, and for some moments there was no sound in the church but those of the storm. Glancingl up hastily to see whether Mr Moore was still beside him, he saw that the grey-haired man had closed his eyes, and that his lips were moving as though in prayer. "Thank God, my friend," said the voice in his ear, "that your heart has been touched before it is too late. It is not too late to repair the wrong you have done." "Hut what must I do?" "You must place the woman's dyingdeclaration at once in the hands of the authorities. That will relieve you of all responsibility in the matter.1' "Will you do this Cor me 7", "Yes. Certainly." The curate told him where the notebook would be found, and gave him the key of the drawer in which it lay. 1 will take it at once to the nearest magistrate, and then you ■ will be stronger, for you will leel that you have taken an irrevocable step," said Mr Moore. "But it will i>e necessary," 1 should think, for you to go yourself before a magistrate and make a sworn declaration to the accuracy of what you wrote down from the dying woman's lips, i will go with you, if you like." "I have no words to thank you with," said the curate, simply. "Nay, 1 count it ns a great privilege to be allowed to help you." "But must 1 make no public confession, no acknowledgement of my guiit r "Xo. Certainly not. ou are not bound to give any reason for withholding the declaration so long. Your . private motives concern you only. 11 will probably be supposed that you were simply uncertain how you ought; to act." "And if I am questioned?" "Decline to answer the question. It is not as though you had given any scandal by your conduct." "Shall I tell the person whom thfi confession implicates that he is in danger?" "No. That is none of your business. Let the law take its course." "And the other —the man who has been wrongly accused?" "I should lot him know what you have done, and let him come and faeo it out or not, as he chooses. You need not explain your motive for delaying to make it known." "But the lady to whom I. am engaged? She must know!" And here, for the first time, the man gave way. A great sob shook him from head to foot. The clergyman waited till he should receover his composure. "Am I bound to tell her?" whispered the curate. ( "If you obtained her consent to' mnrry you by means of a false pretence", that you had in effect saved her father's life, you are bound to remove' that false impression at the earliest opportunity—before you marry her. But you need not do more than that." "J might as well tell her all," said Grenfell, in n voice of despair. "I do not .say you are bound to tell the lady more than T have said; but T certainly think the best way would I)'1 to be as frank with her as possible. If she loves you " "All, but I fear she does not!" cried the curate in a tone of anguish. The clergyman laid n comforting hand on the curate's shoulder, "However great the trial I conceive it your duty to be frank with her. And believe me. whatever you may suffer now, it is nothing to what you would suffer afterwards if you went to the altar with her with a lie in your right hand. The truth would very soon be known to her. She would cease to respect you, for she would feel that you had tricked her into the marriage. Your love for her could not possibly survive her contempt. You would both be miserable, and your remorse would last a lifetime. Whereas, if you have the courage to tell her the truth now, and give her back her freedom, you will force her, after a fashion, to respect you; and it may be that her heart will of itself turn to you." The curate only shook his bowed head. "And if'not, you have at the cost of your own suffering- saved her from a life of wretchedness. My son, that is for you the narrow path—the path of duty, the path that leads to life everlasting. Have courage. What would it. profit you to have a wife who did not love,'or even respect, you? Where would you hide your shame from her eyes'?" "You are right —I know it! But, oh! it is hard!" , "It is not so hard as it seems. The devil always makes the narrow way appear more thorny than it really is. Take my advice, and do not see the lady at present. Write to her and tell her what you have done. You have the excuse that it was done out of love for her, though it was but a selfish love. She will forgive you. You will have the tmspeakabe blessing of a mind at rest, a conscience at peace. And in the course of a few mouths, if you are the man I take you for, you will look back and bless God for having delivered you from a great danger." And then the manhood in the curate asserted itself. The passion that had so long dominated him was mastered I by a strength not his own. He lifted his head. "I will!" he said. "I will do as you tell me." ■ And together, arm m arm, they leit the church. CHAPTER XXVII. LOCHAX.INB ONCE MORE. On the afternoon of the following

! ' day the police paid a visit to Cardak : Grange, and arrested Richard Cardale 'And in the end he found that his besl • plan was to make a. clean breast oJ | it. Fie pleaded guilty to the manI slaughter of his uncle, and the Crown ' accepted the plea. He was sentenced to a short term of imprisonment, and when lie was released from gaol he . i'ound that his explanation of what had happened was generally believed. Hut there remained the more serious charge, overlooked at the time, of the perjury lie had committed at the inquest, The popular feeling against him was strong on account of his i unmanly attempt to throw the blame !of his crime upon Hector Campbell, and his lawyer advised him that his ', best and safest plan would be to leave the country. As soon as he received the amount of the legacy of five thousand pounds left him by his uncle's i will lie emigrated to Australia, and I there we may leave him. At the same assizes at which Cardale | was tried Campbell surrendered to the .'authorities. In the face of Airs Carj dale's statement the Crown offered j nt> evidence, and a fuii'inul verdict jof Not Guilty was returned. I With all his faults Campbell had 1 a keen sense of honour; and he felt i that he could not honourably enter ; into possession of his uncle's estates. ; True, the old man had been misled, ! but the gift of the four hundred < pounds was conclusive to show that he ihnd not intended that Campbell should •benefit by his will. There could not be a. doubt that if he had lived a, day or two longer the Squire would have revoked it. But. there was the difficulty that if I Campbell refused to take the estate it would fall to Richard Cardale, who certainly had no right to inherit it. After'thinking over the matter for I some time, Campbell raised a sum of | four thousand six hundred pounds on |the security of the land, and this sum lie retained for himself, thus putting himself and Richard Cardale absolutely on a level. The rest or the property he devoted to founding a charity for the benefit of destitute and struggling artists. The Grange was turned into a Home—a sort of free Hydropathic Institution, at which many a hardworking governess and drawingmaster—for Campbell gave a wide interpretation in practice to the word "artist"—found rest and refreshment for a time in their toilsome journey through the world, generally with the g-ift]Or a ten-pound note at the end of their stay, "to make up for lost time," as the founder's phrase ran. Campbell spent a good deal of his time at the Grange, entertaining the guests of the institution and seeing that everything went straight, and at such times Kstelle w;is always his companion. Hut their own home was an unpretentious cottage about twenty miles from Charing Cross. Here they enjoyed once more the pleasant life which they had known at ltosemount Cottage. Kstelle never again heard anything of Herbert Ptillen. His father's treatment of his complaint was completely successful. Nor did she make any attempt to renew her acquaintance with Colonel .Marchant or his family. She saw, however, one day a notice in the "Morning Post" that informed her that Cynthia had reached, or was about to reach, the summit of her ambition. She was going to become Lady Brailsford. Kstelle read the announcement with a smile and a sigh. Would the iWorkliy-mimled girl, she wondered, find the prize as rich and satisfying as she expected? Would she and the old pier jog along in tolerable content, or would they furnish yet another illustration of the folly of such unequal unions? ft was with very different feelings that Estelle read, a few days later, a paragraph1 which informed her that the llev. George Greniell was on the pointof sailing for the Gold Coast as a missionary of the Society for the propagation of the Gospel. She had long since forgiven him for the error into which his passion for her had led him. And she had assured him of her full and free forgiveness by letter, as her father also had done. Sometimes she could not help wishing that she could see once more that fine, highbred face, and look again into those earnest eyes. She had not the slightest desire'to become his wife —she had looked upon his letter of humble confession as a great deliverance —but she did wish that after a time she might have lived near him. and been able to prove to him that he had not forfeited her respect, and that she eared for him almost as though he had been the brother for whom site had longed since her childhood. But she knew that it could not be, and that for George Grenfell's own sake it was better as it was. It was better that the sight of her should not rekindle the quenched tire of his passion—better that he should have no hindrances in running the race he had set before him. Only, every year at "Christmastide, Georee Orenfell, in his far-off lonely dwelling, received a message of peace and goodwill from one whom he might cease to sorrow for but whom he would never forget. Jt was a Saturday afternoon towards ' the end of June, and the roses that twined round the cottage which was Estelle's home were filling the eye i with their beauty and the air with their fragrance. Estelle was sitting j in a little arbor her father had made j for her at the foot of the garden, with j a novel in her hand, when she heard a j footstep on the gravel. She lifted her head, and saw Archie Lennox coming! slowly towards her. His face was ' grave, and she put aside her book, and rose to meet him. "Nothing is wrong, I hope. Archie?" ( she asked! as she gave him her hand. "No;■ but 1 have a rather difficult thing to settle, and I want you to help me." Estelle sat down again on the rustic seat, and he took a place beside her. "1 have a letter hero from my uncle.. I wish you would look at it." He i put a sheet of "business size" note- i paper into her hand, and she began to j read it. It wass from Archie's uncle at j Loch A'lhio, the lawyer who had brought him up and who had intended making him his heir. He said in this j letter that he wished to know whether I his nephew's determination to remain in London was final. He was getting to be an old man, and he had hoped that he would find a son in Archie. He needed companionship and help in ! his work. If Archie refused to take j his natural place he must seek else-1 where for a successor, but he would wait a. month before taking any step! in that direction. If Archie would return to him he would make him his partner as soon as he had thenecessary j qualification. And the letter closed j with a few touching words as to the j loneliness of a childless old man who j would rather his last days were spent with his brother's son than with a stranger. "So you mean to leave us?" asked the girl, handing back the letter. Archie did not touch it. "That is for you to say."

> "For me?'' ! "Certainly. Did you not know that i it was because you had left Loch Aline .that 1 came to London? Have you •forgotten that you told me two years i ago that you would never make your I home lit Loch Aline?" I ' "JL am afraid i was a very foolish '■ girl in those days, Archie," she said, : looking down. • ! "Do you mean—oh, Estelle, don't 1 keep me in suspense. You know —no, ; you don.'t_know how much I love you. > if going back to Loch Aline means losing you, I shall not go. 1 will go and see uncle and. tell him so. I will i tell him that the place is too dull —" j I "Oh, Archie, what does the place j matter after all?" "And, as it happens, you are entirely ! wrong about Loch Aline," said the un- j reasonable young person half an hour j ; later as she' left the arbour leaning on j her lover's arm. "1 should love to see j the loch and the dear old hills again." j j "Shall it be this summer, then, j darling?" | "Art-hie! How can you? And as a; punishment she broke away from him , altogether and ran into the house. j But ere the heather bell faded that | year Estelle was Archie's wife. His uncle insisted on the marriage taking place soon, for, as he declared, "the young fule could attend to naething till the London post cam' in, and then he seemed to talc' up a full half of his time thinking- what he would say ill 'reply. He would be of little use till he was settled." j And so Estelle.'s ambitious dreams ' i were realised, and yet had no real i | fulfilment. The life that seemed to ;her so tame and commonplace was the 'life she deliberately chose. But the truth is that in her eyes Loch Aline, in spite of its quiet ways and its simple minded people, is no longer dull. Her father pays her long visits from time to time, and she goes 'to see him generally owe a year. Resides, she has her nursery to think of. And what good woman finds her kingdom dull — that corner of the earth's surface that holds her husband '' and the little ones that cling about her skirts? (The End.) WOLESLEY AS A SCAPEGOAT. WRONGLY BLAMED. At the present juncture, when reports of the retirement of the Com-'mnnder-in-Chiof of the British Army are in circulation, some extracts from an article under the above heading in the Chicago Times Herald," by "Ex JAttaehe." who always writes entertainingly, arc of interest: — Lord Wolseley labours under the 'disadvantage of possessing no political j influence. He is not a favourite at 'court, and he owes his present appointment as Commander-in-Chief to ii Liberal administration. Lord Lansdowue. on the other hand, com'imwds an immense amount of political and social power. Himself the head of the House of Fitzmaurice, he is, through his wife—a sister to the Duke of Abercorn—allied to the socailcd "Hungary Hamiltons" and to the Spencer Churchills, while his chief ally and representative in the House. of Commons, the Cnder-Secvetary of State for War, is to-day step-father |of the young Duke of Westminster, who, as the greatest ground landlord in the United Kingdom, is able to command a degree of territorial influence in politics that is absolutely unique. | Can it be wondered under the circumstances that the Government, called upon to choose between Lord Lansdowne, the statesman, and Lord 'Wolseley, the battle-scarred veteran, should prefer to sacrifice the latter to public irritation, not for the good of the nation but for the benefit of the Tory-Unionist party and administration? I The remarks probably will gain in interest from the fact'that they come from the pen of one who has known Lord Wolseley for some twenty years or more, who is acquainted with the generosity of his character, and who can speak from personal experience ,of some, at any rate, of the insuperable difficulties by which he has been handicapped. FAVOURS MODERN METHODS. Briefly speaking1, Lord Wolseley has been the first English soldiei" to realise that the conditions of modern j warfare are entirely different from | those which prevailed in the early part of the century, and even as late as the Crimean campaign and the civil war in this 'country. He was the first to appreciate that war had ceased tq be n mere question of grit, pluck, and indifference to the sacrifice of human life, but had developed, on the contrary, into a mathematical science. He was the pioneer of the student soldiers in England, and precisely in the. same way that the famous German Field Marshal Moltke made a point of following the Franco-Austrian, and. even the Crimean wars, for the purpose of acquiring information, so did iLorcl Wolseley, at that time a young Lieutenant-Colonel, follow in person ■all the principal events of the Ameri!can Civil war. At the time of the Crimean war England experienced the utmost difficulty in sending o\it an army of 25,000 men to take part in the siege, of Sebastopol. and when more soldiers were needed was reduced to the extremity of hiring1 foreign mercenaries, who brought in many cases disgrace and shame upon the British flag. To-day, thanks to Cardwell and Wolseley, i England is able not only to dispense with the assistance of foreign mercenaries, but even to hesitate about putting any militiamen or volunteer | soldiers into the field, finding that the ! reserves, who have responded in the i most patriotic manner to the call upon their services, have supplied the crown with all the military strength j which iv needs. | THEIR REFORMS OPPOSED. It is doubtful Avhei.her there .vrc many people, save the personal friends of Lord Wolseley and Lord Card well who recall the bitter opposition which these two men were called upon to face in carrying out this work of military reform. Lord Cardwell, a gentle, sensitive and high spirited man, felt so cruelly the abuse heaped upon him by people of high and low degree that he may be said to have died of a broken heart. Lord Wolseley, fortunately, was made of sterner stuff, and continued his way undismayed by either newspaper abuse or by military and 1 political intrigue. One of his most relentless opponents was the oid Duke of Cambridge, the then Commancier-in-Chief, who declared that Cardwell and Wolseley between them were ruining the army, and who never neglected any opportunity of putting1 obstacles

in their way or of publicly or privately reviling- them.

In fact, Wolseley may be said to have carried every reform at the sword's point.

Finally it became so apparent to every one that the old Duke was a bar to every species of military pro- : gress and reform that he was compel- ; led by the last Liberal administration to resign, Wolseley being- appointed in his place. The Liberal Cabinet, forsee--1 ing the possibility of the commander-iu-chief of the army, which is theoretically a prerogative of the crown, | being vested at some future time hi i the hands of another royal Prince, j viz., the Duke of Connanght, resolved to surround the office with a sufficient number of safeguards and restrictions to prevent its holder from ever having ! the power again to become such an i impediment to the administration of ! the army as was the Duke of Cami bridge. The consequence is that toi day Lord Wolseley is Commander-in-Chief merely in name, is in every sense of the word subordinate to the ! Secretary of State for War, and, while j possessing more prestige, has peri haps even less power and influence j than the Adjutant General. ' LIMITS TO HIS POWER. The Commander in Chief to-day is nothing more than the technical adviser of the Secretary of State for AVar, who may or may not accept i Lord Wolseley's recommendations, as !he sees fit. if is notorious that for the ! lastsix months, at any rate, the Com-nmwler-in-Chie'f has been persistently ! ignored by Lord Lnnsclowne, who has j turned a deaf ear to all his suggesj tions. Thus all Lord Wolseley's friends are aware that he urgently and persistently advised the despatch, months before war was declared, of at least one fully equipped army corps to South Africa. He was likewise strongly in favour of the unlimited enrolment of colonial forces, knowing by his former South African experience, the value of the services of these men, who are inured to all the lioer tactics and tricks, besides which their cooperation appealed to his strong spirit ol imperialism. It is equally well-known that he has always recommended the enlargement and improvement of the artillery force his recommendations on the subject being treated with indifference alike by the Secretary of War and by the socalled Ordnance committee, the members of which were the only people whom Lord Lansdowne condescended to consult about the matter. Even with the operations of the Generals now in the field the Opm-niander-in-Chief has nothing' to do. They are absolutely inf"|p«?iif]|'it of his control, take no directions or even advice from him, and correspond over his head directly with the Secretary of State for War. Needless to add, he has not been consulted with regard to their selection, and in the cases of at least hree commanders now at the front he first learned of their appointment through the newspapers.

SKILL SHOWN IX MOBILIZATION.

There is but one branch of the military administration over which Lord Wolseley has enjoyed absolute and undisputed control, viz., that of the mobilization and of the reserves, and this, it may be pointed out, is one feature of the present Avar which has been so entirely successful as to excite the warmest degree of admiration at BerJsix and at other military centres on the Continent. For it is only military men who are aware of the clever organization and the .skill that have been required not merely to mobilize an army of 100,000 men, but also to convey it, fully equipped, to the field of operations more than 7000 miles away from home, in the space of a few weeks. Lord Wolseley has frequently been blamed for his optimism. But the latter has been fully justified as far as the scheme of reserve and mobilization which he devised and created are concerned, while the fact that a man should maintain a sunny temperament and a hopeful disposition in the face of every kind of trial and annoyance is to his credit rather than a matter for criticism. The Inquiry has been made as to why he should not have taken the step of resigning when he found his advice flouted by the Secretary of State for War and his every recommendation ignored. But in the first place soldiers such as Lord Wolseley are not in the habit of abandoning the post of duty, especially at the outbreak of a war, while if the present Coramandcr-in-Chief had tendered his resignation every time that his counsel had been spumed, he would never have been able to place the British army upon such a footing- as that which, despite of .its reverses in South Africa, it. enjoys to-day.