the third maketh my heart There was a poem appeared years ago in the Lahore paper, 'The Civil and Military Gazette,' on the staff of which Mr Kipling then was, which has never been reprinted in any of his collected verse. It described the Lieutenant-Governor's levee at the Capital of the Punjab as seen by the Irish sentry at the door. If I do not disremember, a fragment ran thus, but I've forgotten the rest "Oi will, sorr," and in came a thin soldierly figure, resembling my friend of Lewes Jail, in a thin, grey, cotton suit. Three medal ribbons were sewn on his coat, and the last was that for the Mutiny . . . the others the Gwalior ribbon and that for the second Sikh War. Mr Doyle sat down and wiped his forehead. "It's a long toime since oi was here, sorr! It was in Jim Turnbull's troop of Bombay Horse Artillery in the Mutiny toime in '58. Did you know Captain Jim Turnbull, sorr? " Now as this was 1903 and he was talking of 1858, it happened that I did not, and then he told me stories of the conversion of the Bombay Horse Artillery to Royal Artillery in 1859, and how Jim Turnbull would have none of it, and how now he was on his way to Kilmainham, the "Ould Soldiers' Home." Mr Kitchener, him that was brother to the commander-in-chief (viz., Walter K.), had sent him there; "for Oi'm an ould man, sorr, and at Umballa the judge's lady came to see me in hospital, and she said, 'Go home to Doblin, ould man, for you've bin in India longer than me, and God knows that's long enough,' so Oi'm on me way now, sorr. At Allahabad in the Boer War I saw the officer commanding the battery, and said I heard the Quane wanted her ould soldiers. He laughed at me, sorr, and said to the "Will you come come in, Mr sergeant major, Take him Doyle?" away, and give him a hundred "Oh, the dignity and the moild benignity, Whin the Hoigh Coort judges tuk the floor, And the Shubedars wid their midals and shtars, Stud up to attinshun foreninst the door." of Then I met Mulvaney once again in Central India, in that old - world cantonment Saugor. Sitting in my bungalow one hot-weather day, my bearer brought me in a dirty card, on which was inscribed "Mr Patrick Doyle." rupees from the canteen fund, for he's an oulder soldier than you or me,'" and so on in that soft Irish accent that was a pleasure to listen to in its soothe and coax. FORT AMARA. Many of the stories of the three soldiers are told round Fort Amara, the guardroom of what in reality is the old fortress of the Kings of Delhi, which frowns high over the great city of Lahore, inside which fortress the Mogul Emperors of Delhi, the last of the thousand years of Turkish dynasties in India, built their spring palace. It would be used in the months of March, April, and May in their yearly migration from Agra to Delhi, and Delhi to Lahore, and Lahore to Kashmir, which began in January and ended in June, bringing their northern provinces into complete review as they moved from one palace fortress to another. These Turkish emperors built their palaces in the same style at each of their centres and in Kashmir. Fountains and cascades, avenues of cypress, a hall of public and a hall of private audience, a pattern as sealed as the Roman Forum. Opposite the guardroom in Fort Amara stood within a stone's-throw these graceful buildings, with grills and terraces of marble inlaid with jasper and lapis lazuli and red cornelian, partly picked out by the rude soldiers of the Sikh period. Here the master gunner tended the big guns that frown on the city from the high interior plinth, which were once in my charge, and here overhanging the wall are the barracks in which the company of British infantry from the Mian Mir Cantonment spend a dreary month of guard duty in turn. Here Mulvaney and Learoyd and Ortheris chewed the cud of discontent through sweltering summer months, when the heat haze had hidden in pea-soup the view of the Punjab which in winter furnishes so beautiful a sight to those who climb to the high battlements of Fort Amara (which is not its real name). Out to those high battlements Kipling himself would drive in a "tikka garri," anglice hired photon, from his irksome editorial chair in the Civil and Military Gazette' office. It was to that office came also one summer night Peachy Carneghan and Michael Dravot, looking for a map of the country of Kafiristan, that land of romance of which Sir George Scott-Robertson has since explored some of the valleys, and dispelled the legends of an Alexandrine Colony marooned in the far mountains of Ao Safai. SNARLEYOW. In Quartermaster - Sergeant Bancroft's pamphlet, to which I have already referred, comes also the story of Snarleyow ... that was the horse's real name . . . Snarleyow, the artillery draught horse whose tragedy is so inimitably told in the ballad of that name. You will remember the refrain— "Down in the infantry nobody cares, Down in the cavalry colonel 'ee swears, Down in the lead with the wheel at the flog Turns the bold bombardier to a little whipped dog." That third line means when the lead horses and driver of a gun team are down, and the pace has been so fast that the wheel driver is flogging his horses. Now that close on a million Britons have served in the Royal Artillery during the Great War, guns and gun horses are household words. Here is the story as told in the song, of the battery moving into action, at a gallop ... they were tucking down the brow When a tricky trundling round shot gave the knock to Snarleyow. They cut 'im loose and left 'im 'ee was almost cut in two, But 'ee tried to follow after as a well trained 'orse should do. 'Ee went and fouled the limber, and the Driver's Brother squeals 'Pull up! Pull up! for Snarleyow .. 'is 'ead's between 'is 'eels." Then it will be remembered that the driver would not pull up, saying— "There ain't no stop, conductor, when a battery's changing ground!" And he swore that he could not even pull up for his brother with his head between his heels. A shell burst over the limber wheels, and "There lay the Driver's Brother with 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels." Now Snarleyow was a real horse, the off pole horse, or, as we should now say, the off wheel horse of the waggon of No. 5 gun in the 1st Troop, 2nd Brigade, of the Bengal Horse Artillery (a battery of horse artillery being then called vice of the East India Coma troop), that magnificent serpany's immortal Army, at the battle of Ferozeshah fought in the first Sikh War on the 21st22nd of February 1846. It was the battle in which the Governor-General, as well as the Commander-in-Chief, spent of battle but in the middle of the night not only on the field the dead and dying, the roar of the Sikh artillery, and the blaze of the burning Sikh camps, wondering what the morning would bring forth. The Governor-General's staff had mostly been killed, and the Governor-General, Sir Henry Hardinge, had ordered his imThe picture of the "Midnight portant papers to be destroyed. Bivouac by Martens is well. known. "Snarley," as he was usually called in the troop, was evi dently a holy terror, the sort legs. Bancroft's account runs : of horse who would' throw himself down, and would have to have his bedding lit underneath him before he would rise. Probably a Turcomani horse bought from the father of Mahbub Ali, the Afghan horse-dealer in 'Kim,' or his like... an entire horse, too, no doubt, which only added to the fun. Bancroft tells the story how the Horse Artillery were galloping in to close quarters, as they could not with their light guns reach from their first position the heavy Sikh metal. He was then a gunner, and seated on the limber of No. 5 waggon, from which he was knocked by a shot; but prior to this a ball had struck the pole horse of the waggon in the stomach, and in an instant the poor brute's intestines were hanging about his The writer called to the rider informing him of the mishap in language more plain than refined perhaps by saying, 'Tom! Tom! (the man's name was Tom Conolly) Snarleyow has turned inside out and his innards are dangling about!' Tom shouted to the corporal leading the team, Joe! Joe! pull up! Snarley's g-ts are hanging about his legs,' to which request the corporal coolly made answer, Begorra, Tom, I would not pull up at such a time if your own g—t were hanging out!'" -ts Bancroft also relates how, just before this, one gun had halted because the two polemen-viz. : the two gunners seated on the wheel horses—had been cut in two by a round shot, the lower halves of their bodies remaining in the saddles. when my own worthy and quartermaster - sergeant were also in high office in the Lodge, wegave him a combined orderlyroom-and-masonic telling off that I daresay he remembers to this day. THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A KING. As I am treading on this one of them in an out-of-theforbidden and entirely secret way junction in Rajputana. subject of Freemasonry, I will Carnegan, as he afterwards give the following, which will turned out to be, asks the be intelligible only to Masons, teller if he could possibly be but the fact remains. Thirty at the junction a week or two odd years ago there appeared later. The teller, who is rather in the Contemporary Review' interested in the loafer's doings, a most brilliant appreciation says he could, and promises and critique of Mr Kipling's to give a message to the former's earlier works. The critic, how- friend, whom he was to find in a ever, remarked that now and certain train, seated like a again the brilliant young writer gentleman in a second-class struck a hopelessly false note carriage with all his luggage without any seeming cause. round him. The message was He gave two instances, one only to say, "He's gone south," perhaps a fair shot. He said and the loafer says to the that the line in "Gunga Din" teller, "You won't forget, for when the wounded bheesti lay the sake of your mother and dying "I 'ope you liked your mine." Oh! says the critic, drink,' said Gunga Din"- another false note! What a was never Gunga Din, but jangle! Who would ever imwas Aut Kipling aut nullus. agine a loafer appealing to a The other was this way. It complete stranger by the will be remembered how in the memory of their mothers! I early part of that wonderful leave it at that, it has a meaning story "The man who would be all its own, but the inner a king," in which the two knowledge that Mr Kipling adventurers, Peachey Carnegan has of the things he writes and Michael Dravot aforesaid, about is one of his greatest tried to rule a valley in Kafir- charms. The same is noticeable istan by masonic ritual, fudging in "Snarleyow." Officers of the process when their own the artillery will often say incomplete knowledge failed, that in the lines "Down in the teller of the story, pre- the lead with the wheel at the sumably Kipling himself, meets flog turns the bold bombardier |