sandwiches and a pint of ale; Lieutenant Filer
takes our railway fare, and gives us return
tickets. I am no longer a country
conveyancer, or free agent, but a child, a soldier,
a piece on a chess-board, a defender of my
country clad in green and rhubarb, and wearing
a muffin. We sing songs, we examine our rifle
locks, we discuss Whitworth's and Enfield's,
unbutton our collars, and sling our caps on to
our rifles, while we drink sherry or ransack our
canteens.

Green square fields, children breast-high in
corn-fields, startled rooks, rushing brooks, solitary
anglers, blandly staring cows—— " Staunton
Corner," we are there. We tumble out, we
scramble into our company, every one calling
out " Where's No. 1?" " Are you No. 2?" and
eventually take our places. Now comes that
martinet Filer behind each of us, and places
with gentle care into the tin compartments of
each of our cartouch-boxes thirty blank
cartridges, and a little thimble-case of thirty caps.

And now that dreadful parade—— white gloves
on, " examine arms." We take out muzzle-
stopper, pass clean rag down our gun-barrels,
then hold it out on the end of the ramrod
for inspection. The man next me shows
his of a bright orange colour with rust, and
Bagshot's scorn is hard to bear; another man,
four from me, in replacing his ramrod, runs his
bayonet through his nail (poor fellow), and
retires to the rear to be overhauled by the
doctor.

Now we are "proved," as it is called, we
form " fours," changing from two deep, that is,
to four deep; we return again to " twos,"
we right-about face, we fix bayonets, we order
arms—— we go through the whole rifleman's
catechism, wheeling right, wheeling left; with somewhat
hesitating accuracy we countermarch by
files, we countermarch by ranks. Eventually,
we form hollow square, and Bagshot draws
forth a paper, and begins jauntily to read.

The paper is to announce that Lady Driver,
having kindly promised to present a set of
colours to the regiment, the ceremony will take
place now, before we march to Badgerbury,
three miles distant.

We march at once to Bagshot House,
where, in the court-yard, the ceremony is to
take place. The porter receives us at the gates
with rather alarmed condescension. The Grecian
portico of Bagshot House is crammed
with the brave and the fair. Lady Driver, a
little nervous, yet pleased at the task, is
mounted on a coquettishly fretful, chesnut
mare. One or two of our officers are talking
to her, and patting her horse with that sort of
self-conscious unconsciousness not unknown to
the stage, and not unseen in modern equestrian
portraits. Lady Driver wears a habit of
our uniform, green and rhubarb, which causes
a murmur of approbation to run through our
ranks.

The ceremony begins. We face— we reface—
we " right-about-face," on purpose to change
again directly— we port arms— we slope arms—
we present arms, trying to encounter all the
intricacy of the drill sergeant's directions— up go
the rifles— down again— back go our right feet
with mechanical precision. Our old sergeant in
the Fusiliers, who is present to see his children
display themselves, turns red with delight.
We widen and heighten with military vigour and
pride.

The ribbons in the portico flutter in
sympathy, as now the band hired for the day strike
up with thump and bray, and we move off
like one man, with long swaying vermicular
motion, heads and rifles level, feet together
in rhythm, our eyes off the ground, and fixed
sternly and steadily before us. Downshire,
thou hast reason to be proud of the Rhubarb
and the Green! We return to our places. Lady
Driver advances on the wanton chesnut; she
bears in her little white gauntleted hand a small
square flag of green silk, with the regiment's
name worked in silver letters on a maroon
chevron (the street boys call us the
"Bigaroons"); she bows and presents it to the captain,
who bows too, a very A 1 bow; but what they
are talking about we cannot hear, for both are
a little nervous, the wind is high, and we are
some distance off, and all the time Captain
Bagshot talks he holds the end of his shining
sword in his left hand, as if he were a
Bluebeard going to execute Lady Driver, and only
waiting first to hear if she has anything to say
in extenuation of her offence. Now, each of the
sergeants, some gay, some shambling, some
cool, quiet, and sturdy, advances and receives a
flag, which, as they receive, they bow and slip
into the barrel of their rifles with an air of
mechanical pride; then two prize rifles are handed
to the winners, who shoulder them with stolid
contentment, evidently thinking them rather
dearly bought by such a dreadful publicity and
such a tremendous ceremonial.

The colours are given, the gates are flung
open, and we march on to Badgerbury, along a
road blowing white with dust. The rustics are
gathered to cheer us; pretty housemaids, in
dainty neat caps, smile on the green and rhubarb;
shopmen suspend business to come and envy
us; waggoners stay the pewter-pot half way
to their heads, and salute us with hearty
greetings. As for the boys, they get in our way,
and shout and joke according to their wont;
for this is an irreverent age, and Bagshot is
stout, and we are, perhaps, not very well matched
in size— though we do hide our little men in the
centre.

The way is hot, the rifle is heavy. Men in
the rear will tread on your heels, and every time
a tune changes we lose step for a minute or two.
I pass my time in earnestly begging my
rear-rank man, whose loaded gun has been known to
go off prematurely, to take care in the
sham-fight not to keep his gun on full cock, not to
load twice over, and not to fire off his ramrod.
Upon which, seeing me nervous, a gallant fellow
next me (a right file) enumerates all the
accidents he has ever known happen to volunteers
ever since " the movement" began. How one