there, filling rapidly. Somebody pushes me
behind; I push somebody behind. My foot
is on a step, then on another, then I am what
is vulgarly but expressively termed "hiked
up," and find myself in a carriage. A door
slams; a bell rings; a whistle screams forth
a hideous charivari, and we are off. As we
glide out of the terminus a melancholy
panorama passes before us; a stormy, soughing
sea of mournful faces—the thousands who
are left behind.

We arrive safely; not exactly at Chertsey,
there being a trifle of half-a-dozen trains
ahead of us, preventing our train from being
drawn into the station. So the authorities
—consisting, I suppose, for the occasion, of an
imperturbable guard, and a man in a velveteen
shooting-jacket, who plays tricks with green
and red flags—turn all the passengers out into
a verdant ditch, beyond which there is a piece
of good stiff ploughed land, and beyond that
half-a-dozen excellent marshy fields. If we
choose to walk through these, the authorities
obligingly condescend to tell us, by way of
rider, we shall save at least a mile-and-a-half
of the four miles supposed to lie between
Chertsey and the Camp at Chobham.

To accomplish these four miles, we were
told in London, in advertisements on a bright
green placard— which reads, as Johnson said
of Goldsmith's Natural History,as delightfully
as a fairy tale—that there would be provided
a profusion of omnibuses at the Chertsey
station, which would convey all visitors
thence to the Camp at an uniform rate of one
shilling. But where are the omnibuses?

Here they are, in the proportion of about
one to every hundred and a half of passengers.
Here they are, very rotten in the body, very
shaky in the springs, very staggering in the
wheels, decorated with mud in profusion, but
with paint in paucity. Here they are, drawn
by broken-down old horses with Cow Cross
countenances, with broken legs and broken
wind, and broken hides, and broken harness.
Here they are, crammed inside and out with
human ants; while the cry of the drivers,
like sons of the horse-leech—as they are— is
continually, "More, more!" yet refusing,
with ironical cheers and facetious vituperation,
to convey a single passenger to the Camp
for less than ten shillings.

I spurn the extortion. I reject the amended
tariff of seven-and-sixpence propounded by a
financier governing an asthmatical
stage-coach, plastered over with placards. I will
have nothing to do with a withered anatomy
of a carriage—a skeleton barouche, with
horses such as the ghost trooper in Burger's
Lenore might have ridden—mounted by a
palsy on horseback—a top-booted sciatica, a
Methuselah in a blue jean jacket, the very
eidolon of a post-boy. I will walk. I am told;
with screams of derision, that it is a "good six
mile" to Chobham. Never mind. I remember
what the railway authorities told me about
the short cut across the fields. My boots are
thick, and my heart is stout. I will defy the
ploughed land and the quaggy marshes.

I am soon weary and footsore. My feet are
gyved with lumps of the ploughed land. My
apparel is stained with the marshes, torn with
the hedges I have scrambled through. I
am shin-bruised, hustled, heartsick, weary,
and horribly thirsty.

It is reported of that much-tried ship,
whose starting timbers shivered, whose pitchy
seams were rent, that when she had laid,
tossing and rolling dreadfully all the day in
the Bay of Biscay O! a sail, a sail, a sail
appeared in sight, which the exhausted
mariners hailed with three cheers, and
immediately sailed with the gale, from the
Bay of Biscay, O! We see in the horizon
a shop for the sale of Beer—a little, mean-
looking, country public-house, which
approach is instantaneously thronged with a
heterogenous assemblage. Elegantly dressed
ladies sit on rude benches and trestles by the
side of country clowns. Belinda is for the
moment confounded with Lobbin Clout. Lips
accustomed only to the finest brands of claret
and champagne are suddenly immersed (and
deeply too) into mugs—plain brown mugs—of
fourpenny ale. The bar is overthronged, and
the beer engine emptied. The thirsty
customers rush in a frantic manner into the
cellar, seizing on any mugs, clean or soiled,
which they can lay their hands upon, and
crowd round the landlord, who has a barrel
before him which he defends like a Bacchus
at bay, and draws beer till his arm aches.
Here, social distinctions are lost; the Court
Guide is of no service whatever in securing
priority of service. Ragged fellows elbow
dandies, and get beer full five minutes earlier,
but some of the exquisites are strong
stalwart fellows. They seize mugs, and battle
for beer valorously, and get it.

I am come from beyond London to
Chobham, in Surrey, for the express purpose of
seeing the sham fight, Her Majesty, the Camp,
and the great guns. What do I do? This
little public where I am beering is only (and
really) a mile from the Camp. Do I accomplish
this mile? No? It is by this time
two of the clock, afternoon; I am exceedingly
tired, dissatisfied, dusty, and disposed to
contemplation. I cannot budge hurriedly. I
must pause.

At length, mollified and soothed, and
satisfied in my own mind that the review must
be well over by this time, I resume my
pilgrimage towards Battle Fair—a day after it.
Crowds of pedestrians and equestrians
returning towards Chertsey apprise me that the
review is over. The omnibusses are more
crowded than ever, and the jaded horses strain
and drag away at their unmerciful loads in a
truly piteous manner. Prices for conveyance
have come down remarkably. Insides are
freely offered at three-and-sixpence, and seats
on the roof are quoted as low as half-a-crown
and three shillings. But, as I have walked so