are enjoying a day of rest: it will be more
favourable for our purpose.

The Camp is of semicircular form, and
covers an extent of ground, on the arc, of
about two miles; the distance between the
extreme points, in a straight line, being
something more than a mile-and-a-quarter.
The cavalry, facing the north, are on the
right; the head-quarters, in front of which
the Queen's tent is pitched, come next;
the three infantry brigades, stretching nearly
east and west, follow. In advance of the
latter, but to the left of them, are the artillery;
and the rifle brigade, in advance of
these again, occupy the extreme left.

As the majority of visitors reach the
ground at a spot called Long Cross,
immediately in the rear of Magnet Hill, where the
flag-staff is planted, the easiest way of seeing
as much as can be seen is to enter the cavalry
lines; and, having threaded them up and
down, to complete the circuit of the infantry
afterwards.

At a dip in the highway, in front of the
booths for public entertainment, is a path
beside a turf wall which leads up to the
Camp. This we follow, across a newly made
causeway, over a swamp where the water
has been dammed up to make a pool for
various purposes. To this causeway a few
Sappers and Miners are always giving a few
finishing touches; for it forms part of the
road which the Queen is obliged to traverse
when she witnesses, the evolutions; and,
therefore, it cannot, in their loyal opinion, be
made secure or smart enough. Arrived at
the summit of the first slope, a sentry challenges
us, not for the ordinary parole or
countersign; but for the "pass" from head-
quarters or the Horse-Guards, without which
the interior of the Camp is invisible. That
shown, the stranger is free to go wherever
he chooses.

We breathe freely now, and begin to look
about us. Having been taught by experience
to walk at a proper distance from tent-pegs
—which have a tendency to trip up unwary
feet—we reach the cavalry quarters. A
fluttering camp-colour informs us that we are
in the midst of: the Carabineers. Fine fellows,
all of them. Jackets off, braces hanging
loose, and shirt-sleeves tucked up to the
elbows, they busy themselves with their own
or their horses' accoutrements. There was
heavy rain in the night, and many a bit,
stirrup-iron, and steel scabbard must be freed
from rust. But the burnished helmets are,
thanks to the canvas bags in which they
are kept, undimmed.

The men are very courteous, and desirous
to explain all that a stranger wishes to know.
Let Private Bridoon, of the B troop: a tall,
handsome, young man, with a clear, blue eye,
a fresh colour, and a long yellow moustache
which does not conceal an engaging smile: be
the exponent of his comrades.—Yes; there
is plenty to do in Camp, off duty as well as
on. More than the infantry? No doubt;
look at the horses—they want as much tending
as ourselves, and more too. We were
badly off in stables at first—the horses were
picketed (tethered is the civilian's word) too
low, and some of them got staked. But there's
one thing we can't altogether remedy; we
can't keep out the wet. The canvas roof is
too short for the framework [an universal
complaint throughout the Camp], and the
rain pours in as hard and as often as it likes.
The canvas ought to have overlapped—
it would be quite as pleasant to have the rain
outside as in ; however, we fill up the chinks
as well as we can. Would you like to go
through the stables? The horses are all quiet.

Private Bridoon leads the way. He has a
general regard for the whole troop and a
particular affection for the charger he calls
his own. We observe that every horse is
marked on the shoulder with the letter of
the troop and its own number, and, on closer
examination, discover that the marks are not
branded, but clipped out with scissars, very
neatly; the process, we are told, is repeated
once a month. The interior economy of the
stable is excellent. A careful watch is always
kept for the prevention of accidents. The
horses are well fed, well littered, and well
groomed; and it is no wonder that we find
them in such good condition. Private
Bridoon is very well pleased with the
compliment which, in his own person, he accepts
for his troop, and having done the honours ot
his stable, volunteers the exhibition of his tent.
It is a comfortable place, after all, though it
does seem a little too small for the number
that fill it; and how ten or a dozen men—
the amount varies—contrive to stow
themselves away within that small circumference,
puzzles a civilian at first, as much as the
apple-dumpling mystery puzzled George the
Third. But when he has taken a careful
survey of the interior, he finds that the thing
is managed without difficulty. With their
feet towards the centre, the men radiate with
all the symmetry of the spokes of a wheel, and
have plenty of room to turn on their straw
beds: with space between for such garments
as they cast aside during slumber, or require
at a moment's notice when they wake. There
is one thing in particular which excites the
civilian's admiration, and that is the tent-
pole. It is the dumb-waiter of the establishment,
every pendable article hangs from it)
and every portable object is grouped around it:
arms, accoutrements, mess-tins, haversacks,
all a soldier's "havings." What confusion
when the pole gives way! an event not
infrequent when the midnight rain suddenly
soaks the canvas, and when, unless the cords
are quickly eased off, the apex of the tent is
blown off, and the whole fabric falls—one
universal ruin. Private Bridoon shows us his
helmet, which, he says, is a great deal lighter
than that which the regiment wore a few
months back, when they themselves were