"heavy;" he speaks of it as if it were a mere
feather-weight; and as to its being cumbrous
—there—see how well it becomes him! The
Carabineers have also had a new sword
lately; it is a serviceable weapon, well poised,
but the hilt is contracted; there are not a
dozen men in the regiment whose hands are
small enough to wield it with ease.

" And who," we ask the Private as we are
about to take leave of him with thanks for
his escort, "are those men in pink flannel
so busy with spades and wheel-barrows? Do
they belong to your regiment?" "Oh, yes,"
is the reply; "they are some of our officers.
They are cutting trenches to drain off the
wet from their tents." And we notice that
they do their self-allotted task well and
earnestly, without flinching. Fatigue-parties
composed of rank and file usually satisfy the
wants of officers in quarters; but, in Chobham
Camp, the officers lay the men under no such
contribution. When a party of officers can
build their own mess-kitchen on the very day
of their arrival in camp (aa some of the
Thirteenth Light Dragoon officers did), toiling
in the mud like a party of beavers, they
fairly earn the lobsters and chickens, the
remains of which so plentifully bestrew the
ground in this quarter of the Camp.

As we move along we find the same rough
work everywhere as readily and cheerfully
encountered. Good temper appears to be the
universal set-off against hard labour and
privation. The thing, on account of which the
troops have been brought together, is to be
done, and they do it. They take a pride, too, in
their unusual occupations, and the esprit de
corps is apparent throughout. In nothing
more, for example, than in their impromptu
kitchens. In one place a gigantic Life
Guardsman, transformed into a cook, stands
towering over a long file of flesh-pots, and
proclaiming to all inquirers that the brick
range over which he presides and which he
and his comrades have constructed, is the
best kitchen in the camp. As sedately
satisfied is yonder Sapper that the skilfully
built turf oven in which he is trying his first
batch of meat-pies, can turn out pastry better
than the best baker's oven. But more
pertinaciously convinced than either is the
careful Highlander, that his economical stove
consumes barely half as much fuel as that of
any of his neighbours. Some of the regiments
of the line declare that there is nothing like
the old circular Peninsular kitchen, the chief
advantage of which is the facility of its
construction, and its chief defect unlimited
exposure to the elements; and the Riflemen,
who have been well trained to out-door
experience, contend that their under-ground
establishment is unquestionably the best, as it
certainly is the neatest, on Chobham Common.
About one thing there can be no doubt, that
in the article of provision for the women's
comfort, the Riflemen take the shine out of
the whole division. If you want a proof of
this, go round the rear of the Camp, noting
well the sheds and shielings in which the
womankind of each regiment are housed, and
you will see that Chobham Crescent—as the
Gynecæum of the Rifles has been christened
—at once establishes its claim to be considered
the military Belgravia. It is built, as its name
implies, in the form of a crescent, after a plan
furnished by Captain Wilkinson. At a
distance it has the air of a circular field-work;
and, as you approach, you almost expect a
shot from the loopholes with which the
exterior wall is pierced. These harmless
apertures are ventilators, so placed as to give an
even current of air without creating draughts.
The interior of each lodge is about six feet
high, and each married couple have their own
separate chamber and doorway, which admits
the light as well as themselves. The sleeping-
places are neatly curtained off, and exceeding
snugness characterises the whole concern.

We have seen now how both "men" and
women are accommodated; let us peep into one
of the officers' tents. There is not very much
to choose amongst them, although some
perhaps are fitted up with a little less simplicity
than others. To compress what is absolutely
wanted into the smallest compass is of course
the great secret. Under the shelter of a dog-
cart, which—covered with damp cloaks and
blankets—answers the purpose of a drying-
ground on wheels, we remark a row of well
polished boots, the handiwork of a tall soldier
in a stable dress. The boots are not his;
they belong to "his gentleman," Mr. Downybeard
of the Life Guards, who is absent
to-day, at Windsor. That's his tent opposite;
the Guardsman will show it to us with
pleasure. The bed and the toilette are the
two principal articles. The first, contrived
a double debt to pay, is one of those light,
iron, long chairs, which make capital easy
chairs by day. and pull out into excellent beds
by night. The Guardsman runs it out and
shuts it up again in a minute, without
displacing a very pretty piece of needle-work,
roses and lilies on a dark velvet ground,
which somebody—we don't believe what we
are told about Mr. Downybeard's sister—has
sent for the gallant officer whereon to rest
his wearied head. At present, this piece of
furniture is a chair, but the materials for
making a bed of it are being aired on the
dog-cart outside, which is also the receptacle
of the owner's helmet and cuirass. His sword,
hanging from. the tent-pole, is doing duty
over the pretty piece of needle-work. The
toilette table is somewhat elaborately
furnished. Beside the usual complement of
brushes, boot-hooks, and razors, we descry a
bottle of Rowland's Kalydor, and another
filled with "Bouquet de Chobham," the latest
invention of Monsieur Somebody, of Regent
Street, London, and the Rue St. Honoré,
Paris. But the comfort and adornment
of his person are not the only things
that Mr. Downybeard has had in view.