THE RAMPSHIRE MILITIA.

Westerleigh, Jan. 3, 1853.

DEAR DICK,—If you are crowing over us
because you are seeing fine sights in London
every day, you may leave off.  We may have
our sights too, for anything you know;
such as you never saw here; such a sight
as you certainly will not see in London.  We
are going to have such soldiering as never
was seen since the last war, my father says.
We are going to have a militia training at
Elwich.  All the Rampshire militia—they
say nearly a thousand men; and not one of
them, except the poachers, ever handled a
gun. It will be rare fun—won't it?  Even the
gentlemen don't choose to be worse soldiers,
they say, than the clodhoppers.  So they are
going to form themselves into a volunteer
rifle company; my father and all. He says
the high sheriff of the county ought to set the
example; so there he will be, in a day or two,
learning his drill like the rest.  It is very
provoking that, as I have grown so fast,
I have not grown just two inches more;
for then I might have got in among the rifles.
However, half a dozen of us hereabouts mean
to make ourselves into a junior corps;
although they do threaten to call us the
"short sixes."

The most provoking fellow amongst us is our
parson.  He dined here after service yesterday,
and told my father that he was very willing
to preach that men must defend their country
and their homes; but that he thought they
could do that without all this business of
training.  He struck his breast, and said his
power, and the strength of his arm, lay
there: and that he and his neighbours would
undertake to stop any invading army when
their wives and children were in question.  I
saw my mother could hardly help laughing.
She was thinking of him, in such a case,
leading out all the farm people who never
were shoulder to shoulder in their lives.  He
said he would pit Ned Barry against any
Russian that will ever come this way: but
my father said that you would not find a
hundred men in England of Ned Barry's size
and strength; yet even he might be made
worth twice as much after a good drilling.

But about the officers.  We all wanted the
colonel of the forty-second Fencibles, who comes
over from the garrison at Rampling for the
duty, to come and stay here; and the major,
and the three captains too.  We still think the high
sheriff's the proper quarters for them; but the
colonel—Sir Henry Arundel—thinks he ought
not to be even six miles from the county town.
So we are not to have the fun; at least, only a
dinner or two, and a ball. The officers are
actually going to the Warner Arms for the
whole time. They say their work will be
very hard, and they shall be done up too
much to be good company; and besides, they
choose to be near at hand in the evenings, in
case of anything going wrong; and that they
may see that the men go to school properly.
Those bumpkins are actually to go to evening
school—that is, if they will; but it is my
belief they won't, and nobody can force them.
You should have heard how some of the
people were talking in the churchyard.  Ned
Barry, for one, did not know who the enemy
were, though he felt sure there was one
coming—Rooshan or French, or somebody—
to take Westerleigh, and burn down our
house.  Then, there were several who fancied
the new militia were to be sent to Waterloo
again to fight; and poor old Goody Brice fell
into such a tremble, they took her home
instead of into the church.  She thought the
press-gang had come. All night, she kept calling
out that the press-gang was at the door.
A fine compliment to Sir Henry Arundel!
Your affectionate brother,
W. WARNER.

January 5.

DEAR DICK,—He is here—Sir Henry Arundel.
He wanted some information from my
father, so he was persuaded to give us one
day and night. He is a confoundedly fine
fellow, I think; and so does mamma: but
my father laughs, and only says he should
not wonder if he is; only he might be a little
less saucy. We went to meet him—my father
and I—at the Hillside Junction, two stages
farther than where we left the carriage.
He did not appear, and we were thinking
about dinner, what a mess it would be
if he did not come; when, after the train
had begun to move, up he came riding
as if there was no hurry, and his servant
with two other horses, just as cool. He
actually stopped the train, by sheer impudence.