I don't mind a Guy stuck on a pole, in a field,
to frighten the crows away. I can bear with
that Guy of Guys, the serjeant-at-arms, when,
with a gilt poker over his shoulder, he
precedes Black-rod to the table of the house,
with a message from the Lords. He is, there,
the right Guy in the right place. Guildhall,
too, is properly graced by the two Guy Giants,
Gog and Magog. So is a pantomime by the
Guys in huge masks. But I must, and do
solemnly protest against the introduction of
the Guy element into the British Army. I
think it foul scorn that the brave men who
are ready to spill their blood for us like water,
as their brethren in the line have already
done, and to carry the glory of the meteor
flag of England to the ends of the earth, should
be swathed — for they are not dressed — in
habiliments needlessly and offensively ugly and
ridiculous.

A year since, I essayed, in " Mars à la
Mode," * to point out the errors into which we
were in danger of running. Cheerfully
admitting the necessity for an immediate and
radical reform of the dress and accoutrements
of the army; recognising in all their indefensibility
the abominations of the stock, the
coatee, the tight shoulder straps, the heavy
shakos, the unwieldy brown bess.; I yet foresaw
how our glorious routiners would run—
straight as a bull at a gate—into the opposite
extreme; how, while reforming, they would
destroy; how, while simplifying, they would
uglify. Behold the result. Routine, clothing
boards, sealed patterns, army tailors, have
done their work. The tailor's goose has
cackled, and we have an army of Guys.
* Vol. x., page 193.

Let any man walk the streets of
any county town, or of the suburbs of the
metropolis, and look at the Militia. The eye
hath not seen, the ear hath not heard of, such
Guys. They can't help being raw lads, loutish
in aspect and awkward in gait. Time and the
drill sergeant will set all that right, I grant
the tunic in which the militiaman is dressed,
properly fashioned and proportioned, is a
sensible, serviceable garment: but, shades of
good taste, symmetry and common-sense! is
there any necessity for the unhappy County
Guy to wear a hideous blanket-rag which is
in shape neither a tunic, a frock, a blouse, a
smock, a jacket, a jerkin, nor a vest, but
which vacillates imbecilely between all these
stools, and must fall to the ground at last, as
a preposterous absurdity? Is there anything
in the articles of war that renders it
imperative for this miscalled tunic to be dyed a
dingy brickdust colour—like a bad wine stain
or an old iron-mould — and for the monstrosity
to be finished off with facings that give the
wretched militiaman the appearance of having
a sore throat. Where is Mr.D.R. Hay and his
theory of the harmony of colours? Where is
the School of Design '? Where are the
commissioners of nuisances? Is there any passage
in the Queen's Regulations that points out as
necessary to the good discipline of the army
that the militiaman's tunic shall not fit him,
and that, in accordance with the approved
Treasury Bench system of the square men
being put into the round holes, the tall men
should be put into the short men's coats, and
vice versâ? Why, because military costume
is so reformed, should the miserable militiaman
be thrust into shrunken trousers, baggy
at the knees, and too short in the calf? Why
should his head be extinguished by an
unsuccessful modification of the Albert hat?

Why should he be made ten thousand times
more forlorn and ludicrous in appearance
than Bombastes' army, than any of Falstaff's
ragged regiment; than any of the awkward
squad?

It would be quite bad enough if things
ended here; but County Guy, brave fellow,
is ready to volunteer into the line, the cavalry,
or the guards, so the costume of the line, the
cavalry, and the guards has been expressly
Guyified to suit him. I have seen stalwart
sergeants in line regiments—erst trim
soldierly men—wandering furtively about the
recruiting districts in the purlieus of
Westminster, in the new costume, and manifestly
ashamed. When Louis Napoleon went to
the City I saw, in his escort, some cavalry
officers dressed in the new costume. They
hovered in appearance somewhere between
foreign couriers, horse-riders at Franconi's,
and Lord Mayors' postilions. Only last
Sunday, crossing Trafalgar Square, I saw the
Foot Guards marching home to their
barracks on their way from Church. I declare
that their appearance gave me the horrors for
the rest of the day. Their " togs " (no word
out of the domain of slang will at all convey
an idea of their ugliness), ill-made, ill-fitting,
their bearskins, so boastfully cut down awhile
since, manifestly more cumbrous and
unshapely than before. There was one juvenile
officer — quite a little boy — who slunk along;
his head, poor child—aching and fevered,
perhaps, by last night's Haymarket frolics—
quite buried and weighed down by his
enormous muff-cap. When the regiment, on an
omnibus passing, broke into a quick, running
step, to see this little officer trotting across
the square, his little legs kicking up the
dust, his puny sword flickering in his hand,
and the skirts flip-flapping in the summer
breeze, was a sight to make the friends of
bad taste laugh.

Early in August will be published, price 5s. Gd., neatly
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              THE ELEVENTH VOLUME
                                OF
                 HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
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of the previous Ten Volumes (bound in five) of HOUSEHOLD WORDS, with an Index to the whole, price
£2 12s. 6d., may always be had of the booksellers.