and decked out in black suits faced, and corded with red. These sit astride their cumbrous saddles terrible with clanking cutlasses and formidable holsters into which are thrust the huge horse pistols of that ante-revolver day. The red leather helmets of the grenadiers gleam in the hot sun. Soft hats are as yet a thing unknown and the stiff black beavers of the riflemen in their quiet uniform of gray, and the black leather cap of the infantry, topped each with a black and red feather are as comfortless as they are unpicturesque. The infantry we shall look at again and again. Theirs is the most gorgeous of uniform. It is composed of white trousers and black coats the latter criss-crossed with white belts to which are chained priming wires, brushes and extra flints. The "floodwood" men are, as a rule, innocent of uniform. played in the front of their hat and bearing the letters L. I. tells us that these undecorated recruits (who generally outnumber the uniformed companies two to one) are really martial members of the Light Infantry of the State. They are a prosaic patch in a field of color. The “ Only a tin badge dis The color would seem to be the only picturesque element however, for the art of military tailoring was of a low grade in the twenties and thirties. Thoreau once said, "Wrap a salt-fish around a boy and he would have a coat much in the fashion of many a one I have seen worn at muster." And now comes inspection. The dull lines of the "floodwoods (sober in their sheep's gray and blue jeans and armed with rifles, muskets and fowling pieces of every conceivable pattern) are ordered to "toe the mark"-a literal mark literally toed. Man by man the platoons are inspected. and then along the line rides the Colonel and his staff, lendent in brass buttons, big epaulets and vast cocked hats. The music crashes out. It is more voluminous than harmonious for the instruments have come from all the towns about. Its only uniformity is its tendency to play out of tune. With a roll and a rattle the snare and kettle-drums burst out; boom! go the basses and high and shrill rise the notes of fife and clarionet, with here and there, perhaps, a Kent buglethe father of the cornet. Still clashing out of tune the band gathers around the colonel while the regiment forms itself into a hollow square. And the colonel doffing his chapeau, poses like the great Napoleon and after addressing a few complimentary words to his faithful regiment retires from the field. Inspection over, dinner follows. Then the noon gun calls the regiment back to the parade ground where each company tries to outdo the others in a competitive drill and evolutions the movements of which are all unknown to modern tactics. A break in the maneuvers is caused by those who, lacking cartridges, cannot, to the letter, obey the command: "Open pan; tear cartridge; point; shut pan; ram down cartridge! Ready! Aim! Fire!" Each cartridge-less one must go down into his breeches pocket for the well-filled powder-flask from which to prime his pan. And more than one unfortunate in the excitement of the moment, explodes his magazine in his capacious pocket and retires from the field singed and scorched wrecked in whiskers, hair or eyebrows. Or perhaps the captain shouts “Lock-step and sit down!" Then in single file the company march about, forming a circle in the center of which stands the captain. To slow music the circle draws toward the center falling into the "lock-step " now only known to convict gangs. "Sit!" cries the captain, and down goes each man in the lap of his neighbor — for all the world like a company of leap-frogs preparing to jump. In the center, perched high on a mackerel keg, stands the valiant captain with uplifted sword; the music rises shrill and high and the admiring spectators wildly applaud the tableau. And now comes what the crowd consider the great event of the day the sham battle. In a rudely constructed house of boards and boughs, excluding air and light and supposed to represent a fort, one of the militia companies huddles imprisoned. Advancing by platoons the infantry men of the regiment march upon the fort, discharge their guns in air, wheel outward and retire to re-load. From the top of a neighboring hill boom out the blank charges of the artillery — a battery of bloodless besiegers. Still farther away the black coats of the cavalry charge and swerve in a sham fight on their own account. The air is filled with noise and smoke until the sweltering defenders of the fort, overcome by heat, rather than by heroism, gladly capitulate and marching out with all the honors of war give place in the fort to another company who immediately take possession of it, likewise to swelter and surrender. And when the sham fight is over the day's training at last is done. "Father and I" leave the field and return with Cap'n Gooding convinced that a muster is a grand and glorious sight. And yet, notwithstanding this semi-annual exercise and evolution, it is asserted that in all those early days there was scarcely a company of militia-men really well drilled or proficient in even the most simple military movement. Practically the United States were at peace from the close of the War of 1812 to the opening of the war with Mexico in 1846. Military duties were slighted and shirked by the majority of Americans who could poorly spare any of the precious time. necessary to the noble science of money-making for such "fol-de-rols" as muster and parade. Gradually, so great was the contempt visited upon "belonging to the military" that the militia system itself fell into disrepute and became a butt and a reproach. That typical raw recruit of the Biglow Papers, "Mr. Birdofredom Sawin," was, we know, ceaselessly critical of the fuss and feathers of muster day. Real war when he had to face it, he declared, "ain't a mite like our October trainin', A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like rainin', The "forced volunteers" of the West-men drafted to serve in the militia of a State in which they had neither time nor desire to serve—not unfrequently protested against discipline and proscription. So the militia system gradually fell into disrepute. In a land where caste and rank find but little footing and where social distinctions are of small account obedience in playing at war is but a grudging, a contemptuous or a good-humored concession. "See here, Brown," a militia officer is said to have called out to one of the privates (who when at home, was the pompous captain's employer), "I reckon I'll have to report you for disrespect to your superior officer.' Report and be hanged!" returned the private, with no little emphasis in his tone. When we get home I reckon I'll have to discharge you.” President Lincoln once stated that, previous to the Mexican war, so great a bore did militia trainings become to the people of Illinois that they tried in every way to put them down. Not being able to do this by repealing the militia laws they tried hard to burlesque them. And so, according to Mr. Lincoln's story, they elected one Gordon Adams, a village "bummer" and ne'er-do-well, as colonel of a Springfield regiment. The new colonel's uniform, contributed by his subordinates, was truly startling. One leg of his trousers was of one color and material, the other was in direct contrast. He wore a pasteboard cap about six feet long, looking much like an inverted ox-yoke. The shanks of his spurs were fully eight inches long and furnished with rowels as big as saucers. His sword was of pine wood and at least nine feet long. Among the regimental rules and regulations were incorporated certain absurd clauses, as for instance this: "No officer shall wear |