It was no uncommon thing before the days of easy railway travelling for a friend of the family to reside almost permanently in a country house. I remember such a one at my father’s house in Norfolk—Colonel Nelthorpe by name—an old bachelor who might well have stepped out of one of Fielding’s novels. This old colonel had a room known as Colonel Nelthorpe’s room, and a stall for his horse in the stables, both of which were always kept vacant and ready in view of his arrival during such brief periods as he might choose not to reside at Wolterton. His servant, whom he addressed in tones such as we might fancy Squire Western would have employed, he called “Wulliam,” and to “Wulliam” went the whole of Colonel Nelthorpe’s not inconsiderable fortune, a bequest which somewhat staggered my poor mother, who, though as a rule a most unworldly woman, had in this instance conceived an idea that the old colonel would be sure to leave his fortune to her two little girls (my sister and myself), for whom she declared he had always shown a distinct partiality. When we were alone with this old veteran in the country all the tit-bits were for him; but her attentions were lavished in vain, for, as I have said, nothing came to us, and all went to “Wulliam.” My father’s friendship with Colonel Nelthorpe (one of the ugliest men, by the way, I ever remember) had been in a great measure caused by their being jointly associated for a very long time in the command of the West Norfolk Regiment of Militia, now the 4th Battalion Norfolk Regiment. My father commanded this battalion for years, whilst Colonel Nelthorpe was its lieutenant-colonel right up to his death, at a great age, in 1854, having served in that capacity for about forty years. In 1815 he had commanded a detachment of the regiment which had been sent to Ireland, and the year before he died, at the age of eighty-two, he took part in the annual training, on which occasion, the Peace Society having circulated much anti-military literature, the militiamen were openly reproached, hooted, and ridiculed in the streets of Norwich. It was to this battalion of militia that Captain Borrow, the father of the celebrated author of _Lavengro_, acted as adjutant for forty-two years, whilst one of George Borrow’s brothers, who died in Mexico, also served in it as a lieutenant.