There was one man amongst them who struck me particularly, I suppose because he wore a Crimean medal with four clasps, and went quite lame on a crutch. I found out his history. Old Mattingly, the blacksmith of Uffington, had three sons when the Russian war broke out. They all went for soldiers. The first was shot through the hand, as that gray, deadly dawn broke over Inkermann, on the 5th of November, 1854. Had he gone to the rear he would probably have lived. He fought till the last Russian vanished along the distant road, and over the bridge heaped with slain, like a gallant Berkshire lad--and then went to hospital and died of his wounds within a week. The second lies before Sebastopol in the advanced trenches of the right attack. The third, the young artilleryman, went through the whole war, and after escaping bayonet and shot and shell, was kicked by the horse of a wounded officer, and probably lamed for life. According to the rules of the service, my informant seemed to think, he was not entitled to a pension for life, “but they had given him one for eighteen months after his discharge, so that he had almost a year of it to run; and perhaps he might learn blacksmith-work in that time, if he could stand at all, for that was mostly arm-work.” I didn’t know what the regulations as to pensions were, or how long young Mattingly would take to learn blacksmith-work, but I did feel rather ashamed that England couldn’t afford to do a little more for such as he; and should be glad for my part to pay something towards it, if the Chancellor of the Exchequer, or somebody, would find out a way to set this right. Or perhaps if this should ever meet the eye of the Commander-in-Chief, or of any of the gentlemen who were made K.C.B’s in the war-time, or of any other person who has interest in the army, they may see whether any thing more can be done for young Mattingly. Many of the younger ones I could see hadn’t made up their minds whether or no they should enter, and were larking and pushing one another about; and I saw several good trials of strength, and got an idea of what the wrestling was like before the lists were closed. “Bi’st in for young geamsters prize at wrastlin’, shepherd?” asked a young carter with his hat full of ribbons, of a tight-made, neatly-dressed fellow, who had already won a second prize, I heard, at his village revel. The shepherd nodded. “Mose, mun,” went on the carter, “thee shouldst go in. Thee bi’st big enough.” Moses was an overgrown, raw-boned fellow, of about eighteen, in a short smock-frock and a pair of very dilapidated militia-trousers. He had been turning the matter over in his own mind for some time, and now, after looking the shepherd over for a minute, pulled his great hands out of his pockets, hunched up his shoulders, and grunted out-- “’Zay! Try a file[30] wi’ thee, shepherd.”