The first time we ever saw Mr. Cathcart was on what was known as training day - the twenty-fourth day of May 1860.   A short description of this ridiculous obligation of Canadian citizenship imposed on them by the government may not be uninteresting.

The militia at that period was organized on an entirely different basis from what it is at the present.   All able-bodied men between the ages of twenty-one and sixty years had to attend at a certain point and receive instructions in the art of war one day in the year.   For this purpose the loyal and patriotic Canadians had selected the twenty-fourth of May, Her Majesty's birthday.   An officer of the force, a few days previous, had sent out orders to all the men liable to bear arms to muster on the flats at St. Marys and perform their annual drill.   That day we remember well. It was beautiful but exceedingly hot.   Horses were few, and most of the men made the journey on foot, many of them walking ten or twelve miles through the woods and over dusty roads to the place of rendezvous.

Groups of strong, able, happy fellows could be seen wending their way along the concession lines and through forests, then one mass of foliage, to the place of meeting.   On nearing the London and Proof Line gravel road, which crosses at right angles the various concession lines, the spirits of the pedestrians seemed to rise in proportion as the distance decreased to the various places of refreshment which were located on that oldest thoroughfare in the township, there being no fewer than six or seven hotels between Prospect Hill and St. Marys.   Considering the great heat, the fatigue of the journey, and the importance of the duties of the day it is not surprising that the potations at the various hostelries were frequent and copious.   This produced an exhilaration of spirits in some, which, by the time we reached St. Marys, had passed the hilarious stage of excitement and was fast merging into the uproarious.   On reaching the old bridge over the Thames on Queen Street, we noticed that a large concourse of people had assembled on the flats, and the various evolutions of the troops were about to begin, On all the leading roads converging into the town, travel-stained and dusty men were pouring in.

On crossing the bridge over the millrace, opposite the planing mill, as we entered the flats, several of the others were chatting.   All were on foot except one, who, we were informed, was Colonel Sparling, the officer in command.   He was mounted on a feeble steed, over whose venerable head there appeared to have passed the snows since George III was king.   It was like all mortality, fearfully and wonderfully made.   A heavy ration of straw in the winter, followed by a soft ration of grass in the spring, had increased the abdominal region out of all proportion to the other parts of its organism.   On this ancient specimen sat Colonel Sparling, the commander-in-chief, and whose short, thickest limbs stuck straight out on each side like the arms of a capstan.   The Colonel appeared to give no order to any of his officers, but surveyed the field in quiet dignity.

At last our name was called by an officer at some distance on the flats, and we at once proceeded to fall into the ranks.   This officer was a middle-aged, nimble looking man of average size; his head well set back, large chest and full heart, and a pair of limbs that suggested strength, activity, and the greatest powers of endurance.   He appeared to be the only officer that knew anything at all about military terms or maneuvers, and, as a matter of course, directed the men through the various drills.   This was Mr. Cathcart.   Another officer stood near him who, we were informed, was Lieutenant James Dinsmore.   The experience that Mr. Cachcart had gained in the yeomanry in Ireland stood him now in good stead.   In Enniskillen, in Armagh, and in Londonderry bodies of British troops were always stationed, at whose drill he had often been a spectator, if not a participant, which gave him a knowledge of military terms, as well as some of the sampler movements pictured in the regular army.

We were at last ordered to fall into line.   Our left rested at the bridge, near the Colonel, and our right extended up to and parallel with the mill race.   A more motley and awkward line of warriors one could hardly conceive. We had not the smart uniforms our volunteers are at present privileged to wear.   Every one of us was dressed as seemed right in his own eyes.   Some of the North of Ireland men had plug hats, bought in Donegal or Londonderry with black broadcloth coats, made claw- hammer fashion, garnished and ornamented with rows of brass buttons in front and at the peaks of the tails in rear.   Others, less pretentious, had encased themselves in blue cotton goods, wearing the ordinary straw hats, while one gentleman had heavy winter garments, and his pericranium covered with a high crowned hat, amply ornamented with squirrel tails.   But though we were uncouth and awkward, let no man for a moment think that in that thin, awkward line there was nothing but clowns.   In the faces of those men were deep, thoughtful lines, evidences of strong character.   Many of them never knew fear. Possessed of sturdy independence, determined and resolute, they had braved the dangers and possibilities of a long voyage across the sea, and with a heroism that cannot be overpraised, struck into the interminable forest and hewed out for themselves independence and a home.   If Mr. Cathcart were to stand on the spot today on which he stood on that 24th of Map and call the roll again, how many of those jovial fellows could respond to their names? Alas! how many? Perhaps a half dozen.   Nearly all are gone. Some have left and found homes elsewhere, but by far the greatest number have answered the roll call of a greater commander than Mr. Cathcart, and joined the silent ranks of the great majority.

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