I have now arrived on the crest of the hill overlooking the south camp, situate in a valley; and travelling on its ridge I can see, far away to my left, the stables of the Royal Horse Artillery. These are constructed of heather, hazel-sticks, straw, and furze; and though in a very exposed situation, they are tolerably warm—a sort of medium temperature between brick-built stables and the open air. These stables have all been burnt down and many horses destroyed since I was at Aldershot. A large open space in front of the stables was covered with Armstrong guns, at which some recruits were at practice. Farther away still is the commissariat—a pile of ugly-looking buildings, full of prime ox-beef, living and slaughtered, ready for the cook-houses, which are here fitted with improved patented apparatus that will bake, boil, or stew with equal facility. Not the least prominent object on the crest of the hill, in the centre of the camp, and hanging on a sort of gibbet-post, is a very large bell, fought for, won, and transported from Sebastopol. Here I have a full view of the permanent barracks in the valley below, together with a range of little shops—butchers’, bakers’, shoemakers’, greengrocers’, outfitters’, jewellers’, public-houses, etc, etc. The first building on my right, after descending the bill, was once a workhouse—it is now an hospital for sick soldiers; and those poor fellows who were able were taking exercise outside its walls. Farther on still I find myself fairly in the middle of the camp, and have little more to say in reference to Aldershot, except that it is the only encampment or station of the British army where the Queen witnesses an occasional review of her troops.
There is one very objectionable matter in connexion with these royal reviews, which is, that her Majesty—known to be so kind and considerate to all persons with whom she comes in contact—invariably chooses the middle of the day at the hottest period of the year to order a field-day in review order, on which occasion it not unfrequently happens that more than one poor fellow is sun-struck, dies, or loses his reason. There is a house or pavilion built and expressly fitted up for the royal family, and the Queen would be far more popular with her army if she would remain all night at the camp, and order the review to take place from four to seven in the morning. As matters now are conducted, the sovereign is by no means welcome by either soldiers or officers at Aldershot; and the sooner the absurd practice of drilling soldiers in the middle of a hot summer’s day is dispensed with, the better will it be for the health, the contentment, and the discipline of the army. The welfare of the army should always be the first consideration of the sovereign and the advisers of the Crown.
The camp at the Curragh is conducted much on the same principle as the camp at Aldershot. It is situate on a vast plain between Newbridge and Kildare, about thirty miles from Dublin, and convenient to the railway-stations at each of the above places. The Curragh is to Ireland what Newmarket is to England—the head-quarters or metropolis of horse-racing and training. There are four race meetings a year at this place—in April, June, September, and October; but they create little interest as compared to former years, when the Marquis of Waterford, Messrs Irwin, Watts, and others of the old Irish school were alive. Unlike the dusty, bleak, and barren desert of Aldershot, the Curragh, all around the camp, is composed of the most beautiful turf, kept short by being eaten by vast flocks of sheep.
The camp occupies a position on the highest portion of the plain, being considered healthy; though many of the horses are continually exposed to the open air, and I have myself seen them over the fetlocks in mud. There are frequently as many as 15,000 to 20,000 men stationed here in the summer months, but many of them are dispersed into winter quarters in the month of October. It was here that the Prince of Wales went through the practical part of his military drill, in 1861-62. I frequently saw him mounted on a grey cob, called “Rupee,” cantering in great glee in company with some young subalterns, little more than his own age, over the beautiful greensward of the Curragh, and many an Irish beggar he has relieved with his own hand. The village or small town of Newbridge is just on the borders of the Curragh, and there is always a cavalry regiment stationed in the barracks, which is the most prominent building in the place.
The revolutionary spirit is, I regret to say, still very predominant throughout the southern and western districts of Ireland, and there are few towns of any magnitude without a regiment or battalion of soldiers; besides this, the police are all, mounted and foot, armed with swords and carbines, being drilled and living in barracks just the same as soldiers. They wear a dark-green uniform with black leather belt. The mounted police have their staff of rough-riders, riding-masters, etc, the same as the regular cavalry: they ride well, and are a fine body of men, but more ornamental than really useful, as they lack the intelligence and detective zeal of English policemen.
Before the camp at the Curragh was instituted, the soldiers stationed in Dublin were drilled and reviewed in Phoenix Park, on the outskirts of the city. This park, for a public one, is the largest and most natural in the kingdom. It is not many years ago since races were held there, but they are now done away with, and it is seldom that troops are reviewed in the park now. There is a splendid monument erected to the Duke of Wellington, a sort of obelisk with the names of all the actions in which he was engaged, reaching from base to summit. The base all around is relieved by bronze castings, representing scenes in the various battles, something after the fashion of Nelson’s monument in Trafalgar Square. One peculiar feature in Phoenix Park is the vast number of very old hawthorn trees, and their red and white bloom has a very pretty effect in the month of May. The viceregal lodge—the residence of the Lord-Lieutenant—is situate in a lovely spot in Phoenix Park. The Chief Secretary’s lodge is also in this park. The space of ground set apart for the drilling of cavalry is called the “fifteen acres,” and it was more of a treat than a toil to be drilled on such ground. The Dublin citizens pay great respect to soldiers generally; they do not, however, like the foot guards, a battalion of whom is generally stationed there—for what reason I cannot understand, as they never leave the city without having a riot with the civilians or the men of some other corps.
There is, however, a way to account for this ill-feeling. The Irish are a very impulsive race, and, as a rule, hate everything English, solely because they are for the most part taught to do so from their childhood. The guards, horse and foot, are mostly English; but other regiments are composed of English, Irish, and Scotch. The Irish agree better with Englishmen in barrack, camp, or on the line of march, than they do among themselves; because, if the one is hot and impulsive, the other will reason: but, knowing the guards to be all English, and never having an opportunity to converse soberly and rationally with them, there is neither time nor inclination to reason, and so they never meet or part without either high words or blows—oftener the latter than the former—and Paddy mostly gets the worst of it.
To foreigners visiting this country, there are no more interesting sights than the camps of Aldershot and the Curragh; and the arsenal at Woolwich has been visited by thousands of distinguished individuals from every country and clime.