There is often scorn expressed for our bathrooms with their modern appliances, but I noticed at P—— that one of the scoffers, who might have had his little "tub" (so constantly extolled) in his bedroom, waited and almost missed his dinner that he might use the only bathroom in that vast establishment. I do not desire to accuse the officers of uncleanliness—very far from it—but they should be better provided for in this respect.
I am also astounded to note the treatment of the common soldiers—"Tommy Atkins"—by the public. In time of war he is worshipped, but in time of peace is scarce considered to be a man, merely a servant to be pushed and shoved about and treated most discourteously, to say the least. I saw this done in a theatre the other night, to a soldier who addressed a simple, civil question to the man next him. The reply he got and the treatment he received would, in America at least, have resulted in a row, and justly too. However, that occurred in Ireland where the "red coats" are not liked.
I understand that the pay per year of the officers in the British army is about as follows:
A Colonel, £400 Sterling
Lt. Colonel, 300
Major, 240
Captain, 200
Lieutenant, 100
These figures do not seem very large when a man offers his life to his country, but they are in excess of many nations on the Continent, where the officers are forced into beastly poverty by the call for outside gorgeousness. At a late grand review the eye of a beholder was attracted by an officer quite resplendent in a beautiful white uniform, superb high black boots with glittering spurs, a silver breastplate, and glittering helmet, and mounted on a splendid black charger, his appearance was gorgeousness intensified. After the review the observer, passing the tent of this same officer, saw the entire gorgeousness as to uniform hung up to dry and on the wretched camp bed sat the man with no socks on,—"too poor to buy them," all the pay and far more gone in the useless display,—and yet not altogether useless, for without the uniforms these great standing armies would melt away like mist before the sun and many a throne totter to its fall. However, if the splendour must be maintained, and it is certainly beautiful to look at, then those forced to wear it and bear its expense should be better paid, remembering at the same time that the wearers are ready at any moment to stand up to be shot to death in defence of the home where you sit comfortably reading your paper—therefore "PAY, PAY, PAY!"
The officers of these Fusiliers are devoted to their cook. I suggested the other day that his coffee might be improved,—it was wretched, in fact, not coffee at all, while no fault could be found with the rest of the menu. They replied that they knew it, but he had been so devoted in battle, had cooked under a galling Gatling fire, had rushed so many times over death spots to bring them hot sausages which he was forced to carry in his hands, that they could not scold him. I drank his coffee with great pleasure after that. The heroes in this world do not always wear the most brilliant uniforms and has it not been proven that it is the commissary which in the end decides the conflict?
Doneraile Court, County Cork