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The effect of Army, or rather Yeomanry life, its fatigues and worries, big and small, on men hitherto unaccustomed to such things, has been marvellous, and productive of a topsy-turvy dom of character, after Mr. W. S. Gilbert's own heart. To commence with, it is curious to note that in many cases men who claim to have roughed it in various parts of the world have been amongst the worst to stand the roughing here, and while weak-looking striplings have developed into fine hardy men; brawny, massive-looking fellows have shrunk to thin and useless beings. As regards character, after about four to six months out here one seems to see his fellows in all the nakedness of truth. I have seen the genial man turn irritable, the generous man mean, the good-tempered man quarrelsome, the smart and particular man slovenly, the witty man dull, the bow-and-arrow ideal (looking) sabreur anything but dashing in action, the old-womanly man indifferent to danger, and the objectionable man the best of comrades. These and other changes have I noted, and often fearfully thought how have I changed, how has it affected me, but
"There is no grace the giftie to gie me,
To see mysel' as ithers see me."
and perhaps it is as well.[Back to Contents]
Petty Annoyances—The Nigger.
Friday, October 5th. We marched into Commando Nek this morning, and are now camped here (when I use the word "camped," I hope you do not think I mean tents and such-like luxurious paraphernalia, because I don't). Our lines have by no means fallen in a pleasant place, being on dusty ground by the side of the road which goes through the Nek, along which for the last two hours about half-a dozen miles of convoy has been proceeding en route for Rustenburg, and what with the yelling of the black man and (a hundred-times-removed) brother—I allude to the blooming niggers—the lowing of the oxen, and the dust—well, "it ain't all lavender," neither is it conducive to letter-writing or good temper. But to own up, the above would not trouble us a bit, if we had only received our mails, which we have not. I had been looking forward to a fine batch and relying on getting them with a faith which would have removed kopjes, and now I am disappointed. The bitterness of the whole thing is that some one has blundered, for the Fifes in front have theirs, and the Rough Riders behind have theirs, but we, the Composite Squadron, are without ours. Donnerwetter und Potztausand! There, I had intended writing and telling you how much I am really enjoying myself, of the beauties of the veldt, its pretty little flowers, the multi-coloured butterflies and insects, the glorious open-air life we are leading and a' that; and here I am like a bear with a sore head, grumbling, grumbling, grumbling. And now the companion of my shelter and sharer of my mealie pap—I call him Cœur de Lion (I don't mind him having the heart of a lion, but I object to him having its appetite)—is growling, and wanting to know "when the Yeomanry are going home. We came out for a crisis, and if the authorities call this a crisis may he be—" etc., etc., as he certainly will. I have tried to pacify him with the following offering of the muse—but failed:—
"Great Bugs of State. Imperial Bugs,
The time grows heavy on our hands;
Are the recruiting sergeants dead?
Does khaki fail, or martial bands?
Oh, teach the vagrant how to ride,
The orphan boy to meet the foe;
May Heaven melt your stony hearts,
To let the foolish Yeoman go."