After reading an article in Chamber’s Journal for August 1885, headed ‘The Bank Picket,’ it struck me (says a correspondent) that a reminiscence of the Bank Guard in Dublin may not prove uninteresting. I say reminiscence, for, though the Bank Guard is mounted there now pretty much, I believe, as in the days of which I write—some eight-and-thirty years ago—the incident which my memory recalls in connection with it is a reminiscence of an event, the actors in which, except myself, have passed away or have left the service; and in either case, I have not seen or heard of any of them for many years; but if one or two still survive, and this should meet their eye, I have no doubt the remembrance recalled by it will raise a hearty laugh at what was to them certainly no joke, and to me personally was a lesson never again to disobey orders.
The guard over the Bank of Ireland in Dublin was then—as I believe it is now—under the command of the senior subaltern for guard in the garrison, with a proper complement of non-commissioned officers and men; and was relieved, like all the other garrison guards, every twenty-four hours. The men’s guardroom was a large apartment, flagged with stone, on the ground-floor of part of what was once the old Irish House of Parliament; and above it was the officer’s guardroom, which was reached by a flight of stairs, at the bottom of which a door communicated on the left with the men’s guardroom, and facing the stair-foot was a small heavy door leading into the street. In this door was a barred aperture about a foot square, closed by a sliding piece of wood, which could be drawn aside to permit the examination from within of any one outside; and inside the door, a sentry was posted during the night. Through the barred aperture, the ‘Grand rounds’—as the field-officer on duty for the day was called—whispered the countersign to the officer of the guard when he visited the bank at night, after which he was admitted, to enable him to inspect the guard. To the left of the door outside was also a large iron-studded gate, leading into a small courtyard, where the guard paraded during the daytime; but this, as well as the small door, was locked and secured by heavy bars at sunset, and the keys of both were kept by the officer of the guard.
Immediately after the mounting of the new guard, every morning a knock at the door of the officer’s room announced the arrival of the head-porter with a large book, in which the officer signed his name, rank, and regiment; and on the departure of the head-porter with the book, a half-sovereign was found on the table where the book had been. There were no meals provided for the officer, as for his more fortunate comrade mounting the Bank Picket in London; nor were the non-commissioned officers or men ‘tipped,’ as at the Bank of England; but they, as well as the officer, were left to shift for themselves in the way of food during the twenty-four hours, without even the assistance of a canteen vendor, so that the dinners and other meals had to be sent from the barracks—in the case of some regiments, a distance of two or three miles—there was no blanket or greatcoat either provided at the Bank of Ireland for the men; but the officer had some articles furnished for his use, for a consideration, which were exhumed towards night from a small closet in the officer’s guardroom. There was no library or anything of that kind for men or officer; and they were left entirely to their own devices how to fill up the tedium of the twenty-four hours’ duty.
The furniture of both guardrooms was scanty, that in the men’s room consisting of a few forms and a guard-bed of wood, raised a couple of feet from the ground; while the officer’s furniture was more luxurious, he having an old leather-covered couch, with four or five chairs to match, and a large table. There was, however, abundance of fuel; and candles of the mutton-fat order were liberally supplied at the rate of one to each room. Both apartments were large and lofty, the ceiling of the officer’s being vaulted; and its walls, in my time, were covered with drawings in pencil and coloured chalks, more or less well done; and many very amusing, being caricatures of well-known staff and other officers, or sketches of various funny incidents which had taken place at guard-mountings and field-days, in which the figure of old Toby White, the well-known town major, was always prominent, as well as an adjutant of one of the regiments, famed for the peculiar peak which adorned his shako, and his feats of horsemanship, which seemed meant to illustrate the many ways one could fall off a horse without getting hurt. Over the vast mantel-piece were drawings of the breastplates of every regiment that had mounted the guard, all artistically and faithfully done. Like the gorgets, these breastplates have ceased for many years to be part of the uniform of the British infantry; but for the benefit of those who don’t remember them, I may say that they served to clasp across the breast the broad white sword-belt worn in full uniform in the days of coatees and epaulets, and were very handsome, having, besides, the number of the regiment, the regimental badge, and the various battles authorised to be borne on the regimental colour, emblazoned on them.
Amongst the other drawings on the walls was, directly opposite the door leading from the stairs into the guardroom, the figure of a young lady clad in the full-dress uniform of a regiment dating many years anterior to the time of which I speak. She was represented as standing at the salute, with a drawn sword extended in her right hand, and the left at the shako peak shading the eyes. There was a legend—whence derived or how handed down, I am unable to say—that the young lady in the obsolete uniform was the wife of an officer of the guard who one night, many years ago, had become intoxicated on duty; and that she saved his commission by dressing herself in his uniform and turning out the guard to the field-officer when going his nightly rounds. This legend was, I have no doubt, as true as very many which are now implicitly believed; but be that as it may, it was an article of faith amongst the subalterns of the Dublin garrison, who always regarded the fair young figure in the quaint uniform with a certain amount of respect.
In those days, the guardrooms in Dublin were pretty generally ornamented with sketches, some of which were very well done. I may specify ‘The Kildare Hunt,’ round the wall of the upper castle guard; and a monument upon a wall facing the door in the lower castle guard, on which was the following inscription:
In Memory of
A Wigging received by a Subaltern of this Guard from ——.
May whose end be as his life has been—peaceful!
That the above stung the officer in question, who was a well-known martinet, but, unfortunately, had seen no war-service, we soon had reason to know; for an order was issued that in future all commandants of guards were to certify in their guard Reports that the walls of their guardrooms had not been defaced during their tour of duty.