Although the form of a soldier's dress is important, for it may make a considerable difference in his health and comfort, its colour and ornamental details are a very secondary consideration. It were absurd to doubt that a British soldier would fight equally well, whatever the tint of the cloth that covered his stalwart arm and stout heart. Strip him to-morrow of his scarlet, and he will do his devoir as nobly in the white jacket of the Austrian grenadier or the brown one of the Portuguese cazador. Such matters, it will be said, may be left to army tailors and pet colonels of fancy regiments, in conclave assembled. Nevertheless it is a subject that should not entirely be passed over. Soldiers are apt to look with disgust and contempt upon equipments that are tawdry and unserviceable, or that give them unnecessary trouble. They should be gravely, soberly, and usefully clad, in the garb that may be found most comfortable and durable in the field, not in that which most flatters the eye on a Hounslow or Hyde Park parade. Dr Fergusson is amusing enough upon the subject of hussar pelisses and such-like foreign fooleries.
"The first time I ever saw a hussar, or hulan, was at Ghent, in Flanders, then an Austrian town; and when I beheld a richly decorated pelisse waving, empty sleeves and all, from his shoulder, I never doubted that the poor man must have been recently shot through the arm; a glance, however, upon a tightly braided sleeve underneath, made it still more unaccountable; and why he should not have had an additional pair of richly ornamental breeches dangling at his waist, as well as a jacket from his shoulders, has, I confess, puzzled me from that time to the present; it being the first rule of health to keep the upper portion of the body as cool, and the lower as warm as possible."
The doctor further disapproves of scarlet as a colour for uniform, because "a man clothed in scarlet exhibits the dress of a mountebank rather than of a British warrior going forth to fight the battles of his country," and also "because it is the worst adapted for any hard work of all the colours, as it immediately becomes shabby and tarnished on being exposed to the weather; and a single wet night in the bivouac spoils it completely." Here we must differ from the doctor. The chief advantage of scarlet, we have always considered, and we believe the same opinion to be generally held by military men, is that it looks well longer, gets white and shabby later, than a darker colour. The preparation of the cloth and mode of dyeing, may, however, have been improved since Dr Fergusson's period of service. With regard to the colour, there is a popular prejudice in its favour, associating it as most persons do, from childhood upwards, with ideas of glory and victory. Had our uniform been yellow for the same period that it has been red, we should have attached those ideas to the former colour; but that would be no reason for continuing to dress soldiers like canary birds. Apart from association, scarlet is unmilitary, first, because it is tawdry; and, secondly, as rendering the soldier, when isolated, an easier mark than a less glaring colour. We doubt also, if it would harmonize well with the black belts, which we desire to see adopted; and on these various accounts we must give our vote in favour of the sober blue of the Prussians, assuredly no un-British colour, and one already in use for many of our cavalry regiments. The Portuguese troops, as they are now uniformed, or were, when last we saw them, offer no bad model in this respect. Blue coats and dark grey trousers are the colours of their line regiments, and these we should like to see adopted in our service, preserving always the green for the rifles, who ought to be ten times as numerous as they are, as we shall discover whenever we come to a brush with the Yankees, or with our old and gallant opponent, Monsieur Nong-tong-paw. One would have thought that the picking off of our officers at New Orleans, and on other occasions, and the stinging practice of French tirailleurs during the last war, would have taught our military rulers a lesson in this respect; but the contrary seems the case, and on we go at the old jog-trot, heavy men, heavy equipments, and slow march, whilst seven-eighths of the French army are practically light infantry, and it is only the other day that they raised ten new regiments of sharpshooters, the Chasseurs de Vincennes, or some such name, little light active riflemen, trained to leap and to march for leagues at double quick, and who would scamper round a ten acre field whilst a heavy British grenadier went through his facings. The cool steadiness and indomitable pluck of our fellows has hitherto carried the day, and will doubtless do it again when the time comes, but it would be done with greater ease and less loss if we could condescend to fight our enemy rather more with his own weapons. Fas est ab hoste doceri, is a maxim oftener quoted than acted upon. But to return to uniforms. The scarlet might be reserved for the guards – it has always been a guardsman's colour – the blue given to the line, the green kept for the rifles; black belts on rifle plan for all. And above all, if it can be done without too great annoyance to tailors, amateur and professional, deliver us from braided pelisses, bearskin caps, crimson pantaloons, and all such costly and unserviceable fopperies. Spend money on the well-being of the soldier, rather than on the smartness of his uniform; cut down frippery, and increase comfort. Attend less to the glitter of externals, and more to that moral and intellectual cultivation, which will convert men now treated as machines, into reasoning and reasonable creatures, and valuable members of society.
MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. NO. IV
"Have you any idea who that fresh gentleman-commoner is?" said I to Savile, who was sitting next to me at dinner, one day soon after the beginning of term. We had not usually in the college above three or four of that privileged class, so that any addition to their table attracted more attention than the arrival of the vulgar herd of freshmen to fill up the vacancies at our own. Unless one of them had choked himself with his mutton, or taken some equally decided mode of making himself an object of public interest, scarcely any man of "old standing" would have even inquired his name.
"Is he one of our men?" said Savile, as he scrutinized the party in question. "I thought he had been a stranger dining with some of them. Murray, you know the history of every man who comes up, I believe – who is he?"
"His name is Russell," replied the authority referred to; "Charles Wynderbie Russell; his father's a banker in the city: Russell and Smith, you know, – Street."
"Ay, I dare say," said Savile; "one of your rich tradesmen; they always come up as gentlemen-commoners, to show that they have lots of money: it makes me wonder how any man of decent family ever condescends to put on a silk gown." Savile was the younger son of a poor baronet, thirteenth in descent, and affected considerable contempt for any other kind of distinction.
"Oh!" continued Murray, "this man is by no means of a bad family: his father comes of one of the oldest houses in Dorsetshire, and his mother, you know, is one of the Wynderbies of Wynderbie Court – a niece of Lord De Staveley's."
"I know!" said Savile; "nay, I never heard of Wynderbie Court in my life; but I dare say you know, which is quite sufficient. Really, Murray, you might make a good speculation by publishing a genealogical list of the undergraduate members of the university – birth, parentage, family connexions, governors' present incomes, probable expectations, &c., &c. It would sell capitally among the tradesmen – they'd know exactly when it was safe to give credit. You could call it A Guide to Duns."
"Or a History of the Un-landed Gentry," suggested I.
"Well, he is a very gentleman-like looking fellow, that Mr Russell, banker or not," said Savile, as the unconscious subject of our conversation left the hall; "I wonder who knows him?"
The same question might have been asked a week – a month after this conversation, without eliciting any very satisfactory answer. With the exception of Murray's genealogical information – the correctness of which was never doubted for a moment, though how or where he obtained this and similar pieces of history, was a point on which he kept up an amusing mystery – Russell was a man of whom no one appeared to know any thing at all. The other gentlemen-commoners had, I believe, all called upon him, as a matter of courtesy to one of their own limited mess; but in almost every case it had merely amounted to an exchange of cards. He was either out of his rooms, or "sporting oak;" and "Mr C. W. Russell," on a bit of pasteboard, had invariably appeared in the note-box of the party for whom the honour was intended, on their return from their afternoon's walk or ride. Invitations to two or three wine-parties had followed, and been civilly declined. It was at one of these meetings that he again became the subject