Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Our volunteers
OUR VOLUNTEERS.
If we were to look for the very root and spring of the present Volunteer movement, we should find it possibly in the celebrated letter of the Duke of Wellington, with which he rudely awakened Englishmen from the dream they had dreamed since Waterloo and Trafalgar, that our isle would be inviolate “come the four corners of the world in arms to shock us.” The Saxon mind from that time slowly took alarm, and since the establishment of the empire the whole nation has turned in upon itself, as it were, to consult its own deep instincts as to what should be done. The “Times,” appreciating the blind instincts of the people, first shaped and moulded the movement in the direction it ultimately took; but it was to the voice of song that we owe the rapid and splendid development of peaceful citizens into armed battalions ready for the field. The philosopher who notes the shapeless grains of sand grouping themselves into regular forms, when influenced by the vibrations of certain sounds, could in the Volunteer movement see an analogous movement in the moral world, when the Poet Laureate’s stirring song “Riflemen Form” thrilled through the land, and at a stroke organised into serried lines the mobs of panic-stricken citizens. We question if any section of the nation has been taken so much by surprise by this movement as the military caste. Having experience of the lowest stratum only of the population in our own country, and of the National Guards on the Continent, it did not believe that the office, the chamber, and the shop, could turn out, at six months’ notice, regiments worthy to be brigaded with regular troops, forgetting that in the Great Rebellion the shopkeepers of London marched to Gloucester, and there and then decided for ever, in England, the contest between despotism and liberty. Those again who remembered with a supercilious smile the National Guard of continental nations—middle-aged gentlemen, fat and frowsy, who do duty on compulsion—should not have confounded their capabilities with the picked youth of this country; athletes, with bone, muscle, and pluck enough to go anywhere and do anything.
“But, what about the Review?” exclaims our reader. Well, then, there are some subjects so well thumbed that a writer’s only choice is to talk round them. Among the many hundred thousands who crowded Hyde Park on the 23rd of June, jammed tight between two Guardsmen in the purgatorial space before the stands, we noticed the long and sombre line of England’s Home Army slowly pass before the Queen. Across the green sod this sombre riband of men came on and on, their ranks ruled as straight as lines, and the whole mass sweeping round with a movement like the spokes of a wheel. For an hour and a half came the tramp, tramp, unbroken by a sound save by the distant music, their own feet, and the occasional cheers of the spectators, for it was perhaps wisely ordered that none but the Queen’s band should play during the Review. Persons accustomed to the reviews of regular troops were struck by the exceeding simplicity of the uniforms. There was no holiday attire here. Grey and green made up the long column, save that, like a lance, at its head, fluttered the brilliant scarlet of the Artillery Company and the bright tunics of the Huntingdonshire Mounted Rifles. It was impossible to avoid drawing comparisons between the different corps as they marched past; indeed, the line of military spectators who fringed the reserved standings were very demonstrative indeed in their professional criticisms, and it is but just to say that in no instance was there the slightest shade of professional jealousy evinced by them. “What splendid horses!” we heard a Guardsman involuntarily exclaim, as the Huntingdonshire Mounted Rifles went past; “Her Majesty don’t mount our men like that.” Every horse perhaps was a valuable hunter, and the man that rode him was warranted to do some good cross country skirmishing if called into presence of the enemy.
The Honourable Artillery corps again puzzled the people mightily, and we believe to this hour numbers went away with the idea that a battalion of Her Majesty’s Grenadier Guards led off the Review. But we confess that, to our unprofessional eye, the most active and soldierly-looking set of men were the Inns of Court corps. The greyish-brown dress possibly tended to give the men size; but it was impossible not to remark that the “Devil’s Own” carried off the palm for setting-up and athletic proportions. When we consider that these young lawyers are many of them just drafted from the Universities, where physical training is perhaps better attended to than among any other assemblage of young Englishmen, it is not surprising that they should make such splendid young soldiers. That the use of their brains does not militate against the use of their legs, the repeated cries of “Bravo, Devil’s Own!” as they marched past, fully testified. Indeed, a good many could not help remarking that here, as in a good many other places, his sable majesty took excellent care of his children. It was observable in this Review, that the spirit which leads us to stick to what is termed in the army the regimental system, also obtains most fully amongst the Volunteers. Each corps felt a pride in itself, which doubtless will tend to excellent results if the Volunteers are ever called into the field on active service. “Look at the Robin Hoods,” said a soldier next to us, “every man of them looks as though he had shot with William Cloudeslie, and could pick off the Sheriff of Nottingham at a thousand paces;” and most certainly, if there is any reliance on manly bearing, that old idea, that we thought had perished with Merry Sherwood, lives and moves in the breasts of the brave men in Lincoln green from Nottingham. Not less admired was the little company of Artists. Such splendid beards, worthy of Titian, and such fine faces! Imagine some dirty little scrub of a Frenchman picking off his Stanfield, or potting a Millais, in an affair before breakfast! But there would be plenty of Englishmen left to avenge them, and to paint good pictures afterwards. Then there were the Scottish, Welsh, and Irish corps, each distinguished by some national badge or costume. The kilted company of Scotchmen certainly marched admirably, and fully justified the excellence of the costume for that exercise; and the Irish in their green uniforms looked, we must confess, very like their own constabulary, and we could not pay them a better compliment. It would be advisable if the Welsh corps were to put its goat through a little marching drill before the next review, as he certainly evinced a backwardness in coming forward on the last occasion, which slightly threw that gallant regiment out. If Mr. Bright, or any of the “peace party at any price,” were present, it must have galled them to have seen the Manchester corps, 1600 strong, move along its dark green mass, forming with the Robin Hoods a brigade of themselves. The Lancashire lads, it is clear, are not inclined just at present to beat their swords into pruning-hooks. Neither must we forget the Durham corps brought to the metropolis by the munificence of Anne, Marchioness of Londonderry. Up to a late hour on the previous Friday, these citizen-soldiers toiled in the deep mine, in the counting-house, and behind the counter; then donning their uniform, travelled all night and appeared on the ground as fresh as daisies, and after a hard day’s reviewing hurried northward, and were home again by daybreak. We question if campaigning would be much harder work than this.
The Bristol corps, a regiment of stalwart Saxons, in like manner came from the other side of the island, and indeed from all parts the Volunteers were drawn to air themselves for a few hours in the eyes of their Sovereign. And her Majesty was justly proud of their devotion, and was so moved that, at one time, she actually shed tears—precious tears. What other monarch in Europe, for such a cause, could shed them? It may be that we see with partial eyes, but we question if any country in Europe could send forth such an army of picked men as defiled before the Royal Standard on that occasion, and some of the Parisian journals were handsome enough to say almost as much. As the French Ambassador Persigny watched the last Volunteer march past him, he turned to an English friend and said, “This is indeed the handsomest compliment you could have paid us.”
But to drill well, and to make good marksmen, are two very different things; or, to use the language of the Hythe Manual of Musket Instruction, “marching and manœuvring can do no more than place the soldier in the best possible situation for using his weapon with effect.” How are our Volunteers to become good marksmen? Blazing away at a target without any preliminary instruction is a mere waste of powder and ball; this fact they have long found out at Hythe. The public cannot understand this, and there has been a loud cry in the papers for ball-cartridge practice; but General Hay will tell you that to begin with ball practice is to begin at the end. Before a man can shoot effectively with a rifle, he must know how to hold it. At short ranges he can shoot standing, but when it comes to a thousand yards he requires a rest of some kind, and the kneeling position will give him a natural rest if he is instructed how to take it. We question if many of those portly riflemen to be seen in every corps are at all aware of the trifling knot they must tie themselves up into, ere they can accomplish this position. In the book of instruction the position drill for long ranges is as follows: “When kneeling, the right foot and knee are to be in the right position, and the body (i. e. buttock) is to rest firmly on the right heel.” If any rifleman who has lost his waist will have the goodness to try this position, we would recommend him to have some assistance at hand to help him up again! Again, we are told that before a man can take aim with his rifle he must be able to fire a cap without winking. No such easy matter, as any man may easily prove to himself; and when this difficulty is got over there is the very necessary exercise in judging of distances. Nothing is so deceptive as distance, especially in level places where you see the ground foreshortened. All these things are taught at the Hythe School of Musketry, and we are glad to find that a number of Volunteers have undergone the musketry drill there with exemplary patience. Nine-tenths of the Volunteers are, however, perfectly guiltless of having gone through this preliminary instruction, and we cannot therefore expect that until they do, any large number of first-rate marksmen will issue from their ranks. But we want a large number of good shots rather than a few very first-rate ones, and somehow or other this we must have. The Volunteer Rifleman has entered upon a new exercise in which he cannot afford to take a second rank. He must be with his rifle what his forefathers were with the long-bow, and the only manner in which he can accomplish this is to make rifle-shooting as scientific a pastime throughout the land as cricket.
Every village and hamlet must have its butts as of old, and village must compete with village. Thus trained, our annual gathering on Wimbledon Common will soon set in the shade the Tir Fédéral of the Helvetian Republic. The one great quality necessary to form a rifleman, is eminently an English quality—steadiness. Strength is another quality, almost as indispensable. The weak-armed man has little chance, for his muscles will tremble before he can take deliberate aim. Look at the Swiss rifleman, his chest and arms are models of capacity and power, and we do not think that in these particulars we have to fear even the mountaineers. It is thought by some that our familiarity with the fowling-piece ought to give us a decided advantage over every other nation; but the experience of the Government School at Hythe appears to be altogether adverse to this notion. The best rifle shots declare that the mere sportsman has in fact a great deal to forget before he can handle the rifle properly; that the kind of instinctive aim taken at a flying bird is a very different thing from the deliberate aim required for target shooting, and that the best riflemen are invariably found among persons who had never previously fired a shot. That this dictum requires some little modification, however, will, we believe, be proved by the recent competition at Wimbledon Common, for to our own knowledge, some of the largest scores have been made by keen sportsmen. The opening of our first National Rifle Match, on July 2nd, by her Majesty, gave even the used-up sight seer quite a sensation. He witnessed something of which his former experience afforded him no inkling. It was neither a Derby Day, nor a Review Day, nor a Fair-day, and yet in a measure it partook of all three. The wide-extending heath almost prepared him for the Grand Stand, and the innumerable persons in uniform led him to expect a sham light. The line of streamers and flags of all nations, and the town of booths running right and left, seemed as though the old fair had been revived for his delectation. But what was the meaning of the long range of earthworks far away on the other side of the Common? Of the hundred thousand people who lined the vast enclosure, in carriages and on foot, possibly not a thousand persons could, of their own personal knowledge, have given an answer. That they were butts indeed they knew, but Englishmen must go back some three or four hundred years in order to associate such appliances with any national pastime; and, therefore, their appearance seemed in some measure to revive old times, and to link that vast multitude with old days that are long, long gone.
But whilst we look into the grey distance, and gather from the size of the target, six feet square, but not apparently larger than a sheet of note-paper, what a thousand yards’ range really is, there is a motion in the gay marquee on our right, the royal flag is run up, and shortly Her Majesty and Prince Albert are seen proceeding down the planked road which leads to the little pavilion. Here for upwards of an hour Mr. Whitworth, with the most nervous solicitude, has been laying a rifle on a rest, specially constructed for the occasion. But the sod is soddened, and the delicate instrument is constantly sinking with its own weight, and has to be continually re-adjusted. As Her Majesty approaches, however, all is prepared; and almost before the ringing cheer with which she is received has died away, she has fired the rifle, and hit the bull’s eye, and that only one inch above the two lines which bisect each other in the very centre—on the vertical line itself, and but one inch only above the horizontal one! Thus Her Majesty opened the proceedings by scoring three, the highest number that could be obtained at a single shot. Now along the whole line the firing commenced from little tents situated exactly opposite their respective targets; but, as might have been expected, the first day’s firing was not very satisfactory, and many a rifleman, the pride of his own local butt, found that in the flurry of the scene he had lost his usual cunning, and loud were the complaints we heard that the five shots—the regulation allowance to each gun—were not sufficient to bring out the real stuff in a man. But with the morning air of the second day shaken nerves were restored again, and Englishmen were not found to be behind the picked shots of Switzerland. It is certainly rather unfortunate that the latter should have failed to have rescued their rifles from the French Custom House authorities; but as they well knew that they could only shoot for some of the prizes with rifles not above ten pounds in weight, they have little to complain of, we apprehend.
The establishment of an open target at which all comers can fire without any restriction, is a very lucky hit; and is, in our opinion, well calculated to elicit some very good shots from the crowd. Englishmen have a certain individuality which is likely to display itself in rifle-shooting, as much as in other things, and a little “undress” shooting is sure to be very popular. As far as we have yet seen, the National Rifle Shooting Association has inaugurated among us a new sport, which will, we believe, rapidly take root, and place us in the foremost ranks as marksmen. It is a good sign when a nation takes to an exercise as a matter of sport, which it may be called upon to perform in grave earnest; and as long as we know how to snap the rifle, truly we may snap our fingers at the gentlemen across the water.