icers on
Lord Roberts' staff, in a criticism in one of his own papers, has
written that the English infantry, more than any he knows, has the knack
of fighting and marching and keeping on at it, day after day, without
getting stale or suffering from any reaction. The fact is, our Tommies
go into a fight with much the same indifferent good-humour that they do
everything else with. Towards the end of each day's march the soldiers
all begin to look out for firewood, and if at that time you knock up
against the enemy, you may see our infantry advancing to the attack with
big logs tied to their backs and sticking up over their heads. Though it
encumbers and bothers them and makes them much more conspicuous, not a
Tommy will abandon his wood. Supper is a reality. The thought of being
shot does not bother him. Men who fight like this can fight every day.

Taking him altogether, then, your general impression of the Tommy is one
of solid good temper and strength. Of his faults and failings, when you
get to know him, you cannot help making light; for his faults are faults
of conduct only, while his strength is strength of character. As an
individual, I daresay you could criticise him, but in the mass, for the
strength of breed he shows and the confidence he gives you in your race,
you will have nothing but admiration.

I have told you what I could about him, because he is a man you have
never seen, and will probably never have a chance of seeing. For no one
who has not seen Tommy in the field has seen him at all. If you love
England, you must love the army. If you are a patriot, not merely a
Jingo, the sight of these ragged battalions passing will give you such a
thrill as only very fine and splendid things do give; and very proud you
will feel if ever you have had a hand in sharing their work and been
admitted to some sort of fellowship with them.

These are the lads who in their packed thousands tramped yesterday
through Pretoria. Past old Kruger's house, a cottage you might almost
call it, with its lions in front and several old burghers in black
crying in the verandah, we went at a foot's pace, choking in the cloud
of red dust, with the strains of "God Save the Queen" in our ears. We
emerge into the square. The Volksraad is on our right; then the Grand
Hotel, with all its windows full of English people, or sympathisers with
England, many of them women, all waving handkerchiefs and raising a
cracked cheer as we pass. I was s