Like some other officers in the English army,
he thought that this detestable habit showed
signs of manliness and officer-like qualities.
When Vincent was brought up before him, he
had not long held the rank of major, and this
was the first time he had ever presided at the
orderly-room. No sooner had the complaint
against the prisoner, "drunk at stables," been
read out by the adjutant, than the major
opened a torrent of abuse against him, which so
taunted Vincent that he was mad enough to
reply to the major in the most insolent manner.
As a soldier, I could but condemn the man's
act, though, as a man, I am bound to confess
that, under similar circumstances, I should,
in all probability, have done the same. The
major ordered him to be tried by a regimental
court-martial for "being drunk at stables," and
for "insolent and insubordinate conduct to his
superior officer." The court sat the same
forenoon; the prisoner, who by this time had had
leisure to repent and recollect himself, pleaded
"guilty." He was sentenced to receive fifty
lashes, and to be imprisoned in the cells for
twenty-eight days. He was flogged that afternoon
before the whole regiment, and, when he
went into the cells, his hair was, by order of the
major, clipped so very close that he looked like
an escaped convict. When his term of imprisonment
was over, he joined the troop again, but he
was an altered man. No evil spirit had been
flogged out of him, but seven spirits more, worse
than the first, had been flogged into him. A
more utterly useless, worthless soldier I never
saw. If he had a shilling in his pocket, and an
hour's leave into town, he managed to return
drunk. He lived in the cells and the guard-room,
much more than in the barrack-room. At last
the quantity of spirits and beer he drank, had
such an effect upon him, that he really was
seldom quite sober. One day, not drunk,
but half muddled with drink, he turned out
very dirty for a foot parade in Island Bridge
Barracks, Dublin. The orderly-sergeant of his
troop reproved him, and sent him to his room
to brush his clothes, hair, and boots. The
sergeant was not in the least to blame. But the
wretched man, hardly knowing what he did,
rushed at the sergeant, and, before he could
be hindered, struck him two heavy blows in the
face. He was overpowered in an instant, and
sent to the guard-room, from which he only
issued to be tried by a general court-martial,
by which he was condemned to ten years' penal
servitude. He is now working out his time at
Portland. I am quite sure that, if at the
commencement of his folly this Vincent had met
with kind but firm treatment, he would have
reformed, and would have risen to be a good
soldier. He was one of the handsomest young
fellows I ever saw, and, when mounted, was the
picture of an English hussar. I went to see him
on the day when he was sent up to London to be
made over to the civil power; and he told me that
the lash had caused him to form a deep-seated
resolution never to behave well again, and always
to give as much trouble as he possibly could.

I am not only quite sure that no soldier was
ever reformed by the lash — that not only have
good men become bad after its infliction, and
that no bad man ever became good after being
flogged — but I am also equally convinced that
the sight of this punishment is very far indeed
from being a wholesome example. The
noncommissioned officers of a regiment hear and
see a very great deal of which the commissioned
officers are in utter ignorance. In the English
army there are so very few officers who have
been promoted from the ranks, that between
the officers' and sergeants' mess-rooms there is
a gulf which it is almost impossible to span.
However well meaning and professionally zealous
an officer may be, he knows nothing whatever
of the feelings or the opinions—the
prejudices, if you like — of the men he commands.
There is an idea among officers that the example
of the lash is good, and will deter many from
evil. I know as a fact that the exact contrary
is the case. I never yet heard even the
best-behaved soldiers say among themselves that any
man condemned to be flogged had deserved his
sentence. But I have heard, not once, twice,
nor a dozen times during my long term of
service, but every time a soldier was tied up to the
triangles, no matter how great a scoundrel he
had been — no matter even if he had robbed his
room-mates, which, in the soldier's code of laws
and morality, is the greatest crime of which a
man can be guilty—I have invariably heard his
comrades, from the moment of his being
condemned to be flogged, regard him as an object
of the deepest pity.

But the lash is not the only punishment we
have, which degrades a soldier to such an extent
that he feels himself lost. When a man deserts,
after he is caught he is very frequently (almost
invariably) sentenced to be branded on the
shoulder or back with the letter D. When I
first joined the the—th Light Dragoons (since
transformed, as all light dragoon regiments
have been, into the —th Hussars), the corporal
of my squad was as gentlemanly a young man
as you would wish to see. It was rare to
meet with a young fellow of such good
address and correct manners in the ranks of the
English army. His father was a poor clergyman,
and had not the means to buy him a
commission, and so the lad enlisted into a cavalry
regiment. He had a brother-in-law in London
who was well-to-do in the world, and he obtained
permission to spend ten days at Christinas (the
regiment was then stationed in Dublin) with
his relatives in the metropolis. The Christmas
dinner was good, the wine was better, and one
invitation to dinner followed another from the
friends he met at his relative's. Whether he forgot
his leave, or whether he got too much "on
the spree," he over-stayed his leave by seven days
—at the end of that time, returning to the Royal
Barracks in Dublin, where he reported himself,
and was put under arrest. He wrote out a statement,
and showed how, though he had been
guilty of over-staying his leave, he never for
a moment intended to desert. But the colonel