ought to have, been turned out to dig and fill in latrines for our soldiers, they ought to have been compelled to do all the menial work of the camps; but they never did anything of the sort “Tommy” was treated for the most part like a Kaffir dog, whilst the saucy niggers led the lives of fightingcocks, and to-day any ordinary Army Service nigger thinks himself a better man than “Tommy,” and doesn’t hesitate to tell you so.  It would be instructive to know the name of the genius who fixed the scale of nigger wage at L 4 10s. per month, with rations.  Fully half that sum could with ease have been saved the British taxpayer, and the nigger would have taken it with delight, and jumped at the chance of getting it.  As a matter of fact, the nigger has had a huge picnic, and has been well paid for attending it.  He has never been kept short of food.  He has never had to march until his feet were almost falling off him.  He has not had to fight for the country that fed and clothed him.  Poor “Tommy!”

HOME AGAIN.

I stood where Nelson’s Column stands—­a stranger, and alone.  Alone amidst a mighty multitude of men and maids.  I saw a people drunk with joy.  I looked from face to face, and in each flashing eye, and on each quivering lip, a nation’s heart lay bared to all the world, for England’s capital was but the throbbing pulse of England’s Empire.  Our nation spoke to the nations that dwell where the sea foam flies, and woe to them who do not heed the tale that the city told.  There was no sun, the city lay enveloped in silvery shadows, like some grey lioness that knows her might and is not quickly stirred to wrath or joy, like meaner things.  I looked above, and saw the monument of him whose peerless genius gave us empire on the seas.  I looked below, and saw, far as my eyes could range, a seething mass of men, as good, as gallant, and as great of heart as those who fought and fell beneath his flag, and in my blood I felt the pride of empire stirring, and knew how great a thing it is to call one’s self a Briton.

I looked along that swaying mass of human flesh and blood, and saw the best that England owns waiting to welcome, with heart-stirring cheers, the gallant lads whose lion hearts had carried London’s name and fame along the rough-hewn tracks of war.  I saw the cream of Britain’s chivalry and Britain’s beauty there.  Men and women from the countryside, from Ireland and from Scotland, all eager to pay tribute to the London lads who had so proudly proved to all the world that it was not for a soldier’s pay, not for the love of gain, but for a nation’s glory that they had risked limb and life beneath an African sun.  Then, as I looked, I caught a distant hum of voices—­a far-off sound, such as I have heard amid Pacific isles when wind and waves were beating upon coral crags, and foam-topped rollers thrashed the surf into the magic music of the storm-tossed sea.  It was the roar of London’s multitudes welcoming home her own; and what a sound it was!