 Section 3 of Reminiscences of Captain Grono. When the eldest son of George III assumed the Regency, England was in a state of political transition. The convulsions of the Continent were felt amongst us, the very foundations of European society were shaking, and the social relations of men were rapidly changing. The Regents' natural leanings were towards the Tories, therefore as soon as he undertook the responsibility of power he abruptly abandoned the Whigs, and retained in office the admirers and partisans of his father's policy. This resolution caused him to have innumerable and inveterate enemies, who never lost an opportunity of attacking his public acts, and interfering with his domestic relations. The Regent was singularly imbued with petty royal pride. He would rather be amiable and familiar with his tailor than agreeable and friendly with the most illustrious of the aristocracy of Great Britain. He would rather joke with a brummel than admit to his confidence a Norfolk or a Somerset. The Regent was always particularly well bred in public, and showed, if he chose, decidedly good manners. But he was in the habit, very often, of addressing himself in preference to those whom he felt he could patronise. His Royal Highness was as much the victim of circumstances and the child of thoughtless imprudence as the most humble subject of the Crown. His unfortunate marriage with a Princess of Brunswick originated in his debts, as he married that unhappy lady for one million sterling, William Pitt being the contractor. The Princess of Wales married nothing but an association with the Crown of England. If the Prince ever seriously loved any woman, it was Mrs. Fitz Herbert, with whom he had appeared at the altar. Public opinion in England under the inspiration of the Whigs raised a cry of indignation against the Prince. It was imagined, I presume, that royal personage should be born without heart or feeling, that he should have been able to live only for the good of the state and for the convenience of his creditors. The Princess of Wales was one of the most unattractive and almost repulsive women for an elegant-minded man that could well have been found amongst German royalty. It is not my intention to recall the events of the Regency. It is well known that the Prince became eventually so unpopular as to exclude himself as much as possible from public gaze. His intimate companions after the trial of Queen Caroline were Lord's Cunningham and Fife, Sir Benjamin Bloomfield, Sir William McMahon, Admiral Nagel, Sir A. Barnard, Lord's Glen Lyon, Hartford and Lauser. These gentlemen generally dined with him, the dinner being the artistic product of that famous gastronomic savant, Watier. The Prince was very fond of listening after dinner to the gossip of society. When he became George IV, no change took place in these personnel at the banquet, excepting that with the fruits and flowers of the table was introduced the beautiful marcherness of Cunningham, whose brilliant wit, according to the estimation of his Majesty, surpassed that of any other of his friends, male or female. This Charlotte of Wales at a fate in the year 1813 at Carlton House. Carlton House, at the period to which I refer, was a centre for all the great politicians and wits who were the favourites of the Regent. The principal entrance of this palace in Palmael, with its screen of columns, will be remembered by many. In the rear of the mansion was an extensive garden that reached from Warwick Street to Moorborough House, green-swored, stately trees, probably two hundred years old, and beds of the choicest flowers gave to the grounds a picturesque attraction, perhaps unequalled. It was here that the air to the throne of England gave, in 1813, an open-air fate in honour of the Battle of Victoria. About three o'clock p.m. the elite of London society, who had been honoured with an invitation, began to arrive, all in full dress, the ladies particularly displaying their diamonds and pearls, as if they were going to a drawing-room. The men were, of course, in full dress, wearing knee-buckles. The regal circle was composed of the Queen, the Regent, the Princess Sophia and Mary, the Princess Charlotte, the Dukes of York, Clarence, Cumberland and Cambridge. This was the first day that her Royal Highness, the Princess Charlotte, appeared in public. She was a young lady of more than ordinary personal attractions. Her features were regular and her complexion fair, with the rich bloom of youthful beauty. Her eyes were blue and very expressive, and her hair was abundant, and of that peculiar light brown which merges into the golden. In fact, such hair as the middle-age Italian painters associate with their conceptions of the Madonna. In figure her Royal Highness was somewhat over the ordinary height of women, but finally proportioned and well-developed. Her manners were remarkable for a simplicity and good nature which would have won admiration and invited affection in the most humble walks of life. She created universal admiration, and I may say a feeling of national pride amongst all who attended the ball. The Prince Regent entered the gardens giving his arm to the Queen, the rest of the royal family following. Tents had been erected in various parts of the grounds where the Bands of the Guards were stationed. The weather was magnificent, a circumstance which contributed to show off the admirable arrangements of Sir Benjamin Bloomfield to whom had been deputed the Organization of the Fate, which commenced by dancing on the lawn. The Princess Charlotte honoured with her present two dances. In the first she accepted the hand of the late Duke of Devonshire, and in the second that of the Earl of the Boyne, who had danced with Marie-Antoinette, and who, as Lord Huntley, lived long enough to dance with Queen Victoria. The Princess entered so much into the spirit of the Fate as to ask for the then fashionable Scotch dances. The Prince was dressed in the Windsor uniform, and wore the garter and star. He made himself very amiable, and conversed much with the Lady's Hartford, Chumley, and Montford. Altogether the Fate was a memorable event. A year afterwards the Duke of York said to his royal niece, Tell me, my dear, have you seen any one among the foreign princes whom you would like to have for a husband? The Princess naively replied, No one so much pre-possesses me as princely appalled of Coburg. I have heard much of his bravery in the field, and I must say he is personally agreeable to me. I have particularly heard of his famous cavalry charge at the Battle of Leipzig, where he took several thousand prisoners for which he was rewarded with the Order of Maria Therese. In a few months afterwards she became the wife of the man whom she so much admired, and from whom she was torn away not long after by the cruel hand of death. It will be remembered that she died in childbirth, and her offspring expired at the same time. The accluture who attended her was so much affected by the calamity that he committed suicide some short time afterwards. Beau Brummel Amongst the curious freaks of fortune there is none more remarkable in my memory than the sudden appearance in the highest and best society in London of a young man whose antecedents warranted a much less conspicuous career. I refer to the famous Beau Brummel. We have innumerable instances of soldiers, lawyers and men of letters elevating themselves from the most humble stations and becoming the companions of princes and law-givers. But there are comparatively few examples of men obtaining a similarly elevated position simply from their attractive personal appearance and fascinating manners. Brummel's father, who was a steward to one or two large estates, sent his son George to Eaton. He was endowed with a handsome person, and distinguished himself at Eaton as the best scholar, the best boatman and the best cricketer. And more than all he was supposed to possess the comprehensive excellences that are represented by the familiar term of good fellow. He made many friends amongst the science of good families, by whom he was considered a sort of criton, and his reputation reached a circle over which reigned the celebrated Duchess of Devonshire. At a grand ball given by her grace, George Brummel, then quite a youth, appeared for the first time in such elevated society. He immediately became a great favourite with the ladies, and was asked by all the dowagers to as many balls and soiree as he could attend. At last the Prince of Wales sent for Brummel, and was so much pleased with his manner and appearance that he gave him a commission in his own regiment, the Tents Hazards. Unluckily Brummel, soon after joining his regiment, was thrown from his horse at a grand review at Brighton, when he broke his classical Roman nose. This misfortune, however, did not affect the fame of the bow, and although his nasal organ had undergone a slight transformation, it was forgiven by his admirers, since the rest of his person remained intact. When we are prepossessed by the attractions of a favourite, it is not a trifle that will dispel the illusion, and Brummel continued to govern society, in conjunction with the Prince of Wales. He was remarkable for his dress, which was generally conceived by himself, the execution of his sublime imagination being carried out by that superior genius, Mr. Weston, tailor of Old Bond Street. The regent sympathised deeply with Brummel's labours, to arrive at the most attractive and gentlemanly mode of dressing the male form, at a period when fashion had placed at the disposal of the tailor the most hideous material that could possibly tax his art. The coat may have a long tail, or a short tail, a high collar, or a low collar, but it will always be an ugly garment. The modern hat may be spread out at the top, or narrowed, whilst the brim may be turned up, or turned down, made a little wider, or a little more narrow, still it is inconceivably hideous. Pantaloons and Hessian boots, with the least objectionable features of the costume, which the imagination of a Brummel and the genius of a royal prince were called upon to modify or change. The hours of meditative agony which each dedicated to the odious fashions of the day have left no monument save the coloured caricatures in which these illustrious persons have appeared. Brummel, at this time, besides being the companion and friend of the prince, was very intimate with the dukes of Ruckland, Dorset and Argyle, Lord Sefton, Alvinly and Plymouth. In the zenith of his popularity he might be seen at the Bay Window of Whites Club, surrounded by the lions of the day, laying down the law, and occasionally indulging in those witty remarks of which he was famous. His house in Chapel Street corresponded with his personal get-up. The furniture was in excellent taste, and the library contained the best works of the best authors of every period and of every country. His canes, his snuff boxes, his serf china were exquisite. His horses and carriage were conspicuous for their excellence, and in fact the superior taste of a Brummel was discoverable in everything that belonged to him. But the reign of the king of fashion like all other reigns was not destined to continue forever. Brummel warmly espoused the cause of Mrs. Fitzherbert, and this of course offended the prince of Wales. I refer to the period when his royal highness had abandoned that beautiful woman for another favourite. A coldness sprang up between the prince and his protégé, and finally the mirror of fashion was excluded from the royal presence. A curious accident brought Brummel again to the dinner table of his royal patron. He was asked one night at White's to take a hand at Wist, when he won from George Harley Drummond twenty thousand pounds. This circumstance having been related by the Duke of York to the Prince of Wales, the beau was again invited to Carlton House. At the commencement of the dinner matters went off smoothly, but Brummel in his joy at finding himself with his old friend became excited and drank too much wine. His royal highness who wanted to pay off Brummel for an insult he had received at Lady Chumlee's ball when the beau, turning towards the prince, said to Lady Wooster, who is your fat friend? and invited him to dinner merely out of a desire for revenge. The prince therefore pretended to be affronted with Brummel's hilarity, and said to his brother, the Duke of York, who was present, I think we had better order, Mr. Brummel's carriage, before he gets drunk, whereupon he rang the bell, and Brummel left the royal presence. This circumstance originated the story about the beau having told the prince to ring the bell. I received these details from the late general Sir Arthur Upton, who was present at the dinner. The latter days of Brummel were clouded with mortifications and penury. He retired to Calais where he kept up a ludicrous imitation of his past habits. At least he got himself named consul at Caen, but he afterwards lost the appointment, and eventually died insane and in abject poverty, either at Boulogne or Calais. Romeo Coates This singular man, more than forty years ago, occupied a large portion of public attention. His eccentricities were the theme of general wonder, and great was the curiosity to catch a glance at a stranger being as any that ever appeared in English society. This extraordinary individual was a native of one of the West India Islands, and was represented as a man of extraordinary wealth, to which, however, he had no claim. About the year 1808 there arrived at the York Hotel at Bath, a person about the age of fifty, somewhat gentleman-like, but so different from the usual men of the day that considerable attention was directed to him. He was of a good figure, but his face was sallow, seamed with wrinkles, and more expressive of cunning than of any other quality. His dress was remarkable. In the daytime he was covered at all seasons with enormous quantities of fur, but the evening costume in which he went to the balls made a great impression from its gaudy appearance, for his buttons as well as his knee-buckles were of diamonds. There was, of course, great curiosity to know who this stranger was, and this curiosity was heightened by an announcement that he proposed to appear at the theatre in the character of Romeo. There was something so unlike the impassioned lover in his appearance, so much that indicated a man with few intellectual gifts, that everybody was prepared for a failure. No one, however, anticipated the reality. On the night fixed for his appearance the house was crowded to suffocation. The playbills had given out that an amateur of fashion would, for that night only, perform in the character of Romeo. Besides, it was generally whispered that the rehearsals gave indication of comedy rather than tragedy, and that his readings were of a perfectly novel character. The very first appearance of Romeo convulsed the house with laughter. Benvolio prepares the audience for the stealthy visit of the lover to the object of his admiration, and fully did the amateur give the expression to one sense of the words uttered, for he was indeed the true representative of a thief stealing onwards in the night, with Tarquin's ravishing strides, and disguising his face as if he were thoroughly ashamed of it. The darkness of the scene did not, however, show his real character so much as the masquerade, when he came forward with hideous grin, and made what he considered his vow, which consisted in thrusting his head forward, and bobbing it up and down several times, his body remaining perfectly upright and stiff, like a toy mandarin with movable head. His dress was outre in the extreme, whether Spanish, Italian, or English no one could say it was like nothing ever worn. In a cloak of sky-blue silk, profusely spangled, red pantaloons, a vest of white muslin surmounted by an enormously thick cravat, and a wig a la Charles II, cat by an opera hat, he presented one of the most grotesque spectacles ever witnessed upon the stage. The whole of his garments were evidently too tight for him, and his movements appeared so incongruous that every time he raised his arm or moved a limb it was impossible to refrain from laughter. But what chiefly convulsed the audience was the bursting of a seam in an inexpressible part of his dress, and the sudden extrusion through the red rent of a quantity of white linen sufficient to make a bourbon flag, which was visible whenever he turned round. This was at first supposed to be a willful offence against common decency, and some disapprobation was evinced, but the utter unconsciousness of the odd creature was soon apparent, and then unrestrained mirth reigned throughout the boxes pit and gallery. The total want of flexibility of limb, the awkwardness of his gait, and the idiotic manner in which he stood still, all produced a most ludicrous effect. But when his guttural voice was heard, and his total misapprehension of every passage in the play, especially the vulgarity of his address to Juliet, were perceived, everyone was satisfied that Shakespeare's Romeo was belesked on that occasion. The balcony scene was interrupted by shrieks of laughter, for in the midst of one of Juliet's impassioned exclamations Romeo quietly took out his snuff-box and applied a pinch to his nose. On this a wag in the gallery balled out, I say, Romeo, give us a pinch. When the impassioned lover in the most affected manner walked to the side-boxes and offered the contents of his box first to the gentleman, and then with great gallantry, to the ladies. This new interpretation of Shakespeare was hailed with loud bravos which the actor acknowledged with his usual grin and nod. Romeo then returned to the balcony, and was seen to extend his arms, but all passed in dumb-show so incessant with the shouts of laughter. All that went on upon the stage was for a time quite inaudible. But previous to the soliloquy I do remember an apothecary, there was for a moment a dead silence, for in rushed the hero with a precipitant step until he reached the stage-lamps, when he commenced his speech in the lowest possible whisper, as if he had something to communicate to the pits that ought not to be generally known. And this tone was kept up throughout the whole of the soliloquy, so that not a sound could be heard. The amateur actor showed many indications of aberration of mind, and seemed rather the object of pity than of amusement. He, however, appeared delighted with himself and also with his audience, for at the conclusion he walked first to the left of the stage and bobbed his head in his usual grotesque manner at the side-boxes, then to the right, performing the same feat, after which, going to the centre of the stage with the usual bob, and placing his hand upon his left breast, he exclaimed, Haven't I done it well? To this inquiry the house, convulsed as it was with shouts of laughter, responded in such a way as delighted the heart of keen on one great occasion, when he said, The pit rose at me. The whole audience started up, as with one accord, giving a yell of derision, whilst pocket-handkerchiefs waved from all parts of the theatre. The dying scene was irresistibly comic, and I question if Liston, Mundan, or Joey Knight was ever greeted with such merriment, for Romeo dragged the unfortunate Juliet from the tomb, much in the same manner as a washer-woman thrust into her cart the bag of foul linen. But how shall I describe his death? Out came a dirty silk handkerchief from his pocket, with which he carefully swept the ground. Then his opera hat was carefully placed for a pillow, and down he laid himself. After various tossings about he seemed reconciled to the physician, but the house vociferously bawled out, Tie again, Romeo! And, obedient to the command, he rose up, and went through the ceremony again. Scarcely had he lain quietly down, when the call was again heard, and the well-pleased amateur was evidently prepared to enact a third death. But Juliet now rose up from her tomb, and gracefully put an end to this ludicrous scene, by advancing to the front of the stage, and aptly applying a quotation from Shakespeare. Dying is such sweet sorrow, that he will die again until to-morrow. Thus ended an extravaganza such as has seldom been witnessed, for although Coates repeated the play at the Haymarket amidst shouts of laughter from the play-goers, there never was so ludicrous a performance as that which took place at Bath on the first night of his appearance. Eventually he was driven from the stage with much contumely, in consequence of its having been discovered that, under pretence of acting for a charitable purpose, he had obtained a sum of money for his performances. His love of notoriety led him to have a most singular, shell-shaped carriage-built, in which, drawn by two fine white horses, he was wont to parade in the park. The harness and every available part of the vehicle, which was really handsome, were blazoned over with his heraldic device, a cock crowing, and his appearance was heralded by the gamma of London, shrieking out, Cock-a-doodle-doo! Coates eventually quitted London, and settled at Beloyne, where a fair lady was induced to become the partner of his existence, notwithstanding the ridicule of the whole world. Hyde Park after the Peninsular War. That extensive district of Parkland, the entrances of which are in Piccadilly and Oxford Street, was far more rural in appearance in 1815 than at the present day. Under the trees cows and deer were grazing, the paths were fewer, and none told of that perpetual tread of human feet, which now destroys all idea of country charms and illusions. As you gazed from an eminence, no rows of monotonous houses reminded you of the vicinity of a large city, and the atmosphere of Hyde Park was then much more like what God has made it than the hazy grey, cold dark and half twilight of the London of today. The company which then congregated daily about five was composed of dandies and women in the best society. The men mounted on such horses as England alone could then produce. The dandy's dress consisted of a blue coat with brass buttons, leather breeches and top boots, and it was the fashion to wear a deep, stiff, white cravat, which prevented you from seeing your boots while standing. All the world watched Brummel to imitate him, and order their clothes of the tradesmen who dressed that sublime dandy. One day a youthful beau approached Brummel and said, Permit me to ask you where you will get your blacking. Ah! replied Brummel, gazing complacently at his boots. My blacking positively ruins me. I will tell you in confidence it is made with the finest champagne. Many of the ladies used to drive into the park in a carriage called a vis-à-vis, which held only two persons. The hammer-cloth, rich in heraldic designs, the powdered footmen in smart liveries, and the coachmen who assumed all the gaiety and appearance of a weaked arch bishop were indispensable. The equipage were generally much more gorgeous than at a later period when democracy invaded the parks, and introduced what may be termed a Brommergium Society, with shabby, genteel carriages and servants. The carriage company consisted of the most celebrated beauties, amongst whom were remarked the duchesses of Rupland, Argyle, Gordon, and Bedford, ladies Cooper, Foley, Heathcote, Louisa, Lampton, Hartford, and Mountjoy. The most conspicuous horsemen were the Prince Regent, accompanied by Sir Benjamin Bloomfield, the Duke of York, and his old friend Warwick Lake, the Duke of Dorset on his white horse, the Marquis of Anglesey with his lovely daughters, Lord Harraby and the Lady's rider, the Earl of Sefton and the Lady's mollanue, and the eccentric Earl of Morton on his long-tailed grey. In those days pretty horse-breakers would not have dared to show themselves in Hyde Park, nor did you see any of the lower or middle classes of London intruding themselves in regions which, with a sort of tacit understanding, were then given up exclusively to persons of rank and fashion. London Hotels in 1814. There was a class of men of very high rank, such as Lords Wellington, Nelson and Collingwood, Sir John Moore, and some few others, who never frequented the clubs. The persons to whom I refer, and amongst whom were many members of the sporting world, used to congregate at a few hotels. The Clarendon, Limers, Ibbotsons, Fladdons, Stevens and Gréans were the fashionable hotels. The Clarendon was then kept by a French cook, Jacques, who contrived to amass a large sum of money in the service of Louis XVIII in England, and subsequently with Lord Donnelly. This was the only public hotel where you could get a genuine French dinner, and for which you seldom paid less than three or four pounds. Your bottle of champagne or of claret in the year 1814 costing you a guinea. Limers was an evening resort for the sporting world. In fact, it was a midnight tattersles, where you heard nothing but the language of the turf, and where men with not very clean hands used to make up their books. Limers was the most dirty hotel in London, but in the gloomy, comfortless coffee-room might be seen many members of the rich squirarchy who visited London during the sporting season. This hotel was frequently so crowded that a bed could not be obtained for any amount of money. But you could always get a very good plain English dinner, an excellent bottle of port, and some famous gin punch. Ibertson's hotel was chiefly patronized by the clergy and young men from the universities. The charges there were more economical than at similar establishments. Fladdong's in Oxford Street was chiefly frequented by naval men, for in those days there was no club for sailors. Stevens in Bond Street was a fashionable hotel supported by officers of the army and men about town. If a stranger asked to dine there, he was stare that by the servants, and very solemnly assured that there was no table vacant. It was not an uncommon thing to see thirty or forty saddle-horses and tilberies waiting outside this hotel. I recollect two of my old Welsh friends, who used each of them to dispose of five bottles of wine daily, residing here in 1815, when the familiar joints, boiled fish, and fried souls were the only eatables you could order. The clubs of London in 1814. The members of the clubs in London, many years since, were persons almost without exception belonging exclusively to the aristocratic world. My tradesmen, as King Allen used to call the bankers and the merchants, had not then invaded Whites, Boodles, Brookes, or Wattier, in Bolton Street, Piccadilly. Which, with the guards, Arthur's and Graham's, were the only clubs at the west end of the town. Whites was decidedly the most difficult of entry. Its list of members comprised nearly all the noble names of Great Britain. The politics of Whites' club were then decidedly Tory. It was here that play was carried on to an extent which made many ravages in large fortunes, the traces of which have not disappeared at the present day. General Scott, the father-in-law of George Canning and the Duke of Portland, was known to have won at Whites two hundred thousand pounds, thanks to his notorious sobriety and knowledge of the game of wist. The general possessed a great advantage over his companions by avoiding those indulgences at the table which used to muddle other men's brains. He confined himself to dining off something like a boiled chicken with toast and water. By such a regimen he came to the wist table with a clear head, and possessing as he did a remarkable memory, with great coolness and judgment, he was able, honestly, to win the enormous sum of two hundred thousand pounds. At Brooks, for nearly half a century, the play was of a more gambling character than at Whites. Pharaoh and Macau were indulged in to an extent which enabled a man to win or to lose a considerable fortune in one night. It was here that Charles James Fox, Selwyn, Lord Carlisle, Lord Robert Spencer, General Fitzpatrick, and other great wigs won and lost hundreds of thousands, frequently remaining at the table for many hours without rising. On one occasion Lord Robert Spencer contrived to lose the last shilling of his considerable fortune, given him by his brother, the Duke of Marlborough. General Fitzpatrick being in much the same condition, they agreed to raise a sum of money in order that they might keep a Pharaoh bank. The members of the club made no objection, and ere long they carried out their design. As is generally the case, the bank was a winner, and Lord Robert bagged as his share of the proceeds a hundred thousand pounds. He retired, strange to say, from the defeated atmosphere of play, with the money in his pocket, and never again gambled. George Harley Drummond of the famous banking house, Charing Cross, only played once in his whole life at Whites Club at Wist, on which occasion he lost twenty thousand pounds to Brummel. This event caused him to retire from the banking house of which he was a partner. Lord Carlisle was one of the most remarkable victims amongst the players at Brooks, and Charles Fox, his friend, was not more fortunate, being subsequently always in pecuniary difficulties. Many a time, after a long night of hard play, the loser found himself at the Israeliteish establishment of Howard and Gibbs, then the fashionable and patronized moneylenders. These gentlemen never failed to make hard terms with the borrower, although ample security was invariably demanded. The Guards Club was established for the three regiments of foot guards, and was conducted upon a military system. Billiards and Low Whist were the only games indulged in. The dinner was perhaps better than at most clubs, and considerably cheaper. I had the honour of being a member for several years, during which time I have nothing to remember but the most agreeable incidents. Arthur's and Graham's were less aristocratic than those I have mentioned. It was at the latter, thirty years ago, that a most painful circumstance took place. A nobleman of the highest position and influence in society was detected in cheating at cards, and after a trial which did not terminate in his favour, he died of a broken heart. Upon one occasion some gentlemen of both Whites and Brooks had the honour to dine with the Prince Regent, and during the conversation the Prince inquired what sort of dinners they got at their clubs. Upon which Sir Thomas Stepney, one of the guests, observed that their dinners were always the same, the eternal joints or beef steaks, the boiled fowl with oyster sauce, and an apple tart. This is what we have, Sir, at our clubs, and very monotonous fare it is. The Prince, without further remark, rang the bell for his cook, Wattier, and in the presence of those who dined at the royal table asked him whether he would take a house and organise a dinner club. Wattier assented and named Madison, the Prince's page, manager, and Labourri the cook from the royal kitchen. The club flourished only a few years, owing to the high play that was carried on there. The Duke of York patronised it and was a member. I was a member in 1816 and frequently saw his royal highness there. The dinners were exquisite. The best Parisian cooks could not beat Labourri. The favourite game played there was Macau. Upon one occasion Jack Bouffery, brother of Lady Hatesbury, was losing large sums and became very irritable. Rakes with bad taste laughed at Bouffery and attempted to amuse us with some of his stale jokes, upon which Bouffery, through his play-bowl, was the few counters it contained at Rakes's head. Unfortunately it struck him and made the city dandy angry, but no serious results followed this open insult. Remarkable characters of London about the years 1814, 1815, 1816. It appears to be a law of natural history that every generation produces and throws out from the mob of society a few conspicuous men that pass under the general appellation of men about town. Michael Angelo Taylor was one of those remarkable individuals whom everyone was glad to know, and those who had not that privilege were ever talking about him, although he was considered by many a bit of a bore. Michael Angelo was a member of Parliament for many years, and generally sat in one of the most important committees of the House of Commons, for he was a man of authority and an attractive speaker. In appearance he was one of that sort of persons whom you could not pass in the streets without exclaiming, who can that be? His face blushed with port wine, the purple tints of which, by contrast, caused his white hair to glitter with silvery brightness. He wore leather breeches, top boots, blue coat, white waistcoat, and an unstarched and exquisitely white neck cloth, the hole surmounted by a very broad brimmed beaver. Such was the dress of the universally known Michael Angelo Taylor. If you met him in society or at the clubs, he was never known to salute you, but with the invariable phrase, What news have you? Upon one occasion, riding through St. James's Park, he met the great minister, Mr. Pitt, coming from Wimbledon, where he resided. He asked Mr. Pitt the usual question, upon which the premier replied, I have not yet seen the morning papers. Oh, that won't do, Mr. Pitt. I am sure that you know something and will not tell me. Mr. Pitt could humbly replied, Well, then, I am going to a cabinet council, and I will consult my colleagues whether I can divulge state secrets to you or not. Upon another occasion, on entering Boodles, of which he was a member, he observed the celebrated Lord Westmilland at Table, where the noble Lord was doing justice to a roast foul. Taylor, of course, asked him the news of the day, and Lord Westmilland coolly told the little newsmonger to go into the other room and leave him to finish his dinner, promising to join him after he had done. The noble Lord kept his word, and the first thing he heard from Mr. Taylor was, Well, my Lord, what news? What had you for dinner? His Lordship replied, A Welsh leg of mutton. What then? What then? Don't you sink a leg of mutton enough for any man? Yes, my Lord, but you did not eat it at all. Yes, Taylor, I did. Yes, Taylor, I did. Well, I think you have placed the leg of mutton in some mysterious place, for I see no trace of it in your lean person. Lord Westmilland was remarkable for an appetite which made nothing of a respectable joint or a couple of vowels. I know not whether Mr. Poole, the author of Paul Pry, had Michael Angelo in his head when he wrote that well-known comedy, but certainly he might have sat for a character whose intrusive and inquisitive habits were so notorious that people on seeing him approach always prepared for a string of almost impertinent interrogations. Another remarkable man about town was Colonel Cook, commonly called Kangaroo Cook, who was for many years the private aide-de-camp and secretary of his royal highness, the Duke of York. He was the brother of General Sir George Cook, and of the beautiful Countess of Cardigan, mother of the gallant Lord Cardigan, and the ladies Howe, Bering and Lucan. During his career he had been employed in diplomatic negotiations with the French, previous to the Peace of Paris. He was in the best society, and always attracted attention by his dandified mode of dress. Colonel Armstrong, another pet of the Duke of York, was known when in the Cold Stream Guards to be a thorough, hard-working soldier, and his non-commissioned officers were so perfect that nearly all the agitants of the different regiments of the line were educated by him. He was a strict disciplinarian, but strongly opposed to corporal punishment, and used to boast that during the whole time that he commanded the regiment, only two men had been flogged. Colonel McKinnon, commonly called Dan, was an exceedingly well made man, and remarkable for his physical powers in running, jumping, climbing, and such bodily exercises as demanded agility and muscular strength. He used to amuse his friends by creeping over the furniture of a room like a monkey. It was very common for his companions to make bets with him, for example, that he would not be able to climb up the ceiling of a room, or scramble over a certain house-top. Grimaldi, the famous clown, used to say, Colonel McKinnon has only to put on the motley costume, and he would totally eclipse me. McKinnon was famous for practical jokes, which were, however, always played in a gentlemanly way. Before landing at St. Anderos, with some other officers who had been on leave in England, he agreed to personate the Duke of York, and make the Spaniards believe that his Royal Highness was amongst them. On nearing the shore a royal standard was hoisted at the masthead, and McKinnon disembarked, wearing the star of his Shaco on his left breast, and accompanied by his friends, who agreed to play the part of aid to counter royalty. The Spanish authorities were soon informed of the arrival of the Royal Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, so they received McKinnon with the usual pomp and circumstance attending such occasions. The Mayor of the Place, in honour of the illustrious arrival, gave a grand banquet, which terminated with the appearance of a huge bowl of punch. Whereupon Dan, thinking that the joke had gone far enough, suddenly dived his head into the porcelain vase and threw his heels into the air. The surprise and indignation of the solemn Spaniards was such that they made a most intemperate report of the hoax that had been played on them to Lord Wellington. Dan, however, was ultimately forgiven after a severe reprimand. Another of his freaks very nearly brought him to a court-martial. Lord Wellington was curious about visiting a convent near Lisbon, and the Lady Abbas made no difficulty. McKinnon, hearing this, contrived to get clandestinely within the sacred walls, and it was generally supposed that it was neither his first nor his second visit. At all events, when Lord Wellington arrived, Dan McKinnon was to be seen among the nuns, dressed out in their sacred costume, with his head and whiskers shaved. And as he possessed good features, he was declared to be one of the best looking among those chaste dames. It was supposed that this adventure, which was known to Lord Byron, suggested a similar episode in Don Juan, the scene being laid in the East. I might say more about Dan's adventures in the convent, but have no wish to be scandalous. Another dandy of the day was Sir Lumley Skeffington, who used to paint his face so that he looked like a French toy. He dressed a la Robespierre, and practised other follies, although the consummate old Phop was a man of literary attainments, and a great admirer and patron of the drama. Skeffington was remarkable for his politeness and courtly manners. In fact, he was invited everywhere, and was very popular with the ladies. You always knew of his approach, by an avant courrier of sweet smells, and when he advanced a little nearer, you might suppose yourself in the atmosphere of a perfumer's shop. He is thus immortalised by Byron, in the English Bards and Scotch reviewers, alluding to the play written by Skeffington, The Sleeping Beauty. In grim array, though Louis Spector's rise, Stills Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. And sure, great Skeffington must claim our praise, For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays renowned alike, Whose genius snare confines her flight To garnish greenwood's gay designs. Nor sleeps with Sleeping Beauty's butt anon, In five facetious acts comes thundering on. While poor John Bull bewildered with the scene stares, Wondering what the devil it can mean. But as some hands applaud a venal few, Rather than sleep, John Bull applauds it too. Long Wellesley Pole was a fashionable who distinguished himself by giving sumptuous dinners at Wonstead, where he owned one of the finest mansions in England. He used to ask his friends to dine with him after the opera at midnight, the drive from London being considered appetisant. Every luxury that money could command was placed before his guests at this unusual hour of the night. He married Miss Tilney Pole, an heiress of fifty thousand a year, yet died quite a beggar. In fact, he would have starved had it not been for the charity of his cousin, the present Duke of Wellington, who allowed him three hundred a year. End of section three, Recording by Ruth Golden Section four of Reminiscences of Captain Granno This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ruth Golden. Reminiscences of Captain Granno by Captain Rhys Howell Granno Section four The Guards Marching from Ongan on the fifteenth of June Two battalions of my regiment had started from Brussels. The other, the second to which I belonged, remained in London, and I saw no prospect of taking part in the great events which were about to take place on the Continent. Early in June I had the honour of dining with Colonel Darling, the Deputy Adjutant General, and I was there introduced to Sir Thomas Picton, as a countryman and a neighbour of his brother, Mr Turbaville, of Ebony Abbey in Glamorganshire. He was very gracious, and on his two aide-de-con, Major Tyler and my friend Chambers of the Guards, lamenting that I was obliged to remain at home, Sir Thomas said, it's the lad really anxious to go out. Chambers answered that it was the height of my ambition. Sir Thomas inquired if all the appointments to his staff were filled up, and then added with a grim smile, if Tyler is killed, which is not at all unlikely, I do not know why I should not take my young countryman. He may go over with me, if he can get leave. I was overjoyed at this, and after thanking the General a thousand times, made my bow and retired. I was much elated at the thoughts of being Picton's aide-de-con, though that somewhat remote contingency depended upon my friends Tyler or Chambers or others meeting with an untimely end. But at 18, on a dout de rien. So I set about thinking how I should manage to get my outfit, in order to appear at Brussels in a manner worthy of the aide-de-con, the great General. As my funds were at a low ebb, I went to Cox and Greenwood's, those staunch friends of the hard-up soldier. Sailors may talk of the little cherub that sits up aloft, but commend me for liberality, kindness, and generosity to my old friends in Craig's Court. I there obtained two hundred pounds, which I took with me to a gambling-house in St. James's Square, where I managed by some wonderful accident to win six hundred pounds. And having thus obtained the sinews of war, I made numerous purchases, amongst others two first-rate horses at Tattisles for a high figure, which were embarked for Ostend, along with my groom. I had not got leave, but I thought I should get back after the great battle that appeared imminent, in time to mount guard at St. James's. On a Saturday I accompanied Chambers in his carriage to Ramsgate, where Sir Thomas Picton and Tyler had already arrived. We remained there for the Sunday, and embarked on Monday in a vessel which had been hired for the general and sweet. On the same day we arrived at Ostend, and put up at a hotel in the Square, where I was surprised to hear the general, in excellent French, get up a flirtation with our very pretty waiting-maid. Sir Thomas Picton was a stern-looking, strong-built man, about the middle height, and considered very like the Hetman Platoff. He generally wore a blue frock-coat, very tightly buttoned up to the throat, a very large black silk neck-cloth, showing little or no shirt-collar, dark trousers, boots, and a round hat. It was in this very dress that he was attired at Catres-Bres, as he had hurried off to the scene of action before his uniform arrived. After sleeping at Ostend, the general and Tyler went the next morning to Gent, and on Thursday to Brussels. I proceeded by boat to Gent, and without stopping, hired a carriage, and arrived in time to order rooms for Sir Thomas at the Hotel d'Angleterre, rue de la Madeleine, at Brussels. Our horses followed us. While we were at breakfast, Colonel Canning came to inform the general that the Duke of Wellington wished to see him immediately. Sir Thomas lost not a moment in obeying the order of his chief, leaving the breakfast-table and proceeding to the park, where Wellington was walking with Fitzroy Somerset and the Duke of Richmond. Picton's manner was always more familiar than the Duke liked in his lieutenants, and on this occasion he approached him in a careless sort of way, just as he might have met an equal. The Duke bowed coldly to him and said, I am glad your comes, Sir Thomas. The sooner you get on horseback, the better. No time is to be lost. You will take command of the troops in advance. The Prince of Orange knows by this time that you will go to his assistance. Picton appeared not to like the Duke's manner, for when he bowed and left he muttered a few words which convinced those who were with him that he was not much pleased with his interview. Catrebra. I got upon the best of my two horses, and followed Sir Thomas Picton and his staff to Catrebra at full speed. His division was already engaged in supporting the Prince of Orange, and had deployed itself in two lines in front of the road to Saint-Praif when he arrived. Sir Thomas immediately took the command. Shortly afterwards, Kempts and Pax brigades arrived by the Brussels road and part of Alton's division by the Nevelle road. Ney was very strong in cavalry, and our men were constantly formed into squares to receive them. The famous Kellerman, the hero of Marengo, tried a last charge and was very nearly being taken or killed as his horse was shot under him when very near us. Wellington at last took the offensive. A charge was made against the French, which succeeded, and we remained masters of the field. I acted as a mere spectator, and got on one occasion just within twenty or thirty yards of some of the cuirassier, but my horse was too quick for them. On the seventeenth Wellington retreated upon Waterloo about eleven o'clock. The infantry were masked by the cavalry in two lines parallel to the Namour road. Our cavalry retired on the approach of the French cavalry in three columns on the Brussels road. A torrent of rain fell upon the emperors ordering the heavy cavalry to charge us, while the fire of sixty or eighty pieces of cannon showed that we had chosen our position at Waterloo. Chambers said to me, Now, Grono, the loss has been very severe in the guards, and I think you ought to go and see whether you are wanted, for as you have really nothing to do with Picton, you had better join your regiment, or you may get into a scrape. Taking his advice, I rode off to where the guards were stationed. The officers, amongst whom I remember Colonel Thomas and Brigade Major Miller, expressed their astonishment and amazement on seeing me, and exclaimed, What the juice brought you here? Why are you not with your battalion in London? Get off your horse and explain how you came here. Things were beginning to look a little awkward, when Gunthorpe, the adjutant, a great friend of mine, took my part and said, As he is here, let's make the most of him, there's plenty of work for everyone. Come, Grono, you shall go with the on-captain Clements, and a detachment to the village of Waterloo, to take charge of the French prisoners. I said, What the juice shall I do with my horse? Upon which the on-captain Stopfoot, a decon to Sir John Bing, volunteered to buy him. Having thus once more become a foot-soldier, I started according to orders, and arrived at Waterloo. General appearance of the field of Waterloo. The day on which the battle of Waterloo was fought, seemed to have been chosen by some providential accident for which human wisdom is unable to account. On the morning of the eighteenth, the sun shone most gloriously, and so clear was the atmosphere that we could see the long, imposing lines of the enemy most distinctly. Immediately in front of the division to which I belonged, and I should imagine about half a mile from us, were posted cavalry and artillery, and to the right and left the French had already engaged us, attacking Hugamon and L'Aix-Sainte. We heard incessantly the measured boom of artillery, accompanied by the incessant rattling echoes of musketry. The whole of the British infantry not actually engaged, were at that time formed into squares, and as you looked along our lines, it seemed as if we formed a continuous wall of human beings. I recollect distinctly being able to see Bonaparte and his staff, and some of my brother officers using the glass exclaimed, there he is on his white horse. I should not forget to state that when the enemy's artillery began to play on us, we had orders to lie down, when we could hear the shot and shell whistling around us, killing and wounding great numbers. Then again we were ordered on our knees to receive cavalry. The French artillery, which consisted of three hundred guns, though we did not muster more than half that number, committed terrible havoc during the early part of the battle, whilst we were acting on the defensive. The Duke of Wellington in our square. About four p.m. the enemy's artillery in front of us ceased firing all of a sudden, and we saw large masses of cavalry advance. Not a man present who survived could have forgotten in afterlife the awful grandeur of that charge. You discovered at a distance what appeared to be an overwhelming long-moving line, which, ever advancing, glittered like a stormy wave of the sea when it catches the sunlight. On they came, until they got near enough, whilst the very earth seemed to vibrate beneath the thundering tramp of the mounted host. One might suppose that nothing could have resisted the shock of this terrible moving mass. They were the famous cuirassiers, almost all old soldiers, who had distinguished themselves on most of the battlefields of Europe. In an almost incredibly short period they were within twenty yards of us, shouting, Vive l'empereur! The word of command, prepared to receive cavalry, had been given. Every man in the front ranks knelt, and a wall bristling with steel, held together by steady hands, presented itself to the infuriated cuirassier. I should observe that just before this charge the Duke entered by one of the angles of the square, accompanied only by one aide-de-con, all the rest of his staff being either killed or wounded. Our commander-in-chief, as far as I could judge, appeared perfectly composed, but looked very thoughtful and pale. He was dressed in a grey great-coat with a cape, white cravat, leather pantaloons, Hessian boots, and a large cocked hat à la russe. The charge of the French cavalry was gallantly executed, but our well-directed fire brought men and horses down, and ere long the utmost confusion arose in their ranks. The officers were exceedingly brave, and by their gestures and fearless bearing did all in their power to encourage their men to form again and renew the attack. The Duke sat unmoved, mounted on his favourite charger. I recollect his asking the honourable Lieutenant Colonel Stanhope what a clock it was, upon which Stanhope took out his watch and said it was twenty minutes past four. The Duke replied, the battle is mine, and if the Prussians arrive soon, there will be an end of the war. The French cavalry charging the Brunswickers. Soon after the cuirassier had retired, we observed to our right the red haussards of the Gardin Perriel, charging a square of Brunswick riflemen, who were about fifty yards from us. This charge was brilliantly executed, but the well-sustained fire from the square baffled the enemy, who were obliged to retire after suffering a severe loss in killed and wounded. The ground was completely covered with those brave men, who lay in various positions mutilated in every conceivable way. Among the fallen we perceived the gallant Colonel of the Hussars lying under his horse which had been killed. All of a sudden two riflemen of the Brunswickers left their battalion, and after taking from their helpless victim his purse, watch, and other articles of value, they deliberately put the Colonel's pistols to the poor fellow's head and blew out his brains. Shame! Shame! was heard from our ranks, and a feeling of indignation ran through the whole line. But the deed was done. This brave soldier lay a lifeless corpse in sight of his cruel foes, whose only excuse, perhaps, was that their sovereign, the Duke of Brunswick, had been killed two days before by the French. Again and again, various cavalry regiments, heavy dragoons, lancers, Hussars, cariboneers of the guard, endeavoured to break our walls of steel. The enemy's cavalry had to advance over ground which was so heavy that they could not reach us except at a trot. They therefore came upon us in a much more compact mass than they probably would have done if the ground had been more favourable. When they got within ten or fifteen yards they discharged their carbines to the cry of, Vive l'empereur! Their fire produced little effect, as that of cavalry generally does. Our men had orders not to fire unless they could do so on a near mass, the object being to economise our ammunition and not to waste it on scattered soldiers. The result was that when the cavalry had discharged their carbines and were still far off, we occasionally stood face to face, looking at each other inactively, not knowing what the next move might be. The lancers were particularly troublesome, and approached us with the utmost daring. On one occasion I remember, the enemy's artillery having made a gap in the square, the lancers were evidently waiting to avail themselves of it, to rush among us, when Colonel Staples at once observing their intention with the utmost promptness filled up the gap, and thus again completed our impregnable steel wall. But in this act he fell mortally wounded. The cavalry seeing this made no attempt to carry out their original intentions, and observing that we had entirely regained our square confined themselves to hovering round us. I must not forget to mention that the lancers in particular never failed to dispatch our wounded whenever they had an opportunity of doing so. When we received cavalry the order was to fire low, so that on the first discharge of musketry the ground was strewn with the fallen horses and their riders, which impeded the advance of those behind them, and broke the shock of the charge. It was pitiable to witness the agony of the poor horses, who really seemed conscious of the dangers that surrounded them. We often saw a poor wounded animal raise its head, as if looking for its rider to afford him aid. There is nothing perhaps amongst the episodes of a great battle more striking than the debris of a cavalry charge, where men and horses are seen scattered and wounded on the ground in every variety of painful attitude. Many a time the heart sickened at the moaning tones of agony which came from man and scarcely less intelligent horse, as they lay in fearful agony upon the field of battle. The last charge at Waterloo. It was about five o'clock on that memorable day that we suddenly received orders to retire behind an elevation in our rear. The enemy's artillery had come up en masse within a hundred yards of us. By the time they began to discharge their guns, however, we were lying down behind the rising ground and protected by the ridge before referred to. The enemy's cavalry was in the rear of their artillery in order to be ready to protect it if attacked. But no attempt was made on our part to do so. After they had pounded away at us for about half an hour, they deployed, and up came the whole mass of the Imperial Infantry of the Guard, led on by the Emperor in person. We had now before us, probably about twenty thousand of the best soldiers in France, the heroes of many memorable victories. We saw the bare skin caps rising higher and higher as they ascended the ridge of ground which separated us, and advanced nearer and nearer to our lines. It was at this moment the Duke of Wellington gave his famous order for our bayonet charge, as he rode along the line. These are the precise words he made use of. Guards, get up and charge! We were instantly on our legs, and after so many hours of inaction and irritation at maintaining a purely defensive attitude, all the time suffering the loss of comrades and friends, the spirit which animated officers and men may easily be imagined. After firing a volley, as soon as the enemy were within shot, we rushed on with fixed bayonets, and that hearty hurrah peculiar to British soldiers. It appeared that our men deliberately and with calculation singled out their victims. For as they came upon the Imperial Guard, our line broke, and the fighting became irregular. The impetuosity of our men seemed almost to paralyze their enemies. I witnessed several of the Imperial Guard who were run through the body, apparently without any resistance on their parts. I observed a big Welshman of the name of Hughes, who was six feet seven inches in height, run through with his bayonet and knock down with the butt-end of his fire-lock, I should think a dozen at least of his opponents. This terrible contest did not last more than ten minutes, and it seemed to be ten minutes, for the Imperial Guard was soon in full retreat, leaving all their guns and many prisoners in our hands. The famous General Combron was taken prisoner fighting hand to hand with the gallant Sir Colin Hulket, who was shortly after shot through the cheeks by a grape-shot. Combron's supposed answer of la garde ne se rend pas was an invention of aftertimes, and he himself always denied having used such an expression. Early on the morning after the Battle of Waterloo, I visited Ugemore in order to witness with my own eyes the traces of one of the most hotly contested spots of the field of battle. I came first upon the orchard, and there discovered heaps of dead men in various uniforms. Those of the guards in their usual red jackets, the German Legion in green, and the French dressed in blue, mingled together. The dead and the wounded positively covered the whole area of the orchard. Not less than two thousand men had there fallen. The apple-trees presented a singular appearance. Shattered branches were seen hanging about their mother-trunks, in such profusion that one might almost suppose the stiff growing and stunted tree had been converted into the willow. Every tree was riddled and smashed, in a manner which told that the showers of shot had been incessant. On this spot I lost some of my dearest and bravest friends, and the country had to mourn many of its most heroic sons, Slane here. I must observe that, according to the custom of commanding officers, whose business it is after a great battle to report to the commander-in-chief, the master-role of fame always closes before the rank of captain. It has always appeared to me a great injustice that there should ever be any limit to the role of gallantry of either officers or men. If a captain, lieutenant, an ensign, a sergeant, or a private, has distinguished himself for his bravery, his intelligence, or both, their deeds ought to be reported, in order that the sovereign and nation should know who really fight the great battles of England. Of the class of officers and men to which I have referred, there were many of even superior rank who were omitted to be mentioned in the public dispatches. Thus, for example, to the individual courage of Lord Salton and Charlie Ellis, who commanded the light companies, was mainly owing our success at Ugoomor. The same may be said of Needham, Percival, Erskine, Grant, Viner, Buckley, Master, and young Algern and Greville, who at that time could not have been more than seventeen years old. Accepting Percival, whose jaws were torn away by a grape-shot, every one of these heroes miraculously escaped. I do not wish, in making these observations, to detract from the bravery and skill of officers whose names have already been mentioned in official dispatches, but I think it only just that the services of those I have particularised should not be forgotten by one of their companions in arms. Bing with his brigade at Waterloo. No individual officer more distinguished himself than did General Bing at the Battle of Waterloo. In the early part of the day he was seen at Ugoomor, leading his men in the thick of the fight. Later he was with the battalion in Square, where his presence animated to the utmost enthusiasm both officers and men. It is difficult to imagine how this courageous man passed through such innumerable dangers from shot and shell, without receiving a single wound. I must also mention some other instances of courage and devotion in officers belonging to this brigade. For instance it was Colonel MacDonald, a man of colossal stature, with Hesketh, Bose, Tom Sowerby and Hugh Seymour, who commanded from the inside the Chateau of Ugoomor. When the French had taken possession of the orchard they made a rush at the principal door of the Chateau which had been turned into a fortress. MacDonald and the above officers placed themselves, accompanied by some of their men, behind the portal and prevented the French from entering. Amongst other officers of that brigade who were most conspicuous for bravery, I would record the names of Montague, the vigorous Gooch, as he was called, and the well-known Jack Standon. End of Section 4 Recording by Ruth Golding Section 5 of reminiscences of Captain Granno This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Ruth Golding Reminiscences of Captain Granno by Captain Rhys Hall Granno Section 5 The Late Duke of Richmond One of the most intimate friends of the Duke of Wellington was the Earl of March, afterwards Duke of Richmond. He was a genuine hard-working soldier, a man of extraordinary courage and one who was ever found ready to gain laurels amidst the greatest dangers. When the Seventh Thusiliers crossed the Vidassur, the Late Duke left the staff and joined the regiment in which he had a company. At Ortez, in the thick of the fight, he received a shot which passed through his lungs. From this severe wound he recovered sufficiently to be able to join the Duke of Wellington, to whom he was exceedingly useful at the Battle of Waterloo. On his return to England he united himself to the most remarkably beautiful girl of the day, the eldest daughter of Lord Anglesey, and whose mother was the lovely Duchess of Argyle, the unfortunate charge of the household brigade. When Lord Uxbridge gave orders to Sir W. Ponsonby and Lord Edward Somerset to charge the enemy, our cavalry advanced with the greatest bravery, cut through everything in their way, and gallantly attacked whole regiments of infantry. But eventually they came upon a masked battery of twenty guns, which carried death and destruction through our ranks, and our poor fellows were obliged to give way. The French cavalry followed on their retreat when perhaps the severest hand-to-hand cavalry fighting took place within the memory of man. The Duke of Wellington was perfectly furious that this arm had been engaged without his orders, and lost not a moment in sending them to the rear, where they remained during the rest of the day. This disaster gave the French cavalry an opportunity of annoying and insulting us, and compelled the artillerymen to seek shelter in our squares. And if the French had been provided with tackle or harness of any description, our guns would have been taken. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at, that the Duke should have expressed himself in no measured terms about the cavalry movements referred to. I recollect that when his grace was in our square, our soldiers were so mortified at seeing the French deliberately walking their horses between our regiment and those regiments to our right and left, that they shouted, Where are our cavalry? Why don't they come and pitch into those French fellows? The Duke of Wellington's opinion of the French cavalry. A day or two after our arrival in Paris from Waterloo, Colonel Felton Hervey having entered the dining-room with the dispatches which had come from London, the Duke asked, What news have you, Hervey? Upon which, Colonel Felton Hervey answered, I observe by the Gazette that the Prince Regent has made himself Captain General of the Life Guards and Blues for their brilliant conduct at Waterloo. Ah! replied the Duke, his Royal Highness is our sovereign, and can do what he pleases. But this, I will say, the cavalry of other European armies have won victories for their generals, but mine have invariably got me into scrapes. It is true that they have always thought gallantly and bravely, and have generally got themselves out of their difficulties by sheer pluck. The justice of this observation has since been confirmed by the charge at Balaclava, where our cavalry undauntedly rushed into the face of death under the command of that intrepid officer Lord Cardigan, Marshal Exelman's opinion of the British cavalry. Experience has taught me that there is nothing more valuable than the opinions of intelligent foreigners on the military and naval excellences and the failures of our United Service. Marshal Exelman's opinion about the British cavalry struck me as remarkably instructive. He used to say, your horses are the finest in the world, and your men ride better than any continental soldiers. With such materials the English cavalry ought to have done more than has ever been accomplished by them on the field of battle. The great deficiency is in your officers, who have nothing to recommend them but their dash and sitting well in their saddles. Indeed, as far as my experience goes, your English generals have never understood the use of cavalry. They have undoubtedly frequently misapplied that important arm of a grand army, and have never, up to the Battle of Waterloo, employed the mounted soldier at the proper time and in the proper place. The British cavalry officer seems to be impressed with the conviction that he can dash and ride over everything, as if the art of war were precisely the same as that of fox-hunting. I need not remind you of the charge of your two heavy brigades at Waterloo. This charge was utterly useless, and all the world knows they came upon a masked battery, which applied to retreat and entirely disconcerted Wellington's plans during the rest of the day. Permit me, he added, to point out a gross error as regards the dress of your cavalry. I have seen prisoners so tightly habited that it was impossible for them to use their sabers with facility. The French Marshal concluded by observing, I should wish nothing better than such material as your men and horses are made of, since with generals who wield cavalry and officers who are thoroughly acquainted with that duty in the field, I do not hesitate to say I might gain a battle. Such was the opinion of a man of cool judgement, and one of the most experienced cavalry officers of the day. Appearance of Paris when the Allies entered. I propose giving my own impression of the aspect of Paris and its vicinity when our regiment entered that city on the 25th of June, 1815. I recollect we marched from the plain of Saint-Denis, my battalion being about five hundred strong, the survivors of the heroic fight of the 18th of June. We approached near enough to be within fire of the batteries of Montmartre, and Bivouac'd for three weeks in the Bois de Boulogne. That now beautiful garden was at the period to which I refer a wild, pathless wood, swampy and entirely neglected. The Prussians, who were in Bivouac nearest, amused themselves by doing as much damage as they could, without any useful aim or object. They cut down the finest trees and set the wood on fire at several points. There were about three thousand of the guards then encamped in the wood, and I should think about ten thousand Prussians. Our camp was not remarkable for its courtesy towards them. In fact, our intercourse was confined to the most ordinary demands of duty, as allies in an enemy's country. I believe I was one of the first of the British army, who penetrated into the heart of Paris, after Waterloo. I entered by the Porte and passed the Arc de Triomphe, which was then building. In those days the Champs-Élysées only contained a few scattered houses, and the roads and pathways were ankle-deep in mud. The only attempt at lighting was the suspension of a few lamps on cords, which crossed the roads. Here I found the Scotch regiments Bivouac'ing, their peculiar uniform created a considerable sensation amongst the Parisian women who did not hesitate to declare that the want of culottes was most indecent. I passed through the camp and proceeded on towards the gardens of the Tuileries. This ancient palace of the Kings of France presented, so far as the old front is concerned, the same aspect that it does at the present day. But there were then no flower gardens, although the same stately rows of trees which now ornament the grounds were then in their mid-summer verdure. Being in uniform I created an immense amount of curiosity amongst the Parisians, who, by the way, I fancied regarded me with no loving looks. The first house I entered was a café in the garden of the Tuileries, called Le Gax. I there met a man who told me he was by descent an Englishman, though he had been born in Paris, and had never really quitted France. He approached me, saying, Sir, I am delighted to see an English officer in Paris, and you are the first I have yet met with. He talked about the Battle of Waterloo, and gave me some useful directions concerning restaurants and cafes. Along the boulevards were handsome houses, isolated, with gardens interspersed, and the roads were bordered on both sides with stately-spreading trees, some of them probably a hundred years old. There was but an imperfect pavement, the stepping-stones of which were adapted to display the Parisian female ankle and boot in all their calculated cockatry, and the road showed nothing but Mother Earth, in the middle of which a dirty gutter served to convey the impurities of the city to the river. The people in the streets appeared sulky and stupefied. Here and there I noticed groups of the higher classes evidently discussing the events of the moment. How strange humanity would look in our day in the costume of the First Empire. The ladies wore very scanty and short skirts, which left little or no waste. Their bonnets were of exaggerated proportions, and protruded at least a foot from their faces. And they generally carried a fan. The men wore blue or black coats which were baggily made, and reached down to their ankles. Their hats were enormously large and spread out at the top. I dined the first day of my entrance into Paris at the Café Anglais, on the boulevard des Italiens, where I found to my surprise several of my brother officers. I recollect the charge for the dinner was about one-third what it would be at the present day. I had a potage, fish, anything but fresh, and according to English pre-delections and taste, of course I ordered a beef steak and pomme de terre. The wine, I thought, was sour. The dinner cost about two francs. The theatres at this time, as may easily be imagined, were not very well attended. I recollect going to the Français, where I saw for the first time the famous Tauma. There was but a scanty audience. In fact, all the best places in the house were empty. It may easily be imagined that, at a moment like this, most of those who had a steak in the country were pondering over the great and real drama that was then taking place. Napoleon had fled to Rochefort. The wreck of his army had retreated beyond the Loire. No list of killed and wounded had appeared, and strange to say, the official journal of Paris had made out that the great imperial army at Waterloo had gained a victory. There were, nevertheless, hundreds of people in Paris who knew to the contrary, and many were already aware that they had lost relations and friends in the great battle. Louis the 18th arrived, as well as I can remember, at the Tuileries on the 26th of July 1815, and his reception by the Parisians was a singular illustration of the versatile character of the French nation and the sudden and often inexplicable changes which take place in the feeling of the populace. When the Bourbon in his old, lumbering, staked carriage drove down the boulevards, accompanied by the gare de du corps, the people in the streets and at the windows displayed the wildest joy, enthusiastically shouting, « Vive le Roi » amidst the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, while white sheets or white rags were made to do the duty of a Bourbon banner. The king was dressed in a blue coat with a red collar, and wore also a white waistcoat and a cocked hat with a white croquette in it. His portly and good-natured appearance seemed to be appreciated by the crowd, whom he saluted with a benevolent smile. I should hear mention that two great devotees of the church sat opposite to the king on this memorable occasion. The cortège preceded slowly down the rue de la paix until the tuileries were reached, where a company of the guards, together with a certain number of the gare nationale of Paris, were stationed. It fell to my lot to be on duty the day after when the Duke of Wellington and Lord Castle Ray arrived to pay their respects to the restored monarch. I happened to be in the salle des marches, when these illustrious personages passed through that magnificent apartment. The respect paid to the Duke of Wellington on this occasion may be easily imagined, from the fact that a number of ladies of the highest rank, and of course partisans of the legitimate dynasty, formed an avenue through which the hero of Waterloo passed, exchanging with them courteous recognitions. The king was waiting in the Grand Reception Apartment to receive the great British captain. The interview, I have every reason to believe, was not confined to the courtesies of the palace. The position of the Duke was a difficult one. In the first place he had to curb the vindictive vandalism of Blusher and his army, who would have levelled the city of Paris to the ground, if they could have done so. On the other hand, he had to practice a considerable amount of diplomacy towards the newly restored king. At the same time the Duke's powers from his own government were necessarily limited. A spirit of vindictiveness pervaded the restored court against Napoleon and his adherents, which the Duke constantly endeavoured to modify. I must not forget to give an illustration of this state of feeling. It was actually proposed by Talihan, Fouchet and some important ecclesiastics of the ultra-royalist party to arrest and shoot the Emperor Napoleon, who was then at Rochefort. So anxious were they to commit this criminal, inhuman and cowardly act, on an illustrious fallen enemy who had made the arms of France glorious throughout Europe, that they suggested to the Duke, who had the command of the old wooden-armed semaphores, to employ the Telegraph to order what I should have designated by no other name than the assassination of the Caesar of modern history, Marshal Ney and Wellington. As an illustration of the false impressions which are always disseminated concerning public men, I must record the following fact. The Duke of Wellington was accused of being implicated in the military murder of Ney. Now, so far from this being the truth, I know positively that the Duke of Wellington used every endeavour to prevent this national disgrace. But the Church Party, ever crafty and ever ready to profit by the weakness and passions of humanity, supported the King in his moments of excited revenge. It is a lamentable fact, but no less historical truth, that the Roman Catholic Church has ever sought to make the graves of its enemies the foundations of its power. The Duke of Wellington was never able to approach the King or use his influence to save Marshal Ney's life. But everything he could do was done in order to accomplish his benevolent views. I repeat, the influence of the ultra-montain party triumphed over the Christian humanity of the illustrious Duke. The Palais Royale after the Restoration. France has often been called the centre of European fashion and gaiety, and the Palais Royale at the period to which I refer, might be called the very heart of French dissipation. It was a theatre in which all the great actors of fashion of all nations met to play their parts. On this spot were congregated daily an immense multitude, for no other purpose than to watch the busy comedy of real life that animated the corridors, gardens and saloons of that vast building, which was founded by Richelieu and Mazarin and modified by Philippe Egalité. Mingled together and moving about the area of this oblong square block of buildings might be seen about seven o'clock p.m., a crowd of English, Russian, Prussian, Austrian, and other officers of the Allied armies, together with countless foreigners from all parts of the world. Here, too, might have been seen the present king of Prussia, with his father and brother, the late king, the dukes of Nassau, Barden, and a host of continental princes, who entered familiarly into the amusements of ordinary mortals, dining incog at the most renowned restaurants, and flirting with painted female frailty. A description of one of the houses of the Palais Royale will serve to portray the whole of this French pandemonium. On the ground floor is a jeweller's shop, where may be purchased diamonds, pearls, emeralds, and every description of female ornament, such as only can be possessed by those who have very large sums of money at their command. It was here that the successful gambler often deposited a portion of his winnings, and took away some costly article of jewellery which he presented to some female friend who had never appeared with him at the altar of marriage. Beside this shop was a staircase, generally very dirty, which communicated with the floors above. Immediately over the shop was a café, at the counter of which presided a lady, generally of more than ordinary female attractions, who was very much de colité, and wore an amount of jewellery which would have made the eye of an Israelite twinkle with delight. And there, la crème de la crème of male society used to meet, sip their ice and drink their cup of mocha whilst holding long conversations almost exclusively about gambling and women. Men's thoughts in this region seemed to centre night and day upon the tapis verre, and at the entrance of this salon was that fatal chamber over which might have been written the famous line of Dante, foie che entrate, lasciate ogni speranza. The reader will at once understand that I am referring to the gambling house, the so-called hell of modern society. In one room was the rouge noir table, which from the hour of twelve in the morning was surrounded by men in every stage of the gambling malady. There was the young pigeon, who on losing his first feather had experienced an exciting sensation, which, if followed by a bit of good luck, gave him a confidence that the parasites around him in order to flatter his vanity would call pluck. There were others in a more advanced stage of the fever, who had long since lost the greater part of their incomes, having mortgaged their property, and been in too frequent correspondence with the Jews. These men had not got to the last stage of gambling despair, but they were so far advanced on the road to perdition that their days were clouded by perpetual anxiety, which reproduced itself in their very dreams. The gambler, who has thus far advanced in his career, lives in an inferno of his own creation. The charms of society, the beauty of woman, the attractions of the fine arts, and even the enjoyment of a good dinner, are to him rather a source of irritation than delight. The confirmed gamester is doing nothing less than perpetually digging a grave for his own happiness. The third and most numerous group of men round the tapivaire consisted of a class most of whom had already spent their fortunes, exhausted their health, and lost their position in society, by the fatal and demoralising thirst for gold, which still fascinated them. These became the hawks of the gambling table. Their quick and wild-glancing eyes were constantly looking out for suitable game during the day, and leaving it where it might be bagged at night. Both at the Rougé-Noir table and roulette the same sort of company might be met with. These gambling houses were the very fountains of immorality. They gathered together under the most seductive circumstances, the swindler and the swindled. There were tables for all classes, the workmen might play with twenty soon, or the gentlemen with ten thousand francs. The law did not prevent any class from indulging in advice that assisted to fill the coffers of the municipality of Paris. The floor over the gambling house was occupied by unmarried women. I will not attempt to picture some of the saddest evils of the society of large cities. But I may add that these Freyneys lived in a style of splendour, which can only be accounted for by the fact of their participating in the easily earned gains of the gambling house regime. Such was the state of the Palais Royale under Louis XVIII and Charles X. The Palais Royale of the present day is simply a tame and legitimately commercial mart, compared with that of olden times. Society has changed. Government no longer patronises such nests of immorality. And though vice may exist to the same extent, it assumes another garb, and does not appear in the open streets, as at the period to which I have referred. At that time the Palais Royale was externally the only well-lighted place in Paris. It was the rendezvous of all idlers, and especially of that particular class of ladies who lay out their attractions for the public at large. These were to be seen at all hours in full dress, their bare necks ornamented with mock diamonds and pearls, and thus decked out in all their finery they paraded up and down, casting their eyes significantly on every side. Some strange stories are told in connection with the gambling houses of the Palais Royale. An officer of the Grenadier Guards came to Paris on leave of absence, took apartments here, and never left it until his time of absence had expired. On his arrival in London, one of his friends inquired whether this was true, to which he replied, Of course it is, for I found everything I wanted there, both for body and mind. The English in Paris, after the restoration of the Bourbons. There is no more ordinary illusion belonging to humanity than that which enables us to discover, in the fashions of the day, an elegance and comeliness of dress, which a few years after we ourselves regard as odious caricatures of costume. Thousands of oddly dressed English flocked to Paris immediately after the war. I remember that the burden of one of the popular songs of the day was all the worlds in Paris, and our countrymen and women, having so long been excluded from French modes, had adopted fashions of their own, quite as remarkable and eccentric as those of the Parisians and much less graceful. British beauties were dressed in long, straight polices of various colours. The body of the dress was never of the same colour as the skirt, and the bonnet was of the beehive shape and very small. The characteristic of the dress of the gentleman was a coat of light blue or snuff colour, with brass buttons, the tail reaching nearly to the heels, a gigantic bunch of seals dangled from his thob whilst his pantaloons were short and tight at the knees, and a spacious waistcoat with a voluminous muslin cravat and a frilled shirt completed the toilette. The dress of the British military, in its stiff and formal ugliness, was equally cumbersome and ludicrous. Lady Oxford, that beautiful and accomplished woman who lived in her hotel in the rue de Clichy, gave charming soirees, at which were gathered the elite of Paris society. Among these were Edward Montague, Charles Standish, Herbie Aston, Arthur Upton, Kangaroo Cook, Benjamin Constant, Dupin, Casimir Perrier, as well as the Chief Oleonists. On one occasion I recollect seeing there George Canning and the celebrated Madame de Stahl. Cornwall, the eldest son of the Bishop of Worcester, had from some unaccountable cause a misunderstanding with Madame de Stahl, who appeared very excited and said to Lady Oxford in a loud voice, Notre ami Monsieur Cornwall est grosso, rosso, effurioso. It should be observed that the gentleman thus characterised was red-haired and hasty in temper. All who heard this denunciation were astounded at the lady's manner, for she looked daggers at the object of her sarcasm. Fox, the Secretary of the Embassy, was an excellent man, but odd, indolent and careless in the extreme. He was seldom seen in the daytime, unless it was either at the Embassy in a state of negligee or in bed. At night he used to go to the Salon des étrangers, and if he possessed a Napoleon it was sure to be thrown away at Hazard or Rougé Noir. On one occasion, however, fortune favoured him in a most extraordinary manner. The late Henry Bering, having recommended him to take the dice-box, Fox replied, I will do so for the last time, for all my money is thrown away upon this infernal table. Fox staked all he had in his pockets. He threw in, eleven times, breaking the bank, and taking home for his share sixty thousand francs. After this, several days passed without any tidings being heard of him. But upon my calling at the Embassy to get my passport vised, I went into his room, and saw it filled with cashmere shawls, silk, chantilly veils, bonnets, gloves, shoes, and other articles of lady's dress. On my asking the purpose of all this millinery, Fox replied in a good-natured way, Why, my dear Grono, it was the only means to prevent those rascals at the salon winning back my money. Les Anglaises pour Rire. An order had been given to the managers of all the theatres in Paris to admit a certain number of soldiers of the Army of Occupation free of expense. It happened that a party of the Guards, composed of a sergeant and a few men, went to the Théâtre des Variettes, on the boulevards, where one of the pieces, entitled Les Anglaises pour Rire, was admirably acted by Poitiers and Brunet. In this piece English women were represented in a very ridiculous light by those accomplished performers. This gave great offence to our soldiers, and the sergeant and his men determined to put a stop to the acting. Accordingly they stormed the stage, and laid violent hands upon the actors, eventually driving them off. The police were called in, and foolishly wanted to take our men to prison, but they soon found to their cost that they had to deal with unmanageable opponents, for the whole posse of gendarmes were charged and driven out of the theatre. A crowd assembled on the boulevards, which, however, soon dispersed, when it became known that English soldiers were determined, cout quout, to prevent their countrywomen from being ridiculed. It must be remembered that the only revenge which the Parisians were able to take upon the conquerors was to ridicule them, and the English generally took it in good humour, and laughed at the extravagant drollery of the burlesque. The English soldiers generally walked about Paris in parties of a dozen, and were quiet and well-behaved. They usually gathered every day on the boulevards du temple, where they were amused with the mountie-banks and jugglers there assembled. This part of Paris is now completely changed, but at the time I speak of it was an extensive open place, where every species of fun was carried on as at fares. There were gambling, rope dancing, wild beasts and shows, booths for the sale of cakes, gingerbread, fruit and lemonade, and every species of attraction that pleases the multitude. But that space has now been built upon, and these sports have all migrated to the barriers. During the time our troops remained, we had only one man found dead in the streets. It was said that he had been murdered, but of that there was considerable doubt for no signs of violence were found. This was strongly in contrast to what happened to the Prussian soldiers. It was asserted, and indeed proved beyond doubt, that numbers of them were assassinated, and in some parts of France it was not unusual to find in the morning, in deep wells or cellars, several bodies of soldiers of that nation who had been killed during the night, so strong was the hatred born against them by the French. End of section 5. Recording by Ruth Golding