The next birthday review of Volunteers (4th June, 1800) was not a happy one. It was a larger affair than that of the previous year, some 12,000 men being under arms; but they had to stand in soaking rain for eight hours, as did the majority of the spectators. The following is from the pen of an eye-witness:—
“So early as four o’clock, the drums beat to arms in every quarter, and various other music summoned the reviewers and the reviewed to the field. Even then the clouds were surcharged with rain, which soon began to fall; but no unfavourableness of the weather could damp the ardour of even the most delicate of the fair. So early as six o’clock, all the avenues were crowded with elegantly dressed women escorted by their beaux; and the assemblage was so great, that, when the King entered the Park, it was thought advisable to shut several of the gates, to avoid too much pressure.
“The circumstance of the weather, which, from the personal inconvenience it produced, might be considered the most inauspicious of the day, proved, in fact, the most favourable for a display of beauty, for variety of scene, and number of incidents. From the constant rain, and the constant motion, the whole Park could be compared only to a new-ploughed field. The gates being locked, there was no possibility of retreating, and there was no shelter but an old tree or an umbrella. In this situation you might behold an elegant woman, with a neat yellow slipper, delicate ankle, and white silk stockings, stepping up to her garter in the mire, with as little dissatisfaction as she would into her coach—there, another, making the first faux pas, perhaps, she ever did, and seated, reluctantly, on the moistened clay.
“Here is a whole group assembled under the hospitable roof of an umbrella, whilst the exterior circle, for the advantage of having one shoulder dry, is content to receive its dripping contents on the other. The antiquated virgin laments the hour in which, more fearful of a speckle than a wetting, she preferred the dwarfish parasol to the capacious umbrella. The lover regrets there is no shady bower to which he might lead his mistress, ‘nothing loath.’ Happy she, who, following fast, finds in the crowd a pretence for closer pressure. Alas, there were but few grottos, a few caverns—how many Didos—how many Æneas’s? Such was the state of the spectators. That of the troops was still worse—to lay exposed to a pelting rain; their
arms had changed their mirror-like[49] brilliancy to a dirty brown; their new clothes lost all their gloss, the smoke of a whole campaign could not have more discoloured them. Where the ground was hard, they slipped; where soft, they sunk up to the knee. The water ran out at their cuffs as from a spout, and, filling their half boots, a squash at every step proclaimed that the Austrian buckets could contain no more.”
