Lord Alexander Russell—a brother of the Duke of Bedford—when in command of the Rifle Brigade invariably smoked a short clay when at the head of his regiment, and Colonel Warden, another eccentric, who commanded the 19th Foot, seldom rose till one or two in the afternoon, and would keep the whole regiment dangling about the orderly room for hours, to the amusement of the rest of the camp.
But this was in the days when every regiment was a principality ruled by a despot, who, twice a year at most, underwent formal inspection by some amiable old gentleman, who received £600 a year for wearing a cocked hat as commander of such and such a regiment.
That the state of preparedness that often then existed would hardly meet the requirements of the present-day alertness may best be exemplified by what I once assisted at.
The Inspecting General was Sir Percy Douglas, who had expressed the desire of seeing and hearing that instructive manœuvre, a feu de joie. Proudly did the commanding officer give the requisite command, and with one accord 800 muzzle-loading barrels pointed defiantly heavenwards; then pop here, pop there a hundred yards down the line, a charge here and there exploded.
Every barrel was choked with mutton fat—a favourite recipe against rust amongst the old warriors of England.
Some startling stories of the mad Marquis of Waterford might be introduced, if their production were possible. One or two incidents, however, of the Sixties may not be amiss. Constantly was this privileged lunatic to be seen walking the Haymarket at breakneck speed, and being known to every cabman, waterman, and policeman, his antics attracted little attention. On one occasion he appeared in an exceptionally dishevelled condition, and a constable remonstrating with him in a friendly tone, he produced a large knife, and, hacking off what purported to be a finger, threw it into the street.
His lordship had apparently been exploiting the shambles, and brought away a blade-bone for possible emergency.
On another occasion he had been annoyed by being overcrowded in a railway carriage, and retaliated a few days after by appearing at the station with a chimney-sweep in full canonicals, for whom he purchased a first-class ticket, and whom he took with him into the carriage. His lordship and his companion were on this occasion in no way incommoded.
Sir Charles Ross, a wealthy Highland baronet, visited London every season for exactly fourteen days, accompanied by a gillie. At the old “Tavistock,” where he invariably stayed, his daily meals consisted of mutton chops and steaks; his gillie, by express order, was to be given “anything”—salmon and grouse were good enough for him.
On one occasion he imagined he had dropped a sixpence in the entrance-hall, and half the staff of the hotel were employed for two hours at half-a-crown an hour, with express orders to find it.