This evening's adventure gave me ample food for rumination, and I chewed my cud upon it half the night. I felt thoroughly ashamed of my folly, in having displayed my gaudy suit of regimentals, when I plainly perceived, that custom was so decidedly against it: but—experientia docet. I next morning locked up my uniform, and determined never to wear it, until I joined my regiment.
There has been a great deal said about the “privileges” of the City of London, in reference to the appearance of soldiers in its streets; and some, who rank high in the republic of letters, have spun out many fine periods upon the subject; but I must confess myself sceptical enough to think, that all this is “leather and prunella;” though, I maintain, that I am neither inimical to civil nor religious liberty. In despite of “liberal” cant, I must always opine, that the appearance of regimental uniforms in London, (so long as they are British,) can never either endanger the liberty of the subject, or disgrace the good people of the metropolis. I allow, that no officer of good sense or good taste would dress in regimentals, while sojourning in London, and absent from his regiment; but I cannot see why the inhabitants assume it as almost a right, to exclude the appearance of uniforms, if individuals in the service choose to wear them. The household troops, foot-guards, &c. on the King's duty, in London, appear in regimentals with impunity; but if an officer who is doing duty with his regiment, at Woolwich, or Deptford, or Hounslow, or any other place near London, has occasion to visit the metropolis, he must either go in plain clothes, or submit to ridicule, if he ventures to appear amongst the cockneys in his professional dress. Habit is a powerful master, and if this intolerance of military and naval uniforms becomes a general prejudice, it cannot be fairly argued against; but when a metropolitan magistrate declares, in his public seat, that such uniforms must not appear in London,[3] there is something more than habit in it. Are the people of London afraid of officers belonging to their own regiments? This they cannot reasonably be, for such officers are subordinate to the civil power. Are they ashamed of them? This belief cannot be for a moment entertained; therefore, let there be no more talk of “privileges:” and if either duty or taste direct an officer to wear his uniform in the public places or streets of the metropolis, let him be scrutinized only by the same rule, that would guide our opinions upon the black gown of a lawyer or the shovel-hat of a clergyman.
Although reflections similar to these occupied me during the greater part of the night which gave occasion to them, yet the view I took of the matter at that time, was widely different from that which I now take; for I then thought, that the man who was entitled to wear a regimental uniform, should exhibit it on all occasions, even when out shooting. No man ever went to sleep more mortified and chagrined than I did, from my reflections on what had past. The thing had one good effect, however; which was, that it started me off from London, and thereby, perhaps, saved me from more sleepless nights. I went by coach next day to Brighton; and in six hours was at the head-quarters of my regiment.
I reported myself to the commanding officer, Colonel ——, who in the most cordial and frank manner, invited me to dine with him at the mess that day; sent for the Quartermaster, and settled me at once in my barrack-room. He next assigned to me a servant from the ranks, introduced me to all the officers of the regiment, and with one of the Captains took my arm, and walked out to show me the lions of Brighton. All this attention from the commanding officer, was duly appreciated by me. I felt already fascinated with my regiment, and with good reason, for this commanding officer was very different in his conduct towards the junior officers, from many I have since had occasion to serve under. He was the father of his corps; of the most strict, impartial, and inflexible character in all matters of duty; but a friend and companion, without severity or unnecessary exactness when duty was done; he was, in short, a perfect model of the officer and the gentleman.
For two hours previous to dinner, that is to say, from four 'till six o'clock, I employed myself in going through a set of practical evolutions before my looking-glass, in full regimentals, and even when warned by the striking up of
“O the roast beef of old England,”
I had not quite concluded.
I proceeded to the mess-room, and was placed on the right hand of the Colonel, who that day happened to be president. Except on the announcement of my appointment in the Gazette, I never felt such exultation, as when I found myself seated at the mess-table, surrounded by about thirty officers: my appetite was completely gone; I took soup and almost every other thing offered me, but tasted scarcely any thing except wine; indeed of this I partook pretty liberally, for every member of the table requested “the honour,” &c. and in about one hour I had swallowed, on a rough calculation, about thirty half glasses of pale sherry—ergo, a full bottle.
Now were the pleasures of a regimental mess completely developed before me, and my mind most exquisitely prepared for the enjoyment of them, in which preparation my thirty half glasses of sherry exerted not a little influence. The fine appearance of the officers, the splendour of the full-dress uniforms in the blaze of the wax lights, the excellence of the dinner, the attention of the servants, the merry and gentlemanly conversation of the party, the diversified beauty of the music from our band without, the whole crowned by the affability of our commanding officer, rendered the scene to a young military enthusiast the most delightful that can be imagined; and, indeed, to any military man, what can be a more charming place than the mess-room of a united corps of officers? It is the home, the happiest home, perhaps, of its members; and its enjoyments serve to compensate for the rougher endurances of a military life. In a properly regulated mess, indeed, the very best enjoyments of refined society are to be found.
The wine went round, I talked to every body, and every body talked to me; with the old Captains, who “had seen service,” I talked of the Indian and American wars; to the pipe-clay Adjutant,—of drills and field days; to the Surgeon—of wounds and hospitals; to the Paymaster—of cash and accounts; to the Quartermaster—of beef and clothing: with all I was at home, and from all I bore a joke or two on my newcome situation with genuine patience, nay, with some degree of pleasure. On the whole, I was pretty well au fait, till the time when the non-commissioned officers came in to hand round the order-book for inspection. At first, when they entered in line, and faced about with the salute, I thought they were singers specially brought in for the amusement of the mess, and was listening for a glee or a song from them, when one approached my chair, and placed before me, in his right hand, the order-book, which I conceived to be the song or music-book to serve as a reference while the singers performed their duty, and took it out of the sergeant's hand, coolly placing it before me. A smile and a stare from every face were directed at me, and in a few moments a general titter went round, which threw me into no little confusion. The sergeant now in a low tone said to me, “The orders, Sir.”