Waiting upon the group, let the reader also imagine six or eight servants, in as many different liveries (all men from the ranks) standing “attention” behind their respective masters' chairs, or assisting in the table service under the “chief command” of the mess waiter general,—a fusty old privileged rear-rank man, in a green livery, faced with red, his person exhibiting evident marks of good living, and indicating thereby the difference between his former barrack-room mess and his present mess-kitchen morsels: upon the table, the dessert profusely spread; the board laughing with light; corks chirping; glasses sparkling; and the band in the passage without, playing in their best style the beautiful melody of “Go where glory waits thee.” This is the Mess-Room of a happy regiment.
I cannot decorate my heroes with that highly esteemed badge “the medal,” because the regiment I describe never
“Smelt Waterloo's pink-ribbon'd shot.”
Yet are they not the worse for that: many fought at the immortal engagement commemorated by the medal, whose battle account, if scrutinized, would be found to fall short of theirs—perhaps one twentieth part.
The members of the mess are partly English, partly Irish, and partly Scotch: I will not here mention their names, but let them “fall in” just as the dialogue may call them up.
Time about seven o'clock.—Cloth just removed.
Capt. Ball (president for the day). Gentlemen, fill.
Major Swordly (“vice” for the day). We are all ready at this end of the table.
Capt. Ball (looking through a full glass). “The King! God bless him!”
[All drink bumpers to the toast. “God bless him!” “God bless him!” passing from one end of “the line” to the other, while the band without change to the royal and national anthem. The Mess in under-tones chat to each other.]