“But this is worshipful society.”
Shakspeare.

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Scene—The mess-room of a Hussar Regiment: principal speakers—Colonel Diamond; Major Flowers; Captains Tache, Bright, and Ploomer; Doctor Scott; Lieutenants Rose, Golding, Lavender, and Honeywood; Cornets Lilly, Fairfax, Canary, and Small. Table spread with dessert, decanters, glasses, and snuff-boxes. Time—half-past ten at night.

Capt. Bright. When Colonel Diamond has done drilling the claret, I would thank him to put it into marching order, and give the decanter the route.

Col. Diamond. 'Pon my honour, Bright, you are becoming brilliant. If you take any more of the light wine, you will absolutely dazzle us.

All the Mess. Good!—good!—excellent!—bravo! Colonel—admirable hit.

[A well directed volley is laughed at the Colonel's “HIT;” particularly loud from the Subalterns.]

Dr. Scott. Positively, Colonel Diamond, the Ensign and Adjutant, wha writes in Blackwood's Magazine, couldna say a better bet o' wut. (offers his gold snuff-box to the Colonel.)

Capt. Bright. By the by, Colonel, who is this new Cornet we are about to have?

Col. Diamond. 'Pon my honour, I don't know him; but, I believe, Major Flowers does.

Major Flowers. Pardonnez moi, Colonel, I don't know him. His uncle's in trade: he is known on change.

All the Mess (with a stare). Indeed!!!

Major Flowers. Yes, I have heard that he is a dry-salter?

All the Mess. A dry-salter?

Lieut. Rose. Horrible!

Cornet Canary. Shocking!

Cornet Small. Dreadful!

Lieut. Golding. Abominable!

Dr. Scott. Aweel, I dinna know but there's mare in dry-salters than you think, gentlemen: he's na' the worse for a' that, gin he's got the siller.

Major Flowers. Doctor, 'pon my honour, I am surprised that you should think that money could possibly purchase our permission to admit a dry-salter's relation as a member of the nonpareils!

All the Mess. Oh, Doctor!—oh! oh! oh!

Dr. Scott. A dry-salter, Major, is na' worse than a tailor, and I have seen a tailor's son cut a canny dash in the army afore noo.

All the Mess. Have done, Doctor, pray have done!

Colonel Diamond. The Doctor has Dunn, I assure you. (Although the Colonel's pun was evidently a poser—all laughed a little; but the Colonel himself, although he could not refrain from the deliverance of it, was certainly sorry for having been so witty, and a short silence intervened.)

Major Flowers. Oh, by the by, Colonel, I have received a letter from Lady Fanny, and she tells me that it is rumoured—a—that we are to be sent to Ireland.

All the Mess. To Ireland!

Capt. Tache. I'll exchange, upon my honour.

Lieut. Golding. I'll resign.

Lieut. Lavender. We shall be starved, as I live.

Capt. Bright. We shall be murdered.

Cornet Small (in a piping voice). Really, if I had the slightest anticipation that the regiment should have been ordered on foreign service at all, I would have joined the Blues. A man of fortune has no business in Ireland.

Col. Diamond. If this news of Lady Fanny's should turn out to be true, I must go to town immediately, and insist upon a change in the arrangement; the Duke must not be allowed to have his way in this: so, gentlemen, make yourselves easy on the subject. I am determined we shall not go.

[All the Mess are delighted, and a burst of applause follows the concluding word of the Colonel's assurance.]

Dr. Scott. Dinna fash aboot ganging to Ireland, gentlemen; it's no sae bad a spot as you think.

Capt. Ploomer. Really, Doctor, you Scotchmen have strange notions of comfort,—totally at variance with the esprit de corps which distinguishes the nonpareils. Those boundary countries, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, may do very well for the infantry and the heavy dragoons, and perhaps as an occasional quarter for the lights; but we, who are the influential portion of the military ton, should never leave England, except, indeed, for such an affair as Waterloo.

Dr. Scott. My conscience! but I think, Captain, such “affairs” as Waterloo are more suitable to the heavy dragoons than to the Hussars: an' I have na doubt but the gallant Marquis o' Anglesea wud tell ye the same thing.

Capt. Ploomer. 'Pon my honour, I don't know; we did very well, too; vastly well—a—but let us confine ourselves to Ireland, Doctor.

Col. Diamond. Yes, Doctor, to Ireland, if you please.

Dr. Scott. Weel, what objection have ye to that quarter?

Capt. Ploomer. Objection! my dear Sir! they shake hands with their friends, and absolutely eat breakfasts.

Cornet Canary. Oh, shocking!

Cornet Fairfax. Abominable!

Capt. Tache. The Doctor is not to blame, considering the view he takes of the matter. Ireland may be a very good quarter; but the Commander-in-Chief ought to draw a line between the mere army and the cream of the cavalry.

All the Mess. Certainly—undoubtedly—decidedly.

Dr. Scott. I dinna ken that—I dinna ken that; the cream of the cavalry, as ye call it, did na mair under Pompey at the battle o' Pharsalia, than they did under Wellington at Waterloo.

[A silence prevails during the application of three full pinches of snuff.]

Lieut. Honeywood. Pray, Doctor, may I ask you when that action was fought? Was it before the affair of Talavera?

Cornet Lilly. Yes, considerably previous.

Dr. Scott. Which action?—Waterloo?

Lieut. Honeywood. No, no; the other you mention.

Dr. Scott. What! the Battle of Pharsalia?

Lieut. Honeywood. Yes.

Dr. Scott (having first taken snuff). A wee bit afore that.

Cornet Lilly. Yes, yes, my dear Honeywood, considerably before that. I have heard my father speak of it.

Lieut. Honeywood. Pray, Mr. Lilly, how long ago may it have occurred?

Cornet Lilly. Oh, long before the American war. The Doctor, I dare say, can tell. How many years ago, Doctor?

Dr. Scott. As near as I can guess it is about forty-eight years—

Dr. Scott. No sae fast—

Cornet Lilly. It can't be much less, for my father—

Dr. Scott. Stay, stay, no sae fast, young gentleman. I say, as near as I can recollect, it occurred about forty-eight years before Christ.

Dr. Scott (snuffing). Ay, nae far fra' twa thoosand years ago.

[There was now a general laugh, and all became suddenly learned on this point; even Lieut. Honeywood and Cornet Lilly, who now affected to say that they meant to quiz the Doctor; but most betraying blushes, and unlucky countenances belied the insinuation.]

Col. Diamond. John!

[Colonel's servant advances two paces towards the Colonel.]

Servant. Sir!

Col. Diamond. Why don't the band play?

All the Mess. Ay, ay, the band—where's the band?

[This question restored the countenances of the blushers to their ordinary hue; for the little discord was drowned in the harmonious call for one band.]

Servant. They have been in the hall since eight o'clock, Sir, waiting for orders to play.

Col. Diamond. Oh! ah! I ordered them not to play until after dinner. Tell them to proceed now.

[Exit Servant at a gallop.]

Major Flowers. That's a good idea, Colonel. We should be two hours later, certainly, than the heavy dragoons in this parti-cu-lar.

All the Mess. Certainly!—decidedly!—of course.

[Band without begin to play Von Weber's favourite overture.]

Col. Diamond. Mess-waiter!

Waiter (advancing three paces towards the Colonel). Sir!

Col. Diamond. Tell the band-master to stop that, and to play “Lady Fanny's Hussar piece.”

[Exit Waiter in a trot.]

All the Mess. Bravo! Colonel, a good move.

Col. Diamond. Von Weber's music is very well, and the King patronizes it; but, 'pon my honour, Lady Fanny's Hussar is more elegant.

[Band play a noise, in which several screams of the clarionet and groans of the trombone are prominent, during which the Mess beat time, or rather move their heads and fingers, occasionally commenting on the piece. At length the instruments cease to play, after a violent struggle of the bassoons.]

Col. Diamond. Isn't it very good?

All. Excellent! Superb!

Cornet Small. Don't his Majesty like that piece, Colonel?

Col. Diamond. No: 'pon my honour.

Major Flowers. You see, Colonel, his Majesty requires a little improvement; he is certainly a very good musician, and prefers the Rossinis and Von Webers; but really, I think Lady Fanny's piece ought to please him. It has a delightful mixture of movement.

Col. Diamond. Lady Fanny's is fine; and certainly, her ladyship has got a good major-key in you.

All the Mess. Bravo!—Hit again!—Bravo!—Bravo!

Dr. Scott (taking snuff). Ecod I dinna like the thing at a'; it's sic a mixture, that I canna mak heed or tail o't.

Cornet Small. 'Pon my honour, Doctor, you are a perfect Goth in taste.

Lieut. Rose. A Vandal, Sir.

Capt. Ploomer. Nothing but a Hun.

Dr. Scott. Weel, if I am a Goth, Hun, or Vandal, you ha' placed me in gude company; for you say his Majesty doesna like the piece. Noo I would ask what partic'lar merit Lady Fanny shows?

Col. Diamond. Merit, Sir!—a—the fact is, Lady Fanny is the best-dress'd woman in town.

All the Mess. Decidedly!

Major Flowers. Her ladyship's taste is undisputed: the Austrian knot on the fore part of our full dress pantaloons is from her design.

Col. Diamond. She discovered an error in the Astrachan fur collar of our pelisse,—suggested an improvement in the side-seams, welts, and hips: Besides, her Russian patterns of neck lines, sliders, and olivets, are lasting monuments of her refinement. Indeed she is a very superior sort of woman, and I'll give you her health in a bumper.

[Lady Fanny is drunk standing.]

Dr. Scott. But what music has she composed, Colonel?

Col. Diamond. Some excellent things, indeed: there's her song “Come Charles to-night,” which she dedicated to me; and there's her Bravura on the burning of Moscow; and her grand Hussar piece, which she has dedicated to us.—In short she is a woman of fine parts.

All the Mess. Oh, delightful!

Dr. Scott. Wud you sing ane o' her songs, Colonel?

Col. Diamond. Doctor, you ought to know that the Nonpareils never sing.

Dr. Scott. Vara weel—ha' it your ain way.

Capt. Bright. By the by, Lady Mary, her sister, gives a ball to-night.—Don't we go, Colonel?

Col. Diamond. I should like it, because the Lancers are to be there.—We must cut them out.

Major Flowers. Oh, certainly!—Decidedly!

Capt. Golding. The Lancers look very well: they have got a fair dress; but still they are mere light-dragoons. They are too new, and have not yet acquired the polish of the Hussars.

All the Mess. Certainly not!—mere light-dragoons!

Col. Diamond. Besides, they have lately lost ground.—It has gone abroad upon them. They can never hope to succeed.

Several of the Mess. How, pray Colonel?—What has happened?

Col. Diamond. They absolutely dance.

Major Flowers. I have heard the rumour.

Capt. Tache. Indeed!

Lieut. Lavender. Shocking!

Cornet Small. Horrible!

Col. Diamond. They dine so early as six, too.

All the Mess. Oh! Oh! that will never do.

Major Flowers. Besides, their scarlet trowsers are not wide enough; and I have seen positively a grey hair on one of their whiskers. In short, we must go to Lady Mary's ball, to cut them out at once.

All the Mess. Certainly, at once!

Colonel (to his servant). John! I'll dress at twelve; and d' y' hear, I'll wear my long ball spurs.

Dr. Scott (to his servant). Sandy!

Sandy. Ser.

Dr. Scott. Is there a fire in my room?

Sandy. Yes, Ser.

Dr. Scott. Gang then an' mak' a bason o' gruel, an'—d'ye hear?—take my snuff-box, an' fill it; an' put my slippers afore the fire.

[Exit Sandy at a walk.]

Col. Diamond. What, off! Doctor.

Dr. Scott. Yes, I'm gauin' to bed; an' if you a' consulted yer health an' yer pockets, ye wad do sae likwise.

All the Mess. Ha! ha! ha! Good night! Good night!

Dr. Scott. I tell ye what lads,—yer a' gude sodgers in spite o' yir claethes, an' yir gimcrackery, an' yir nonsense; for I've seen some o' ye faight afore noo. Lord Wellington said that his dandy officers were the best o' a'; an' maybe they are as gude as others; but I tell ye what, it's na' by turning naight into day, an' whisking aboot amangst a crood o' gigling lassies, that ye'll improve yoursels in the art o' war, or the strength that is as useful an' necessary for it. Good naight to ye a'!

All the Mess. Good night, Doctor, good night.

[Exit Dr. Scott.]

Col. Diamond (after a short pause). “There's another star gone out.”

Capt. Bright. Bravo! Colonel, a good quotation.

Cornet Lilly. Very good indeed!—(in a whisper) Pray from whom is it, Captain Bright?

Capt. Bright. From a very particular friend of mine—Lord Byron.

Major Flowers. I hope you have cut him. He is decidedly hostile to us.

Capt. Bright. I have never seen him since he left England. But I meant to cut him ever since he published his scurrility in the “Liberal.” He first abused the army, and then became a soldier himself.

Col. Diamond. But, Major, what does Lady Mary's card say? Have you got one here?

Major Flowers. I have not.

Cornet Small. I have, Colonel, and here it is.

[Gives a card.]

Col. Diamond—(reads). “Lady-a-um-compliments to the Officers of the Nonpareil Hussars.” Why, what's all this? The Officers of the Nonpareil Hussars! I'll not go.

All the Mess. Why not, Colonel? Why not?

Col. I'm not invited.

All the Mess. Not invited!

Col. Diamond. No, I'm not invited, and of course will not go. “Officers,” indeed! the card should run thus—“To Colonel Diamond, and the Officers of the &c.” Really it is a breach of etiquette that I cannot submit to.

Major Flowers. 'Pon my honour, Colonel, I do not think there can be any offence meant: pray let me entreat you to come.

Col. Diamond. No, Major, I feel—a—the—a—in short, it should have been to “the Colonel and the Officers.” Don't you think so?

Major. Perhaps it would have been more particular; but I do not think it is of so much consequence, as to make you forego the delightful society of Lady Fanny; for her ladyship will be there to a certainty.

[Colonel hums a tune.]

Do pray come, Colonel.

All the Mess. Yes, you must come, Colonel—come—come—come—Colonel! Do Colonel—do come!

[All stand up, except the Colonel.]

Col. Diamond. Well, as you all so particularly request it, I—a—will go; but, 'pon my honour! I am determined to notice the neglect in a proper manner to Lady Mary.

All the Mess. Bravo! Colonel! Bravo!

Capt. Golding. Pass the Madeira this way, Major; but first help yourself.

[Each now takes a glass of Madeira—a Babel call for the servants immediately follows—“Tom! John! Jack! James!” and exeunt omnes, whistling and staggering.]

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