The Military Sketch-Book. Vol. 1 (of 2) Reminiscences of seventeen years in the service abroad and at home — Reading Companion

ertain as to the truth of what Snip asserted with regard to the “fit.” I must confess, however, that I suspected a wrinkle or two across the shoulders, and the waist was not quite so tight as I could have wished: but then this coat was the only one in the shop; and, as it was too late to look for another, I resolved to keep it on; for, to have given up that night's exhibition of my military importance in the throng at the West-End of the town, would have been an act of self-denial, more becoming a member of the Abbey of _La Trappe_, than an ensign of one of His Majesty's regiments of the line. Accordingly, I paid the twelve pounds, which produced a double volley of complimentary “_Captains_” from the tailor, and having been again assured that my regimentals should be punctually sent home next day, I departed.

Whether it arose from the hurry in which I was to launch my first military coat among the loungers that swelled the passages about Leicester Square, Piccadilly, Bond Street, and St. James's, or whether it was from a lack of knowledge of the etiquette of military costume, I do not now recollect; but certain it is, that I quite overlooked the necessity of providing for the nether portion of my person articles of dress corresponding with those which decorated my upper half. When I think of the figure I must have cut, I blush, even to this hour. Yet I know not why I should blush. I am now about seventeen years older, and my vision shows me everything with a far different aspect from what it wore at nineteen. Yet happiness has not increased with years; and objects, although now more perfect to my sight, have lost their former delightful colouring. Perhaps it may be better that eyes thus change their power, and that boys are neither philosophers nor men of the world; if they were, where would be the enviable sweetness of boyhood—that freshness of life, which makes youth laugh at futurity, and which the wisest sage cannot retrospectively contemplate without a sigh?

But to my subject. I proceeded along the Strand, Cockspur Street, Haymarket, and Piccadilly, to the Green Park promenade, with an air of importance perfectly consistent with the occasion: and that my new attire produced a change in the countenances of the crowd was manifest. To my great delight all eyes were on me—every body turned to look after me as I passed; but when I got into the Green Park, and was surrounded by its elegant evening loungers, the remarks made upon me became very insulting: these, however, I set down to the account of envy in the men, and a spirit of flirtation in the ladies. Six or eight fellows of _ton_ followed me in line along the parade, admiring, and _envying_ (as I then thought), the beauty of my braided frock; but, I now believe, with no other view but that of quizzing the oddity of my appearance.—And such an appearance—such incongruity of dress never presented itself in the Green Park either before or since that memorable evening. Had I been downright _shabby-genteel_ (as the phrase is) I might have escaped; but every article upon me was new, “spick and span.”—A highly expensive military coat, of the most abominable fit, down to my ankles, and as wide as a sentry-box, white cord breeches, yellow top-boots, cross-barred Marseilles waistcoat, white cravat, and a most incorrigibly new _woolly_ hat! But the braiding on the coat I thought covered, like charity, a multitude of offences; and I, myself, could see no impropriety whatever in my “turn out.” The line of coxcombs continued to follow, but never ventured to address me directly: they kept up a sort of hedge-fire, which, I confess, a good deal galled me; but, as I said before, if I had not then thought their remarks sprung from pure envy, one or two of them should have gone headlong into the pond by which we walked.

“He's a griffin,” said one.

“Perhaps he's a golok.”

“Not at all,” said another; “the gentleman's a _heron_ just _bagged_.”

“He belongs to the first regiment of _light buldhoons_,” muttered a third.

“My life on't, Tom, you're wrong,” rejoined one of the critics; “I'll bet any of you a dozen of Champaigne that he is a _thorough-bred horse-marine_; you may see that by his jockey boots.”