According to the latest Astley authorities, dated last June, the Battle
of Waterloo occupied six minutes exactly. Several French soldiers walked
undisguisedly into the quarters of the English army before the fight
commenced; and some, at the extreme back of the scene, fought
indiscriminately on either side, as occasion required. But the gravest
circumstance is, that in the heat of the action the Duke of Wellington,
approaching Marshal Soult, said to him, "Don't let your fellows fire
until mine have!" a course which must have led them to destruction, had
not General Widdicombe roared, with a voice of thunder, "What the devil
are you doing there, you stupid asses?"—which produced the last grand
charge. The story of the ball at Brussels is an idle invention. The
officers were at no ball at all; except two, who had visited Mr. Baron
Nathan's assembly at Kensington but a little time previously: and as to
their being taken by surprise, they knew for weeks what was coming, even
to the very hour and minute of the attack, and the precise manner in
which it would be made. The following beautiful lines are but little
known, and well deserve a place in this report. They are the production
of Lord Byron, and were written at the request of the late Andrew
Ducrow, Esq., describing the scene immediately before the commencement
of the battle.
"There was a sound of revelry by night;
And Astley's manager had gathered then
His supers and his cavalry; and bright
The gas blazed o'er tall women and loud men.
The audience waited happily; and when
The orchestra broke forth with brazen swell,
Apples were sold for most extensive gain;
And ginger beer popped merrily as well!—
But hush! hark! what's that noise, just like our parlour-bell?
"Did ye not hear it?—No, sir!—Never mind;
P'raps 'twas the Atlas bus to Oxford Street.
Strike up, you fiddlers!—Now, young feller, mind!
Don't scrouge, or you shall go where police meet,
To chase the knowing thieves with flying feet!—
But hark! that sound is heard again—once more!
And boys, with whistle shrill, its note repeat;
And nearer, clearer, queerer than before!—
Hats off!—It is, it is—the bell from prompter's door!
"Ah! then was hurry-skurry, to and fro;
And authors' oaths, and symptoms of a mess;
And men as soldiers, who, two nights ago,
Went round the circus in a Chinese dress!
And there were rapid paintings, such as press
On those who ply the arts, with choking size,
Which ne'er might be completed! Who could guess
How all would look before the public eyes,
When on that 'Street in Brussels' the act drop would rise!"
STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A VIEW OF
ROSHERVILLE.
BY A BANK CLERK.
Oh, Rosherville! thou bringest all good things
Home to the Gravesend beaux and city "gents:"
A dinner for a shilling, rifles, swings,
Baronial halls, arbours, and canvas tents!
Where comic gentleman, or lady, sings,
And Baron Nathan some fresh dance invents;[1]
Or brave toxophilites the longbow draw,
And strive to hit the Albert Tell of straw.[2]
Sweet Eden! which for fivepence we may gain,
Or there and back for ninepence by the _Star_;
Upon whose deck, released from sacks and grain,
Mark Lane Lotharios smoke the light cigar:
Stock Exchange Stags, and clerks from Mincing Lane,
Who prate of "consols," "shares," and "scrip," and "par,"
Crowding towards the gangway, as they near
The Thames-washed steps of Rosherville's fair pier.
Enchanted chalk-pit! from thy lonely tower
Signor Gellini,[3] amidst flames of fire,
Glides on the single rope, by magic power,
When Chiarini Cocoa-nuts retire;[4]
And as it darker grows, in every bower
Soft whispered nothings—tales of love, transpire—
All this for sixpence! Can such misers be!
Who'd grudge that sum, sweet Rosherville, to thee?
Yes, Gravesend! to thy shrimps my memory clings,
And to that loved one—would I could forget her!—
Who tied in double knots my heart's young strings;
Dating from Parrock Street each scented letter,
But flew from me, one day, on fancy's wings,
All for another gent as she loved better;
And left me lonely, in a dark dilemma,
On Windmill Hill, to warble "Faithless Emma."[5]
But as, in _La Sonnambula_, the man
In love sings, "Still so gently o'er me stealing,"
Although I combat with it all I can,
I find that "memory will bring back the feeling."
But love, at any time, lasts but a span;
And so, in "spite of all my grief revealing,"
I will revisit Rosherville's domain,
And drown in "tea with cresses"[6] all my pain.
Footnote 1:
Nathan, Lord Rosherville, and Baron of Kennington, has been
immortalized in _Punch_. His Terpsichorean ingenuity is remarkable.
Perhaps his "Polka Hornpipe, in chain armour and handcuffs," is his
most remarkable dance.
Footnote 2:
"_The Albert Tell of straw._"—This work of art is an appropriate mark
for the archers to shoot at. It is a species of cross-breed between
Guy Fawkes and a bee-hive.
Footnote 3:
"_Signor Gellini, amidst_," &c.—This accomplished foreigner, amongst
other acquirements, speaks English equal to any native.
Footnote 4:
"_When Chiarini Cocoa-nuts_," &c.—The Chiarini family are a race of
animated castanets; and their evident self-satisfaction at this cocoa
dance has originated the saying of being "nuts" on anything.
Footnote 5:
Flirtations of all kinds thrive at Rosherville and Gravesend, "which
it is well beknown," as Mrs. Gamp would say.
Footnote 6:
"_Tea with cresses_," or "Tea with shrimps," each at ninepence, forms
the staple meal of Gravesend. The tea is usually the "strong rough
congou," at three-and-four. One trial will prove the fact.
[Illustration:
SAGITTARIUS—The Archer—(Not "Venus' Son divine.")
]