I have lived in Charles Street now for some thirty-eight years, and have naturally become much attached to it and to Berkeley Square, where I was born, and where nearly every house possesses memories which to me recall the past. Charles Street boasts one of the most curious old tavern signs in London—“The Running Footman”—though I fear that the sign itself is but a modern reproduction of the original one. Be this as it may, no similar signboard exists; it recalls the days when noblemen were preceded by runners, whose especial duty lay in clearing the way. The legend beneath the footman, clad in green coat and knee-breeches, states, “I am the only running footman,” and such as a matter of fact is the case, for there exists no other sign of this kind. Long may this interesting survival of other days maintain its position! The Duke of Queensberry,—“Old Q.,” the star of Piccadilly,—is believed to have been the last nobleman to retain running footmen. These he himself was in the habit of engaging after having made them give an exhibition of such fleetness of foot as they might possess. A well-known story used to be told of the trick which one of these gentlemen played his Grace. A man desirous of serving “Old Q.” in the capacity of running footman had to run a sort of trial up Piccadilly, whilst his future master sat on the balcony of his house carefully watching the performance. On one occasion, a particularly likely-looking candidate having presented himself, orders were given that he should exhibit his running powers in the Duke’s livery, in which accordingly he was equipped. The man ran well, and “Old Q.,” who was delighted, shouted out to him from his balcony: “You will do very well for me.” “And your livery will do very well for me,” replied the man, after which reply he made off at top speed, and could never be caught nor found again. Running footmen were wont to sustain their energies by drinking a mixture composed of white wine and eggs—a small supply of the wine being frequently carried in the large silver ball which topped their tall canes. About seven miles an hour was by no means an unusual speed for them to attain, but when put upon their mettle they would do even better. In the eighteenth century these men were frequently matched to run against horses and carriages, and one of the last recorded contests of this sort was between a celebrated running footman and the Duke of Marlborough, some time before 1770. The wager was that the footman would run to Windsor from London quicker than the Duke could drive there in his phaeton and four, both to start at the same time. The result was that his Grace just (but only just) won, whilst the poor footman, worn out by his tremendous exertions, and very much chagrined at his defeat, died from the effects, it was said, of over-fatigue. Some of these men wore no breeches at all, but a sort of short silk petticoat kept down by a deep gold fringe.