One year some tableaux were got up in the theatre, the money collected for seats being given to some charity connected with sick children. Lord William loved small bairns and they loved him. I remember at these particular tableaux I represented Charlotte Corday going to execution for the murder of Marat; my executioners were Lord William Beresford and Captain Donald Stewart, a brother officer of my husband’s in the 92nd Gordon Highlanders; we had many rehearsals both for this tableau and others, but the despair of the stage manager was great over the Corday scene, as the executioners always ended in romping. Well do I remember their both rolling about the floor trying to execute one another instead of Charlotte Corday. The manager would become almost tearful in his entreaties to them to “behave themselves.” They would then get up, shake themselves, saying to one another, “Now no more nonsense, Donny, we must behave ourselves”; and Captain Stewart would reply, “Now do shut up, Bill, and let us get to business,” but their good resolutions did not last long, they were soon stabbing, wrestling and tickling one another again and rolling about on the floor. I began to wonder what would really happen when the day arrived to appear before the public, but in spite of having had no proper rehearsals when the fateful moment came they behaved splendidly, but directly they were off the stage and behind the scenes began again. When the whole performance was over, the staff gave a supper in the theatre to those they wished to invite who had taken part in the tableaux. A merry evening followed. As soon as all had refreshed themselves, someone suggested a steeplechase over the tables and chairs; forms were quickly turned upside-down, and chairs built up into fences. There was some fun while the would-be riders chose their mounts. At last all was settled, and we women packed ourselves away in one corner of the room to act as audience. I am afraid if the Jockey Club had witnessed that race none of the riders would ever again have been granted licences, for they out-jockeyed each other, crossing and trying to pull the riders off their mounts. There were some resounding and shocking spills, but nobody cared, and the race waxed fast and furious, being won eventually by Captain Donald Stewart, a great big fine mount, ridden, if my memory may be relied upon, by Captain Des Voeux of the Carabineers or Captain Roddy Owen. The appearance of these sportsmen at the end of the race baffles description, their hair, which in some cases had answered for reins, was hanging in disordered wisps, collars reclining on shoulders, clothes dusty, dirty shiny faces, and all weak with laughter.