Rough old Blücher was, undoubtedly, of all the brilliant throng, the favourite of the Mob. He shared with Schwartzenburg, Barclay de Tolly, and Platoff in Swords of honour, value 200 guineas each, given by the City of London. His popularity must have had its inconveniences. When he went to Ascot races on the 10th of June, he was cheered more than the Allied Sovereigns; it was as much as he could get to the Royal Stand, hundreds of men and women insisting on shaking hands with him the moment he alighted. When, after a race, he rode down the Course in company with the Duke of York, he could hardly get along, so great was the throng. It was only by shaking thousands of hands, that he could make any progress. Nothing was heard but shouts of "Blücher! Blücher!" the ladies in the Stands waved their handkerchiefs, and the gallant old Bear saluted them in turn. [Illustration: Blücher Greeted by His Numerous Friends in the Park, 1814.] There was a poem entitled-- "PRINCE BLÜCHER AND THE BRITISH LADIES. A Free Paraphrase of Horace. Book 1, Ode 3. 'Lydia, dic, per ommes Te deos oro,' &c. Say, Ladies, by the Gods above, Why, with such fond officious love, Ye haste to spoil that Man of Glory, Old BLÜCHER, doomed to live in Story? Why should he dread the peaceful plain, Whom War and dust assailed in vain? Why should the Veteran fear to ride On horseback at his Monarch's side; Or, if he chance to take a drive, Take chances to return alive? Cleaves he the Thames? 'tis said, for him The Ladies all will learn to swim! Though, cat-like, ev'ry mother's daughter Feels strong aversion to the water. In vain he shuns the soap or razor, Each maid becomes mustachio-praiser. Though vile before, in him to smoke Is only deemed a pleasant joke; While, strange to say, the British Fair, For his sake, doat upon grey hair! Why does he hide? Nay rather let him A petticoat and mantle get him;-- In this will BLÜCHER do no more Than what ACHILLES did before; Whom, though in other things outdone, He might well imitate in one. Thus may he safely pass along, Unheeded, through the female throng; For scarce, I ween, their rapture reaches To any worth--but worth in Breeches."