His soldier-like appearance, too, commanded their regard, and they carried him in a cloak to the spot on which he had led his regiment so bravely, and there they buried “Old Charley” with the true honours of a soldier. FOOTNOTE: [6] These surgeons were sent, after their duty, not to a French prison, but to Paris, where Napoleon complimented all, and presented them with money and a free passage to England, for the service they had done his soldiers, and allowed for the nature of their duty, which placed them in his power. MESS-TABLE CHAT. No. I. “But this is worshipful society.” _Shakspeare._ SCENE—_The mess-room of a Hussar Regiment: principal speakers—Colonel Diamond_; _Major Flowers_; _Captains Tache_, _Bright_, _and Ploomer_; _Doctor Scott_; _Lieutenants Rose_, _Golding_, _Lavender_, _and Honeywood_; _Cornets Lilly_, _Fairfax_, _Canary_, _and Small_. _Table spread with dessert_, _decanters_, _glasses_, _and snuff-boxes_. _Time—half-past ten at night._ _Capt. Bright._ When Colonel Diamond has done _drilling_ the claret, I would thank him to put it into _marching order_, and give the decanter the _route_. _Col. Diamond._ 'Pon my honour, Bright, you are becoming _brilliant_. If you take any more of the light wine, you will absolutely _dazzle_ us. _All the Mess._ Good!—good!—excellent!—bravo! Colonel—admirable hit. [_A well directed volley is laughed at the Colonel's_ “HIT;” _particularly loud from the Subalterns._] _Dr. Scott._ Positively, Colonel Diamond, the Ensign and Adjutant, wha writes in Blackwood's Magazine, couldna say a better bet o' wut. (_offers his gold snuff-box to the Colonel._) _Capt. Bright._ By the by, Colonel, who is this new Cornet we are about to have? _Col. Diamond._ 'Pon my honour, I don't know him; but, I believe, Major Flowers does. _Major Flowers._ _Pardonnez moi_, Colonel, I don't _know_ him. His uncle's in _trade_: he is _known_ on _change_. _All the Mess_ (_with a stare_). Indeed!!! _Major Flowers._ Yes, I have _heard_ that he is a _dry-salter_? _All the Mess._ A dry-salter? _Lieut. Rose._ Horrible! _Cornet Canary._ Shocking! _Cornet Small._ Dreadful! _Lieut. Golding._ Abominable! _Dr. Scott._ Aweel, I dinna know but there's mare in dry-salters than you think, gentlemen: he's na' the worse for a' that, gin he's got the siller. _Major Flowers._ Doctor, 'pon my honour, I am surprised that you should think that money could possibly purchase our permission to admit a _dry-salter's_ relation as a member of the _nonpareils_! _All the Mess._ Oh, Doctor!—oh! oh! oh! _Dr. Scott._ A dry-salter, Major, is na' worse than a _tailor_, and I have seen a tailor's son _cut_ a canny dash in the army afore noo. _All the Mess._ Have _done_, Doctor, pray have done!