SCENE—_the mess-room of an Infantry regiment_. By way of introduction to the present number of “Mess-Table Chat,” a short description of the scene, as well as the actors in it, will not be amiss; it will assist the reader very considerably in the conception of the picture. Let him, then, imagine a spacious apartment well-carpeted, containing a large sideboard, on which are spread all the shining accompaniments of good eating and good drinking; the windows richly curtained; a large blazing fire at one extremity of the room (the season requiring it); an oblong table, at which are seated about eight-and-twenty officers, all in their full regimentals;—scarlet coat, yellow facings buttoned back on the breast; the field officers (a colonel and two majors) having _two_ rich silver epaulettes each; the staff (three surgeons, one pay-master, and one quarter-master) in single-breasted coats _without_ epaulettes; and all the other officers (three of the grenadiers and three of the light company excepted—they having two wings instead) wearing _one_ epaulette each on the right shoulder; white pantaloons, and Hessian boots on all; sashes (except with the staff) but no swords. Let the reader also imagine the countenances of the officers; the greatest number well tanned by the sunshine of foreign climes, and exhibiting the marks of various ages from thirty to fifty, amongst them, of course, a few “_young hands_,” ensigns and lieutenants, with youthful and good-looking faces, in which might be discovered a peculiarity that promised well to honour, at a future period, the more advanced ages of the corps by assuming their present uniformity of “phiz.” Waiting upon the group, let the reader also imagine six or eight servants, in as many different liveries (all men from the ranks) standing “attention” behind their respective masters' chairs, or assisting in the table service under the “_chief command_” of the _mess waiter general_,—a fusty old privileged rear-rank man, in a green livery, faced with red, his person exhibiting evident marks of good living, and indicating thereby the difference between his former barrack-room _mess_ and his present _mess-kitchen_ morsels: upon the table, the dessert profusely spread; the board laughing with light; corks chirping; glasses sparkling; and the band in the passage without, playing in their best style the beautiful melody of “_Go where glory waits thee_.” This is the MESS-ROOM of a happy regiment. I cannot decorate my heroes with that highly esteemed badge “the _medal_,” because the regiment I describe never “Smelt Waterloo's pink-ribbon'd shot.” Yet are they not the worse for that: many fought at the immortal engagement commemorated by _the medal_, whose battle account, if scrutinized, would be found to fall short of theirs—perhaps one _twentieth_ part.