| 232 | SIR GEORGE MURRAY | [CHAP. XXIV |
When the Duc de Montpensier, the son of King Louis Philippe, came over to England in 1845, he was Master-General of the Ordnance in France. As Sir George Murray then held the like appointment in England, he was invited, or bidden, in the style royal, to the first dinner given to H.R.H. at Windsor Castle. The two Masters-General—the one advanced in years, and a tried old soldier, the other an inexperienced young man, who owed his high military rank to the accident of his being a King’s son—had a good deal of conversation after the repast. The Duke expressed, in anxious terms, the desire to be shown over Woolwich Arsenal as soon as possible. Sir George, as a matter of course, allowed him to name his day and hour. Sir George was too busy to go himself, but he sent an aide-de-camp and his own son-in-law, Captain Boyd, to attend His Highness, who took with him some half-dozen French officers.
No reception could have been more respectful, and at the same time more
cordial, than that which these foreigners met with. They were shown over every part of the
Arsenal, into all the workshops, model rooms, and into the laboratory; they were allowed
ample time to examine everything they chose, whether of old or of recent invention; and the
inspection being over, they were entertained at a splendid luncheon in the mess-room of our
Artillery, who know how to do that sort of thing in the very best style, and who have
plenty of plate and all other
| CHAP. XXIV] | DUC DE MONTPENSIER | 233 |
I am not aware how Englishmen visiting French arsenals were treated at that
period, or how they may be treated now; but I can speak to the reception I, in my humble
capacity, met with at Toulon at the beginning of the year 1829, while as yet Charles X. was King; I went to the Arsenal with a letter to
the Commandant from a respectable merchant and banker of Marseilles. This officer received
me with very scant courtesy. He abruptly asked me whether I were “militaire.” As I had just returned from
travelling in the East, I still wore a moustache and had a sunburnt face. I assured him
that I was not in the Army; and he had the rudeness to betray, by his looks, the suspicion
that I was telling an untruth and that he did not believe me. After a very little talk, he
called up two gens d’armes, and told them
to conduct me over the Arsenal. With one of these fellows on either flank, I was hurried
and trotted
| 234 | SIR GEORGE MURRAY | [CHAP. XXIV |
One morning that I called at the Ordnance Office, Sir George was going to attend the Committee, at that time, if I remember well, sitting in consultation on some of the Park or other West End improvements. He was ill, very ill; already yielding to the maladies which were so soon to bring him to the grave.
He was out of humour with most of the decisions the Committee had
previously come to, and with nearly everything that had been done under their auspices; and
as a man of taste and sound judgment, he might well have been so. “I wish I were
not going,” said he; “I would much rather stay here and talk over
the Marlborough despatches with you!” He
was then editing those despatches, and I was occasionally giving him a little assistance.
He said: “It seems to me that this Committee does hardly anything that is right.
If twenty or thirty architectural plans and designs be brought before them,
| CHAP. XXIV] | COMMITTEE OF TASTE | 235 |
| 236 | SIR GEORGE MURRAY | [CHAP. XXIV |
When Moore was on the advance to
Salamanca, a party of our light cavalry, one fine afternoon, suddenly surprised and took,
with all he had upon him or with him, a French Cabinet courier who was coming from Paris
and seeking the Emperor Napoleon, whose whereabouts
was at the moment rather uncertain. Besides despatches, the courier was the bearer of a
magnum of the choicest burgundy, no doubt a present from the thoughtful Cambaceres, who
always held that, whether in war or diplomacy, there was nothing like good cheer. Having
read or deciphered, as far as they were able, all the despatches and letters, Sir
John, turning to George Murray, said
laughingly: “Now after this day’s work let us wet our whistles, and try
what’s in the bottle!” Murray, nothing loath, drew
the cork, and clean glasses were forthcoming, and were filled in a trice.
“Burgundy, by Jove!” cried Murray.
“And of the very first quality!” said Sir John,
taking his first sip of the glass. “Murray, it must be
‘Vin de
Nuits!’” Here a timid, cautious aide-de-camp, turning pale as he spoke, and almost taking the glass out of his
General’s hand, said: “Stop, Sir John! For
Heaven’s sake have a care! The wine may be poisoned, and the courier and the
bottle may have been purposely thrown in your way to take you off!”
“A most improbable conjecture,” said Sir John,
emptying his glass at a draught, and passing the bottle to Murray, who
confessed that his mouth was watering. “But who knows,” said the
cautious aide-de-camp, “but that some mortal enemy at Paris
may have drugged the wine, to take off Napoleon himself? He has
many enemies in France who would be quite equal to such a deed!”
“Pooh!” said Murray, who had finished his first
glass while the officer was talking. “If there is poison here, I wish we had a
hogshead of it! It is pure, unalloyed, unmistakable burgundy, of the very best vintage.
Take a glass, man, and thank your stars for throwing such a
| CHAP. XXIV] | SIR JOHN MOORE | 237 |
Sir George Murray told me this little anecdote, with many others, in the Ordnance Office, Pall Mall, in the summer of 1844, when he was Master-General of the Ordnance, and not many months before his death, deeply lamented by me.
“When that magnum fell in our way,” said the veteran, the accomplished and free-hearted soldier, “we had been for weeks on rather short commons, drinking nothing but common Spanish wines, which all savoured strongly of the goat-skins in which they had been carried into the market or the camp; so that I must confess I was quite greedy after the burgundy, and enjoyed it amazingly, as did also poor Moore.” And Sir George spoke as if he had still on his lips and palate the flavour of that delicious wine—lost to Napoleon, and drunk by his foes.
