posed of Moors and Egyptians; the Coldstream Guards come from Asia Minor; and on the hybrid flags St. George is seen embracing the Prophet of Mecca! Yet such is the kind of information seriously and soberly propagated on the Continent by the philo-Russian party. As to the French army, the historian of Notre Dame has also set himself up as its historian. And what does the veracious Victor Hugo tell us, from those hospitable shores where the very waves rise up in remonstrance at such unblushing falsity. "France had an army, the first in the world, admirable, incomparable, téte de colonne du genre humain, which had only to sound its bugles to make all the old sceptres and all the antique chains of the Continent fall to dust, that army Monsieur Bonaparte (democratic style) took it, wrapped it in the shroud of the 2nd of December, and then went about in search of a tomb. He found it in the Crimea." If big words could blow the monstrous alliance of France and England to the windsif Munchausen blasts could hurl sceptres in the dust-if prodigious lies could annihilate two armies, all no doubt would be as those who wish it. Fortunately it is not so: the furious bombast of the disappointed demagogue, and the more measured and ingenious misrepresentation of the political hireling, may have an effect with a few for a day, but it vanishes swift as fog before the sun. Some must wonder, if with the progress of events that come to belie the prophecies of evil, and the better knowledge that sweeps away the cobwebs spun by such unclean hands, there does not come sometimes a blush to tingle their faces of bronze. Not in the least; failure only hardens them; like the oft-convicted, they feel themselves to be the self-constituted pariahs of society, they have no other course left open to them but that to which their own ignoble tastes have elected them, and they go on undaunted, wondering, perchance, if they could tell the truth once-they know it could only be by chance that such a consummation could be arrived at--for they never conscientiously seek for it, they never, for the sake even of the great brotherhood of humanity, hope for it.

The French, they tell us, installed at Constantinople, will not withdraw thence, even if peace was signed to-morrow. England could not demur; as a military power she now stands second to Piedmont and Holland. The Life Guards have already no better chargers than Uncle Toby's hobby-horse. She is no more than a humble vassal of France, a pashalik in which the mind of the Tuileries dominates every will. She is only a dead body attached to the car of her enemy. Napoleon is enthroned at Windsor. The nephew of the conquered of Saint Helena has at his feet England enervated and humiliated. To gratify the new arbiter of the destinies of Great Britain, the lord mayor and aldermen (uniformly believed on the Continent to be only inferior in power to the Queen) issued their commands that for the future Waterloo Bridge shall be called the Bridge of the 2nd of December. The Waterloo Column (where does it stand?) is to be called Colonne de la Foi du Serment. Trafalgarsquare is to be called Cayenne-place. The statue of Wellington in Hyde Park is veiled with crape, and the monuments of Nelson and Pitt are covered with canopies upon which glitter in golden letters Vive Napoléon III.!

The prophecies for the future are not less amusing than these veracious accounts of the past. Millions of Mongolian, Tartar, Turkman, and

Cossack horsemen, we are told, are mounting their war-steeds as in the time of Attila. A mysterious hand points out to them the West. It is vain that we seek for the Etius who shall have the power to stay this flood which will sweep away the French Low Empire. They forget that other countries, in whose ungrateful cause England and France are allied, lie between these barbarian hordes and the latter people. Is it there that we are to witness the gigantic battles also prophesied, in which sixteen hundred thousand corpses shall strew the ground?

Truly the passions engendered by the various political phases through which France has had to pass during a very brief space of time have attained a virulence seldom witnessed in the bygone history of any people. So intense is the hatred of some of the exiles to the existing government, that they would rather see the Russians in Paris than the dynasty of Napoleon. They stop at no misrepresentation or falsehood that will throw distrust between England and France. They are so savagely inconsistent in their political hatred, that in one page they speak of Waterloo as destroying a sanguinary despotism and assuring the liberties of the West, and in another they denounce the pilgrimage of the English to the field of battle as the greatest insult that can be offered to the empire, and they call upon France to revenge it by the destruction of the modern Carthage. To bring about this happy state of universal war, and to make of all mankind a mere race of cut-throats, they show, as we think we have made manifest by some of our quotations, that they think so little of human nature and human intelligence as to believe that there is not a lie so gross that it may not be thrown out as a bait to human folly, and human ignorance and stupidity.

How different are the feelings excited by perusing the realities of war as depicted by an English lady-a soldier's wife-Mrs. Henry Duberly. The meek confidence in what is right, the unaffected sympathy for all that is good, the pure love of nature, of man and beast, breathing affection for all around, from the flower of the plain to the kind-eyed horse, and, above all, to a gallant husband, only tempered by that true English spirit of piety which is so totally wanting to calm the throbbing temples of exciters of discord and revolution-the apologists of assassination. "God dear husband and me from dying in the midst of the din of life! The very angels must stand aloof. God is our hope and strength, and without Him we should utterly fail." Such is the beautiful and pathetic language of an English soldier's wife, death in its most inexorable gripe at the time carrying off soldiers and sailors alike on the first grand transit from Varna to the Crimea, and when during one of the officers' deathstruggles his brother-officers were dining in the saloon, only separated from the ghastly wrangle by a screen.

save my

And then, again, when landed at Eupatoria, the first faint news came of a battle at Alma. "Was awoke from a restless sleep by the entrance of my maid-a soldier's wife—with her apron over her eyes. I naturally asked what was the matter. Oh! ma'am! Captain Tatham has sent to he has received despatches, which will oblige him to leave Eupatoria to-day. And there has been a dreadful battle-500 English killed and 3000 Russians; and our poor cavalry fellows are all killed; and the Lord be good to us, we're all widows.'

say

"God, and he only, knows how the next hour was passed-until the blessed words, 'O thou of little faith' rang in my heart."

66

"The guns which we had heard,” adds the noble and generous-hearted woman, a little further on, as we were breasting our swift way from Kalamita to Eupatoria, were merely messengers to us of the heavy firing inland, causing wounds, blood, and sudden death-lives, for which we would gladly give our own, extinguished in a moment; hands flung out in agony, faces calm and still in death; all our prayers unavailing now: no more speech, no more life, no more love." When day after day passed by without any decisive intelligence, "Captain Fraser," she relates, "caught a magnificent death's-head moth, and gave it to me. I shivered as I accepted it. This life of absence and suspense becomes at times intolerable. Oh, when shall I rejoin the army, from which I never ought to have been separated! Any hardship, any action, is better than passive anxiety."

The wish was not far from its accomplishment. The Pride of the Ocean was towed into Balaklava harbour by the Simla on the 3rd of October with Mrs. Duberly on board, and the same afternoon she was joined by her husband. It was, however, impossible for a lady to live in the camp, so our heroine had to live on board ship, contenting herself with almost daily rides to the camp and lines. At this time, says Mrs. Duberly, "we thought Sebastopol was to stand, perhaps, a three days' siege more likely a single day's; while some, more arrogant still, allowed it eight hours to resist the fury of the Allies!"

They were, however, soon "disillusionised." Time soon showed that the damage done to the town by the first bombardment had been much less than was fancied. As to the ships, "they were a great deal too much mauled to be able to go in again for some time." Indeed, they never tried it again. Then came the oft-told battle of Balaklava, but it will bear being viewed in a new light-as pictured forth by a lady often spoken of in the French correspondence as one who, by the positions she occupied on the occasion of most of the great encounters, would, young and fair as she was, be able to give her own experiences of the horrors of war.

Wednesday, 25th.-Feeling very far from well, I decided on remaining quietly on board ship to-day; but on looking through my stern cabin windows, at eight o'clock, I saw my horse saddled and waiting on the beach, in charge of our soldier-servant on the pony. A note was put into my hands from Henry, a moment after. It ran thus: "The battle of Balaklava has begun, and promises to be a hot one. I send you the horse. Lose no time, but come up as quickly as you can do not wait for breakfast."

Words full of meaning! I dressed in haste, went ashore without delay, and, mounting my horse "Bob," started as fast as the narrow and crowded streets would permit. I was hardly clear of the town, before I met a commissariat officer, who told me that the Turks had abandoned all their batteries, and were running towards the town. He begged me to keep as much to the left as possible, and, of all things, to lose no time in getting amongst our own men, as the Russian force was pouring on us; adding, "For God's sake, ride fast, or you may not reach the camp alive." Captain Howard, whom I met a moment after, assured me that I might proceed; but added, "Lose no time." Turning off into a short cut of grass, and stretching into his stride, the old horse laid himself out to his work, and soon reaching the main road, we clattered on towards the camp. The road was almost blocked up with flying Turks, some running hard, vociferating, "Ship Johnny! Ship Johnny!" while others came along laden with pots, kettles, arms, and plunder of every description, chiefly

old bottles, for which the Turks appear to have a great appreciation. The Russians were by this time in possession of three batteries, from which the Turks had fled.

The 93rd and 42nd were drawn up on an eminence before the village of Balaklava. Our cavalry were all retiring when I arrived, to take up a position in rear of their own lines.

Looking on the crest of the nearest hill, I saw it covered with running Turks, pursued by mounted Cossacks, who were all making straight for where I stood, superintending the striking of our tent and the packing of our valuables. Henry flung me on the old horse; and seizing a pair of laden saddle-bags, a great-coat, and a few other loose packages, I made the best of my way over a ditch into a vineyard, and awaited the event. For a moment I lost sight of our pony "Whisker," who was being loaded; but Henry joined me just in time to ride a little to the left, to get clear of the shots, which now began to fly towards us. Presently came the Russian cavalry charging, over the hill-side and across the valley, right against the little line of Highlanders. Ah, what a moment! Charging and surging onward, what could that little wall of men do against such numbers and such speed? There they stood. Sir Colin did not even form them into square. They waited until the horsemen were within range, and then poured a volley which for a moment hid everything in smoke. The Scots Greys and Inniskillens then left the ranks of our cavalry, and charged with all their weight and force upon them, cutting and hewing right and left.

A few minutes-moments as it seemed to me--and all that occupied that lately crowded spot were men and horses, lying strewn upon the ground. One poor horse galloped up to where we stood; a round shot had taken him in the haunch, and a gaping wound it made. Another, struck by a shell in the nostrils, staggered feebly up to "Bob," suffocating from inability to breathe. He soon fell down. About this time reinforcements of infantry, French cavalry, and infantry and artillery, came down from the front, and proceeded to form in the valley on the other side of the hill over which the Russian cavalry had come.

Now came the disaster of the day-our glorious and fatal charge. But so sick at heart am I that I can barely write of it even now. It has become a matter of world-history, deeply as at the time it was involved in mystery. I only know that I saw Captain Nolan galloping; that presently the Light Brigade, leaving their position, advanced by themselves, although in the face of the whole Russian force, and under a fire that seemed pouring from all sides, as though every bush was a musket, every stone in the hill-side a gun. Faster and faster they rode. How we watched them! They are out of sight; but presently come a few horsemen, straggling, galloping back. "What can those skirmishers be doing? See, they form up together again. Good God! it is the Light Brigade!"

At five o'clock that evening Henry and I turned, and rode up to where these men had formed up in the rear.

I rode up trembling, for now the excitement was over. My nerves began to shake, and I had been, although almost unconsciously, very ill myself all day. Past the scene of the morning we rode slowly; round us were dead and dying horses, numberless; and near me lay a Russian soldier, very still, upon his face. In a vineyard a little to my right a Turkish soldier was also stretched out dead. The horses, mostly dead, were all unsaddled, and the attitudes of some betokened extreme pain. One poor cream-colour, with a bullet through his flank, lay dying, so patiently!

Colonel Shewell came up to me, looking flushed, and conscious of having fought like a brave and gallant soldier, and of having earned his laurels well. Many had a sad tale to tell. All had been struck with the exception of Colonel Shewell, either themselves or their horses. Poor Lord Fitzgibbon was dead. Of Captain Lockwood no tidings had been heard; none had seen him fall, and none had seen him since the action. Mr. Clutterbuck was wounded in the foot; Mr. Seager in the hand. Captain Tomkinson's horse had been shot under him;

Major De Salis's horse wounded. Mr. Mussenden showed me a grape-shot which had "killed my poor mare.' Mr. Clowes was a prisoner. Poor Captain Goad, of the 13th, is dead. Ah, what a catalogue!

At the auction that followed upon the disaster at Balaklava, an old forage-cap fetched 51. 5s.; an old pair of warm gloves, 17. 7s.; a couple of cotton nightcaps, 17. 1s. ; and a common clasp-knife, 17. 10s. !

Of the battle of Inkerman Mrs. Duberly justly remarks: "We fought as all know Englishmen will fight; and our loss was in proportion to the carelessness that permitted the attack rather than to the magnificent courage that repelled it." On the 10th of November Mrs. Duberly's journal places on record that a heavy gale of wind made terrible disturbance among the shipping, both inside and outside the harbour, so much so that several ships' masters outside protested at not being admitted to the shelter of the harbour. The protest was, as usual, disregarded, and then came the irremediable disaster of the 14th, the loss of the Prince. There was a terrible want of a master-mind in the Crimea in the winter of 1854 and 1855:

By ten o'clock we heard that the most fearful wrack was going on outside amongst the ships at anchor, and some of the party-Captain Sayer, Mr. Rochfort, and Captain Frain-started for the rocks, to try if by any means they could save life. The next tidings were, that the Prince and the Resolute, the Rip van Winkle, the Wanderer, the Progress, and a foreign barque, had all gone down, and, out of the whole, not a dozen people saved. At two o'clock, in spite of wind and weather, I managed to scramble from ship to ship, and went ashore to see this most disastrous sight. Ah me! such a sight, once seen, who can forget!

At the moment after my arrival, the devoted and beautiful little clipper ship Wild Wave was riding to her death. Her captain and crew-all but three small boys-had deserted her at nine o'clock; and she was now, with all her masts standing, and her helpless freight on board, drifting with her graceful outlines and her heart of oak, straightway to her doom. She is under our feet. God have mercy on those children now!

Captain Frain, Captain Liddell, and some seamen heave a rope downwards, at which one boy springs, but the huge wave is rolling backwards, and he is never seen again.

A second time they hurl it down to the boy standing on the stern frame, but the ship surging down upon the ruthless rocks, the deck parts beneath his feet, and he is torn, mangled, and helpless; but clinging still, until a wave springs towards him eagerly, and claims him for the sea.

The third and last survivor catches at the friendly rope, and, swooning with exhaustion and fear, he is laid upon the rock; while in a moment, with one single bound, the little ship springs upwards, as though she, too, was imploring aid, and falls back a scattered mass, covering the sea with splinters, masts, cargo, hay, bread, and ropes.

Meantime the Retribution, the Lady Valiant, the Melbourne, the Pride of the Ocean, the Medora, the Mercia, and several more, are all more or less damaged, and most of them entirely dismasted, riding it out as best they may. The greatest praise is due to the crew of the Avon's life-boat, who went out fearlessly to endeavour to render aid, but were unable, owing to the heavy sea, to get near the ships. Let me shut up my book, for the more I contemplate it, the more terrible the disaster appears.

Then came the privations and the sufferings of winter. Facts, which have been received as inventions at home, are corroborated by Mrs. Duberly. For example, we read: "The grey horse Job' died this even