When bayonets were first introduced, and for years afterwards, they were made to fit into the muzzle by a screw, and after the men had exhausted all their ammunition, they would then fit them in and use them as knives. This new weapon soon became a great favourite with our men. At length the bayonet was fastened with a socket, which enabled the muzzle to be left clear for firing. The following is from Grose’s Military Antiquities:—“In one of the campaigns of King William III in Flanders, in an engagement, there were three French Regiments present, whose bayonets were made to fix after the present fashion. One of them advanced against the 25th King’s Own Borderers, with fixed bayonets; the commander at once ordered his men to screw their bayonets into their muzzles to receive them. But to his great surprise, when they came within a short distance, the French threw in a heavy fire, which for a time staggered his people, who by no means expected such a greeting, not conscious how it was possible to fire with fixed bayonets; but our people soon recovered themselves and closed upon the enemy, and almost destroyed them to a man.” Almost all the battles that have been fought for the last 200 years on land, have been decided by that never-failing weapon. Artillery have been baffled, cavalry have been laughed at, but the bayonet in the hands of a Briton has proved itself too much for both black and white. Every battle in the Peninsula, from RoliÇa to Toulouse, was decided by that weapon; every fortress was taken with it. Sebastopol defied all the fire of Artillery; the bayonet had to do, and did, what shot and shell could not. And the late go-in in Egypt has again proved that, in the hands of determined men, it is an unconquerable weapon; they may well call it the “queen of weapons.” One of the most desperate contests that ever was fought between man and man was at Albuera, 16th May, 1811, and it was decided by the bayonet, the enemy being routed from the field. As the great military historian, Sir W. Napier, says, “This battle was to all human appearance lost; our Artillery were in the hands of the enemy, the Cavalry riding all over the hill, spearing the wounded, and cutting down all that resisted. The retreat had been ordered by our Commander, Lord Beresford, but there was one on the field endowed with the heart of a lion and the eye of an eagle; this was the late Lord Hardinge, then Captain Hardinge, and Aide-de-Camp to Marshal Beresford—he rode up to General the Hon. L. Cole, and ordered him to advance with his brigade, and thus redeem the fortune of the day, that all thought to be lost. The General, supposing that the order was from the Commander, at once put his Fusiliers in motion; they consisted of two battalions of the 7th Royal Fusiliers, and two of the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers. Such a line—such a gallant line—issuing from the smoke, and rapidly separating itself from the confused and broken multitude, startled the enemy’s heavy masses, which were increasing and pressing forward as to an assured victory. The Fusiliers wavered, hesitated, and then, after vomiting a storm of fire, endeavoured to enlarge their front, while a fearful discharge of grape from the enemy’s guns whistled through their ranks. The Colonel of the 7th (Myers) fell dead, the Officers fell thick, and the Fusilier battalions, struck by the iron tempest, reeled and staggered like drunken men. Suddenly and sternly recovering, they closed on their terrible enemies, and then was seen with what majesty the British soldier fights. In vain did Soult, by voice and gesture, animate his Frenchmen. In vain did the hardiest veterans extricate themselves from the crowded columns, and sacrifice their lives to gain time for the mass to open out on such a fair field. In vain did the mass bear itself up, and, fiercely striving, fire indiscriminately on friend and foe; while the cavalry, hovering on their flanks, threatened to charge the advancing line. Nothing could stop our astonishing infantry; no sudden burst of undisciplined valour, no nervous enthusiasm weakened the stability of their order; their flashing eyes were bent on the dark columns in front, their measured tread shook the ground, their dreadful volleys swept away the head of every formation, their deafening shouts overpowered the cries that broke from all parts of the crowd, as foot by foot, and with a horrid carnage, it was driven, by the vigour of the attack, to the edge of the hill. In vain did the French reserves join the struggling multitude, endeavouring to sustain the fight; their efforts only increased the confusion, and the mighty mass, like a loosened cliff, went headlong down the hill. The rain flowed after in streams discoloured with blood, and 1,500 unwounded men, the remnant of 6,000 unconquerable British soldiers, stood triumphant on that fatal hill.” Such was the advance of the Fusilier Brigade; everything was carried by the bayonet. The whole French Army on the field was swept off that fatal hill. But, to add to the horror of the scene, at the close of the day our Artillery were compelled to gallop over everything as they came past, with blood, brains, and human hair upon their hoofs and wheels. They were compelled to ride over the poor wounded, deaf to the cries of the brave fellows there laid prostrate in the dust. Reader, what a scene! But such is war. This fight had a wonderful effect upon the French, and, ever after that, they approached the British Infantry with a secret feeling of distrust, for these never knew when they were beaten. Wellington, who came up with the remainder of the army shortly afterwards, said, “This victory will be as good as 10,000 men to me.”[29]

But the following is, without doubt, the crowning and most daring, dashing, and dare-devil bit of work that ever took place: there is nothing in military records to compare with it. The regiments that so nobly upheld the honour of old England were the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and 77th Foot. It was at El BodÓn, on the 24th September, 1811. It was not called a battle; our people were retiring to take up a position, and the commander of the French, thought of either destroying or capturing them before assistance could be brought up. But the Lion was in their path. Their Cavalry repeatedly came thundering on, and our little band was completely surrounded; but they kept sending a sheet of fire into their assailants; our handful of Cavalry charged them at least twenty times; our guns mowed them down with grape, but still the brave sons of France came on, squadron after squadron. Our danger was now imminent; our guns were in the hands of the enemy; the Artillery had been cut down; our handful of Cavalry had been routed or destroyed. One man, a dashing soldier—Major H. Ridge, of the Fusiliers—rushed boldly into the midst of the French Cavalry with his Fusiliers; all was left to the bayonet; the 77th nobly took the hint, and on they went too, with their comrades, in a desperate headlong charge. It was Infantry charging Cavalry, with that never-failing weapon, the bayonet. The enemy were routed from the field and our guns re-taken. They were thunderstruck, and could hardly believe it; they once more collected themselves, and came down like lightning upon these devoted regiments; but were again met with that nasty piece of cold steel, and thus these two noble regiments held their own until assistance came up. The enemy had been baffled at all points. Wellington might well thank them for their conduct.

To enumerate all the noble deeds that have been done by the aid of the weapon that King Charles II. introduced, in 1672, would be a matter of almost impossibility; all enemies have trembled before it when in the hands of Britons. It made the greatest General and Conqueror of Europe tremble on the field of Waterloo, when he saw his Old Guard[30] driven back by ours and the 52nd; they had been victorious in a hundred fights, but even they, grim-faced veterans as they were, had to bow before the British conquering bayonet.

Let us do justice, and give honour to whom honour is due. Some of the most desperate deeds have been performed in all ages by our thin red line, and the proudest and haughtiest of Adam’s race have had to give up the palm to our matchless Infantry. In the hour of need it has been repeatedly proved—whether in the midst of the raging billows of the fathomless ocean, or on land when opposed by mounted squadrons glittering in steel-clad armour, or when manning field guns or heavy ordnance, or storming the deadly breaches—that all, Europeans or Asiatics, have had to acknowledge the sons of Albion, side by side with the heroic sons of the Emerald Isle, the bravest of the brave.

The following will, perhaps, startle some of my readers; but facts are stubborn things, and stronger than fiction. During the battle of Fuentes de OÑoro, fought May 3rd and 5th, 1811, our Cavalry had to give way before the overwhelming steel-clad squadrons of France, and Captain Norman Ramsay’s battery of Horse Artillery was cut off, through not obeying his instructions. The French Cuirassiers were checked in mad career, and squadron after squadron rolled up by our Infantry, that had, to all appearance, taken root in the earth. But the gallant Norman Ramsay and the whole of his battery, were prisoners of war. To quote the fiery language of Napier, “Suddenly a great commotion was observed in the main body of the enemy. Men and horses were seen to close, with confusion and tumult, towards one point; there was a thick dust and loud cries, sparkling of sword-blades and flashing of pistols, indicating some extraordinary occurrence; when suddenly the multitude became violently agitated; an English shout of triumph pealed high and clear; the mass of the enemy was rent asunder, and lo, Captain Norman Ramsay burst forth, sword in hand, at the head of his battery, his horses breathing fire, stretched like greyhounds along the plain, the guns bounding behind them like things of no weight, and the mounted gunners following close, with heads bent low and pointed weapons, in desperate career.” This conduct of the gallant Ramsay, and his no less willing troopers, completely bewildered the enemy, as he dashed through them and at once brought his guns into action to support our hard-pressed Cavalry.

The conquering sword of Wellington was in the ascendant. The hitherto victorious legions of France had been taught some awkward lessons. On the fields of RoliÇa, Vimiera, Busaco, Corunna, at the Douro, at the lines of Torres Vedras, on the memorable fields of Talavera, grim Busaco’s iron ridge, and on the field of Fuentes de OÑoro, Napoleon’s maxim was again and again verified, viz., that moral strength in war is to physical strength as three to one. He that had subdued the whole continent of Europe proved, on the memorable field of Waterloo, the truth of his own maxim, for our Cavalry on that field rode through and through his veterans, though mounted and clad in glittering steel, and even the grim-faced Old Guards had to bow before our conquering swords and bayonets, directed by the master-mind of the conqueror of Assaye.

“Nothing could stop the astonishing Infantry!” I feel a soldier’s pride in again jotting down this line, as the words have reference to the headlong charge of the Royal Fusiliers and the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, in chasing the whole French army off the blood-stained Heights of Albuera, with the bayonet. But all the brave sons of Albion were not in those two noble regiments—the 3rd Buffs, the 31st, and the 57th, nobly stood forth; while the 3rd and 57th died almost to a man, so to speak, and then would not yield. It was on this field that the 57th gained their present nickname (the “die-hards”). Their Colonel, noticing the overwhelming numbers of the enemy all around them, called out in a voice of thunder, “Fifty-seventh, let us die hard;” and so they did. The battle only lasted four hours, but out of 580 that they went into action with, they left upon the field, 22 officers and 430 men. The Buffs were almost annihilated, but they would not give in.[31] Fifteen thousand poor fellows lay upon that dreadful field, and nearly all had fallen by the bayonet. It was the thin red line that decided the battle. Again, the bayonet decided the field of Barrosa, the 87th Royal Irish Fusiliers ending it in a very summary way, with a headlong charge, led on by Colonel Gough (afterwards Field-Marshal Lord Gough). Almost every battle that Lord Wellington fought, in India, Spain, Portugal, France, and the Netherlands, was decided by that nasty little bit of cold steel. At Inkermann, if the enemy had not fired a shot, but simply marched on, they would have walked over us—weight of numbers would have done it; but there again the ugly cold steel stood in the way. Not all the persuading of their princes or officers, high and low, could induce them to come on and finish us off; they wanted to stand and fire at us, but did not like to have any closer acquaintance with us. But that would not do; they would have shot down every man of us; so we kept going at them, and giving them hints that we did not require them in our camp. At length, with a desperate charge, a very great number (from 2,000 to 4,000) were hurled over a precipice, almost perpendicular, and perished. It was the Zouaves, side by side with our people, who put them over this nasty place; or they must have been mobbed over by their own comrades in trying to avoid our conquering bayonets. After peace was proclaimed, I went into the Valley of the Tchernaya, and, true enough, there they lay in hundreds—they had never been buried. Some of our men found medals still hanging to their clothing. The bones of many of them had been bleached, but still lay there—evidences of the horrors of war. Sebastopol, after 1,600,000 shot and shell had been fired at it, had to be carried by the bayonet, and it was done with a terrible slaughter. Lucknow, after having been twice relieved, was finally taken by that never-failing weapon. The supremacy of Old England has frequently been left in the hands of a few desperate men. Our power in the far East has in more than one or two instances trembled in the balance. This was the case on the memorable field of Ferozeshah, December 21-2, 1845; but it was in the hands of men who knew how to die. Lord Gough commanded, well supported by the hero of Albuera—Lord Hardinge, and that Christian hero, Havelock, was there encouraging his men. All had to be left to the bayonet to shift the Sikhs from their formidable intrenchments. Again the supremacy of Old England hung in the balance on the heights in front of Delhi. But at the deadly breach, at the Cashmere Gate, that ugly piece of cold steel again settled all. It was too much for the black-hearted murderers of defenceless women and children, although they knew they had no mercy to expect. At Tel-el-Kebir, the Egyptians were soon shifted by the same means, and the trenches and batteries that they had thrown up with so much labour were made a little too hot for them. In fact it is as I have repeatedly called it, the “queen of weapons,” and will be so as long as we have an enemy to face.

COURAGE DOES NOT COURT DANGER NEEDLESSLY.

This chapter could be extended to the dimensions of a large volume. Our forefathers have repeatedly stood as conquerors on many a hard-fought field. Battles have been lost by bad generalship or by reason of the overwhelming numbers of the enemy, and then won back by determined pluck. And surely it could be said of those who fought on the memorable fields of Alma, Balaclava, and Inkermann, that they had not degenerated from those who fought and conquered under the great dukes of Marlborough and Wellington! The same may be said of those who upheld England’s honour, under Nelson, Gough, Brown, Picton, Crawford, Campbell, Raglan, Evans, Burgoyne, Graham, Jones, Havelock, Lake, Baird, Olpherts, Windham, Hodson, and Hills. And, reader, we have now as good men to lead us as ever our forefathers had; a number of them have already shown to the world the metal they are made of, and—

DESPERATE DEFENCES OF COLOURS.

At the battle of Dettingen, 27th June, 1743, Cornet Richardson, of Ligonier’s Horse, now the 7th Dragoon Guards, carried one of the standards. He was surrounded by the enemy, and called upon to surrender; but refused, and received upwards of thirty sabre cuts and shots in his body. The standard was much damaged, but with manly fortitude, and with the soul of a hero, he succeeded in cutting his way through a host that threatened his destruction. This dashing young officer recovered from his wounds, and was presented by King George II. with the standard he had so nobly defended.

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In the action at Rusheck, 18th May, 1794, Private Michael Mancely, of the 8th Royal Irish Hussars, received several wounds while defending the standard of his regiment; although desperately wounded, he retained possession of it; his horse was killed under him, and he then defended himself and his standard on foot. He managed to carry it off and hand it over to one of his officers, and then lay down and died.

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I must here give a brief account of the heroic defence of the colours of the 3rd Buffs on the field of Albuera. Ensign Walsh prevented the colours of his regiment from being taken at this battle. The staff was broken by a cannon ball, and the young hero, dangerously wounded, was left on the field for dead. He had more thought for his precious charge than for his life; and, with what little strength he had remaining, he tore the flag from the broken staff and concealed it in his bosom, next his heart, where, next day, when his wounds were being dressed, it was found. The other colour of the regiment was defended and preserved in the following heroic manner. The Sergeants who defended the colour were all shot down, and the enemy’s Hussars surrounded the officer, Ensign Thomas, who carried it. He was called upon to give up his charge, but that noble son of Albion’s answer was “Never but with my life,” and his life was the forfeit of his refusal, but he lived long enough to know that the colour was eventually preserved. It was re-taken from the enemy in the headlong charge of the 7th Royal Fusiliers, which charge supported by the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers changed the fortune of the day. Sergeant Gough, of the 7th Royal Fusiliers, was the man who re-took the standard, for which he received a commission, but the chief honour is due to Lieutenant Latham, of the Buffs; he saw the danger of this colour being borne off in triumph from the field by the enemy, and his whole soul being alive to the honour of his Corps, he ran forward to protect it. The devoted officer who had defended it was lying apparently dead. Lieutenant Latham arrived at the spot in time to seize the colour, and defended it with heroic gallantry, surrounded by a crowd of assailants, each of whom wanted the honour of capturing it; the Lieutenant, bleeding fast from wounds received in defending his precious charge, armed only with his sword, refused to yield. A French Hussar, seizing the flag-staff and rising in his stirrups, aimed a blow at the gallant Latham, which failed in cutting him down, but sadly mutilated him, severing one side of his face and nose. Although thus wounded his resolute spirit did not shrink, but he continued the struggle with the French horsemen, and as they endeavoured to drag the colour from him, he exclaimed, “I will surrender it only with my life.” Another sabre stroke severed his left arm and hand, in which he held the staff, from his body. He then dropped his sword, and seizing the staff with his right hand continued the struggle, until he was thrown down, trampled upon, and pierced with lances. At this moment the British Cavalry came up, and the French fled. Then on came thundering “the astonishing Infantry,” the Fusilier brigade; inch by inch, and foot by foot, these heroic regiments gained the blood-stained heights, and thus redeemed the fortune of the day, which all beside thought lost. It was the present General Sir A. Hardinge’s father who led that noble brigade, but more of that in its place. The gallant Latham recovered from his wounds and lived for many years after. The officers of the Buffs, in recognition of his bravery and fortitude, presented this noble hero with a gold medal, worth one hundred guineas, on which the preservation of the colour by Lieutenant Latham was represented, with the motto “I will surrender it only with my life,” and Lieutenant Latham had Royal authority to accept and wear it.

BATTLE OF ALBUERA.

The colours of the Grenadier Guards had a narrow escape at Inkermann, where this distinguished Regiment fought desperately. Only about forty men were left to defend the colours against a host, but with a ringing cheer they forced their way through a mass of the enemy at the point of the bayonet, and down the hill they had to go again.

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Colours of British Regiments have been lost, but only when all who defended them had fallen. The noble 24th lost their’s in fighting the Zulus, at Isandlwana, but every man died first. I could mention hundreds of cases, both by sea and land, to prove how desperately the colours of our native isle have been defended in the past. The same spirit of devotion yet lives, and I have not the slightest hesitation in saying that, should occasions arise in the future, British Soldiers will ever show themselves worthy to sustain the best traditions of their regiments and their country.

DESPERATE DEFENCES OR HEROIC STANDS BY SMALL GARRISONS.

During the period when Prince Charles Edward was attempting to recover for his father the throne of his ancestors, Sergeant Molloy, of the 6th Foot, defended the small fort of Ruthven, and the following letter from that veteran, who had only a garrison of twelve men, is a curiosity of war. It was addressed to the then Commander-in-Chief in Scotland:—

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The heroic defence that General Elliott made at Gibraltar, in 1781, against the united fleets and armies of France and Spain, was the admiration of the whole of Europe. The old “Silly Suffolk” Regiment (the 12th) was one of the four Regiments composing that heroic band that set Spain and France at defiance.

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But the most glorious defence on record is that made by a noble band at Lucknow, from June 30th until September 26th, 1857, when relieved by Havelock. To go into the details of that defence is beyond the province of this book, but I feel I must say a little about it. No one in old England can form any idea of the sufferings of this pent-up little garrison. The heat was almost intolerable; cholera was raging in the midst of them, their numbers daily becoming less and less; and thousands of fiends surrounded them panting for their blood. Such was the situation for months of some hundreds of poor defenceless women and children, with only a handful of men to defend them; there was no part of the Residency safe for one minute. Week in and week out, for three long months, and that in the worst part of the year in India, death in a thousand shapes confronted this heroic band, yet they nobly fought on. They had heard that relief was on the way, but oh, dear, why did it not come? All India must know the state they were in; the people in England even must know of their condition, but yet no help appeared. They had heard the guns of that noble Christian soldier, Havelock, and thought that the hour of deliverance had come, but day after day passed, and no help was visible. The little garrison still fought on desperately, repulsing all the attacks of the bloodthirsty fiends who would have cut the unfortunate helpless creatures to pieces. But a merciful God was watching over them. Havelock, with his small but courageous army, once more, on the 20th September, started from Cawnpore for their relief, and soon the poor half-starved and miserable forms of humanity could distinctly hear the guns pounding away at the enemy, when all at once they caught a glimpse of their deliverers. The scene is almost beyond description, as the gallant Highlanders, rough, long-bearded, determined-looking men, dashed into the midst of them. The following is an extract from the diary of one of the ladies who was present at the Relief:—“I shall never forget the moment as long as I live. We had no idea that deliverance was so close; we could distinctly hear the cheering of our men and the Highland Pipers, and all at once we found ourselves in the arms of big, rough-bearded soldiers; they seized the dear little ones out of our arms, and kissed them over and over again, with tears rolling down their cheeks, and thanked God that they had come in time to save them from the fate of those at Cawnpore.” The loss on our side had been heavy, the gallant Neill had met a soldier’s death just at the gates of the Residency, and close upon 600 men were killed. Our people had fought their way in, but, alas, the hoped-for relief had not yet come. They were again hemmed in, and there had to remain until ultimately relieved by Sir Colin Campbell. The strength of the besieged was now, however, greatly augmented, and they made the enemy keep at a respectful distance. It was no longer such desperate work as the gallant 32nd and a company or two of the 84th had passed through. A few loyal men of the 13th, 48th, and 71st Native Infantry, materially aided in this defence. They were afterwards formed into a Regiment, and called the Lucknow Regiment. The Government at once rewarded them, each individual man being presented with the Indian Order of Merit, which carries with it five shillings per month for life. These men had proved themselves worthy to fight beside the bravest of the brave—they had been worth their weight in gold to that noble little garrison.

A DESPERATE STAND.

Elephants have been used in war by the moderns as well as the ancients; they were employed by Tippoo Sahib, armed with chains, with which, when wounded, they were not at all particular, for they killed both friend and foe.

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The following has no comparison in the annals of war. It was an attack at Perambankum, on the 6th September, 1780, by Hyder-Ali, upon a force commanded by Colonel Baillie. Lieut.-Colonel Baillie could make but a feeble resistance against so superior a force, but his little band yet gallantly kept them at bay until their ammunition for the field guns began to run short. Hyder’s guns upon this drew nearer and nearer, while each shot was attended with deadly effect; the enemy now advanced on all sides to a close attack; the blacks deserted us, and the little band united—both infantry and artillery—and planted themselves upon a small mound or sand-bank, and there resolved to defend themselves to the last. Their numbers were now reduced to 500; and they were opposed by no fewer than 100,000 enraged barbarians, who never grant quarter. In trying to picture such a scene and such a situation as their’s was, the mind is at once filled with horror and with awe. Formidable bodies of horse, infantry, artillery, and elephants, advanced from all quarters. Distinct bodies of cavalry would advance, but the well-timed roll of musketry from the little band had a powerful effect upon them, and their attacks were driven back again and again, while fresh columns kept advancing. At last the fearful struggle was marked by the clashing of arms and shields, the snapping of spears, the glistening of bloody swords, horses kicking, the groans of the mutilated men, wounded horses falling upon expiring men, and the roaring of the elephants, stalking about and wielding their chains against friends and foes. That was how the present 71st Highlanders were situated. They acquitted themselves nobly, and well earned the word “Hindoostan,” which they bear upon their colours.

THE 52nd LIGHT INFANTRY.

During the winter of 1775, plays were acted in Boston twice a week by the officers and some ladies. On one occasion a farce called the “Blockade of Boston,” was presented; the enemy knew the night it was to be performed and made an attack on the mill at Charlestown, at the very hour the farce began; they fired some shots, and surprised and carried off a Sergeant’s Guard. Our men immediately turned out and manned the works. An orderly sergeant standing outside the playhouse door, and who heard the firing, immediately ran into the playhouse, got upon the stage, crying out with all his might, “Turn out, turn out, they are hard at it, hammers and tongs.” The whole audience, supposing the sergeant was acting a part in the farce, loudly applauded. When the applause was over he again cried out, “What are you all about? If you do not believe me, you need only go to the door, and there ye’ll hear and see both.” If the enemy intended to stop the farce they certainly succeeded. All immediately left the playhouse, and the officers joined their Regiments.

THE OLD SUFFOLK REGIMENTS.

These have been good loyal corps for many years. At Minden, 1st August, 1759, the 12th routed the French off the field with the bayonet, although the odds were heavy against them. At Gibraltar they took a noble part in its defence, and in the end came off conquerors, although there were enough around them, both of French and Spaniards, to eat them, but the bayonet stood in the way. At Seringapatam, they taught the Sultan Tippoo Sahib (not how to make hard “dumplins, bor”), but how to respect our flag. The Suffolk Regiment took a leading part in the storming of that exceedingly strong and rich fortress. Not a shot did the British fire, when the noble old commander, Colonel Baird, called out in a voice of thunder, “Now, my lads, follow me, and prove yourselves worthy of the name of British soldiers;” history can prove that the old East Suffolk Regiment, the 12th, nobly responded. He again called out to his men “All must be done with the bayonet,” and in they went, and in a few short hours the richest fortress that ever was taken by storm lay at the conquerors’ feet. The old 12th led the way, Tippoo Sahib was killed, but not by eating hard dumplings. He was one of the bitterest foes that we ever had in India. It was he who said he would rather live the life of a tiger one year, than one hundred that of a Christian. This regiment has seen a great deal of service in India, and is one of the few regiments that has on its colours the word “India.” It had some desperate fighting along the Malabar coast, from 1808 until 1810; sometimes they were completely overwhelmed with numbers, but never beaten, on one occasion they fought for an entire day, with the odds of twenty-five to one, and then with a desperate charge, front rank going one way and rear rank the other, they routed the enemy. Surely there are as good men in old Suffolk now, as there were in 1808! As for the other Suffolk Regiment, I had the pleasure of fighting side by side with them at the Alma, at Inkermann, and throughout the siege of Sebastopol, and can testify that they there proved to the world that they are second to none. The old 63rd, or West Suffolk, did not lose anything like as many as most regiments in the Crimea from the enemy; but with hardships and sickness they were nearly all destroyed, while the few who were left were sent down to Balaclava, in the beginning of 1855. The present 63rd, or West Suffolk Regiment, was formerly the 2nd battalion of the 8th Regiment, and as such did good service in Flanders, Spain, Portugal, and India, and, in fact, all over the world.

ENGLAND NOT A MILITARY NATION?

It is difficult to understand whence the parrot-cry could have arisen that England was not a military nation. Not a military nation! when her annals are illustrated with a catalogue of victories gained over every people in the civilised world—over France, herself the conqueror of Europe; over sturdy Germany, phlegmatic Holland, chivalrous Spain, and the fanatic hosts of India and China. Not a military nation! when her sons have given some of the most eminent proofs of courage, activity, industry, passion for the service, their whole life seeming to breathe for nothing but fame and the glory of the flag they love so well. Not a military nation! when she has produced a Marlborough, a Nelson, a Wellington, and a Clyde, and hundreds of other heroes, so eminent in fame that we may challenge the world with no unjustifiable pride to find their equals. It may more truly be said that England is not a warlike nation. She fights not for ideas, nor for the lust of conquest; she values peace, and bears much and forbears much, to avoid the naked horrors of war; but when once she has girded on the sword in a just cause, woe be to the enemy that dares to meet her steel, for

THE WIVES AT HOME.

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