an hour; the gold lace tarnishes in a night;
the bright uniforms, faded with rain and puddle
stains, fall into rags and show great patches.
Improvised camps become presently filthy
swamps and open sewers. The grand "pomp
and circumstance of glorious war" is well enough
in the abstract: in its details and private bearings
it is offensive, rough, and overpowering.

Think only of the common hackneyed expressions
which pass so lightly between the lips
when speaking of a great battle.  We talk
exultingly, and with a certain fire, of "a magnificent
charge!" of "a splendid charge!" yet very
few will think of the hideous particulars these
two airy words stand for. The "splendid
charge" is a headlong rush of men on strong
horses urged to their fullest speed, riding down
and overwhelming an opposing mass of men on
foot. The reader's mind goes no further: being
content with the information that the enemy's
line was "broken" and "gave way."  It does
not fill in the picture.  To do so effectively, we
must think first, of an ordinary individual run
down in the public street by a horseman moving
at an easy pace. The result is, usually, fracture
and violent contusion.  We may strengthen the
tones of the picture by setting this horseman at
full gallop, and joining to him a company of
other flying horsemen.  How will it then be
with the unhappy pedestrian?  So when the
"splendid charge" has done its work, and
passed by, there will be found a sight, very
much like the scene of a frightful railway accident.
There will be the full complement of
backs broken in two; of arms twisted wholly
off; of men impaled upon their own bayonets;
of legs smashed up like bits of firewood; of heads
sliced open like apples; of other heads crunched
into soft jelly by iron hoofs of horses; of
faces trampled out of all likeness to
anything human. This is what skulks behind
"a splendid charge!" This is what follows, as
a matter of course, when "our fellows rode at
them in style," and "cut them up famously."
Again, how often does the commander, writing
home in his official despatches, dwell particularly
on the gallant conduct of Captain
Smith, who, finding the enemy were
"annoying our right a little, got his gun" into
position, and effectually " held them in
check."  Both expressions are fair drawing-room
phrases, to be mentioned cheerfully by ladies'
lips.  It is, as it were, a few flies buzzing about
"our right wing," teasing and fretting "our"
men. And yet, properly translated, it signifies
this: that stray men of that right wing are now
and then leaping with a convulsive start into the
air, as a Minié bullet flies with sharp sting
through their hearts; that stray men, suddenly
struck, are rolling on the ground, that a man, here
and there, is dropping down quite suddenly
with a shriek, his firelock tumbling from his
hand; in short, that there is a series of violent
death-scenes being enacted up and down the
long line.

The reading public—instructed by journals
and books of memoirs—can form for itself
satisfactory pictures of the poor soldiers in
hospital, lying on their pallets in rows, say at
Scutari, having their pillows smoothed and cooling
drinks proffered by those kind, charitable
ladies who went out to be their nurses.  Has
not the public viewed paintings of the scene—
the sick warrior lying in comfortable
convalescence, and taking with grateful languor the
cool beverage from his gentle attendant? The
sympathising public has also had presented to it
in manly and affecting language, by MR.
RUSSELL, some pictures of those sufferings which
fall under the frightful category of gun-shot
wounds.  Doctor Williamson has now collected
a number of cases from the late Indian mutiny,
with the view of assisting his profession; take
a few samples from this miscellany as among
the real horrors of War.

Private John Halliday received a gun-shot
wound in the head, which carried away "a large
portion of the scalp and bone," and left a "large
irregular opening" about two inches in diameter,
through which the brain might be seen pulsating.
This injury was done by bits of the
telegraph wire ingeniously cut up into slugs.
Private O'Leary was stricken by a large fragment
of shell, and at first appeared not to be
seriously injured.  Presently he complained of
headache and sickness, and a "crucial" incision
was at once made. Here was discovered a
fracture, and an opening left "about the size of a
shilling." The dura mater at once protruded
through the wound and was punctured. In a
few days convulsive fits came on, with paralysis,
and he died comatose. Poor private O'Leary!
On post-mortem examination, one half of his
head, internally, was discovered to be a mass
of blood and "disorganised cerebral matter."
Private M'Kenzie had been hit in the same
place, and had several large fragments of bone
removed from him by means of an instrument
known as Hey's saw; still "inflammation of
the brain and its membranes" set in, and the
surgeons thought of making a closer examination,
when a great fragment of bone was discovered,
"turned edgeways," and sticking into the
dura mater!  Strange to say, private M'Kenzie
recovered, and is doing duty now.

Another soldier was brought in with "nearly
half the roof of his skull blown off by a shell,"
yet who held on, till the tenth day.

Often, a ball striking on the scalp splits
into two pieces, so stout is the bony texture
of the skull. One fragment, however, is sure to
penetrate. Sometimes, it leaves a clean round
hole with cracks radiating from it in all directions
as in a broken pane of glass.

Often, the ball cannot be found, and has
to be groped for unsuccessfully, with the probe.
One wretched private had to carry it twenty-five
days in his head. Another man's piece burst
in his hand, and part of the lock got embedded
under his eye, too far in to be removed. Many
more were afflicted by a ball making entrance just
behind the ear, and passing out over the temple.

Then, come the bayonet wounds, jagged,
perplexing, and painful. Now has it been thrust