was poking about in the crowd, of my colonel.
His face bore such a look of innocent inquiry
that my colonel could not resent the
impertinence.

"I give you my honour I don't know," said
he. "When there's fighting, I fight. When I
receive orders, I execute them. I'm on the
staff, I take it. At least the general thinks so.
I have some indistinct impression that my rank
is colonel. I get my two francs a day, like
everybody else, and it pays for my tobacco."

"What is your position, colonel, may I be
allowed to inquire?" asked the little man,
presently, sidling up to Colonel Dowling.

"Now, if you'll believe me, I haven't the
remotest conception," replied that officer, who
was hacking away at a lump of hard beef, placed
upon a harder loaf, by way of platter. "Somebody
mentioned that I was inspector-general of
artillery. I haven't heard of anybody above me
in that department, and I haven't had time to
look out for those below. Major G—-
constructs the batteries, and I find the guns."

"And the men?"

"I don't know precisely how I get the men.
I always find a lot of chaps about me, and soon
know whom to select. I lost my best man
today, poor fellow. But here's a lad worth any
two that are left."

He, pointed to an individual in a yellow stable-jacket
and overalls. He was a livery-stable
keeper in Naples. He had never seen a shot
fired until the battle of the first of October, when,
being accidentally present, he took such a fancy
to the "sport of princes" that he could not find
it in his heart to quit the playground again.
His great delight was a battery. He liked
plenty of noise, and attached himself especially
to Colonel Dowling' s big thirty-twos: proving
himself not only perfectly cool and self-possessed,
but a very skilful and efficient gunner. There
was a sad paucity of artillerymen, and such a
hand was highly appreciated. A day or two
before, the officer commanding a battery on the
left, which had lost several men, had applied to
Dowling for assistance, adding, "And, for God's
sake, send one Englishman."

"Now, come with me and see some shooting,"
said Colonel Dowling, who had finished his bone;
"I am going to knock that battery out of time
before dusk."

Down we went, to where, about two hundred
yards beyond the farm, the colonel had
established his pet battery, which consisted simply
of two huge field pieces placed on the bare high
road, at right angles to it, without parapet or
breastwork, except the bank, about four feet
high, that lined the road. On the other side of
the bank, the ground dipped, and then came a
thick almond and pine copse, through the tops
of which our guns fired.

The enemy's work was on the other side of
the wood, on a slight acclivity distant
three-quarters of a mile, but, from our propinquity to
the trees, wholly invisible to us, as we were to
them. Our guns were pointed and elevated in
accordance with the directions of Colonel Dowling
and of an officer of Scotch family in Garibaldi's
service, named Cowper, who stood on the higher
bank in rear of the guns.

The enemy replied at once, and with a
precision one could not too strongly commend or
deprecate. Shot, shell, and grenade came in
quick succession; but though some fell in the
short space between us and the trees, and more
went over and sent up clouds of dust from the
bank behind, nothing touched the road. There
were some remains of a stone hovel or pig-sty
(it might have been once the residence of some
boor of distinction) in our rear, round the angles
of which a group of soldiers were huddling.
At first, I was inclined to envy their position,
but the veteran, my colonel, telling us that the
bank, low as it was, offered better cover, we
stood between the guns, and were deafened.

For nearly an hour—that is, as long as the
colonel's ammunition held out—the noise and
hubbub were tremendous. It was his theory that
a rapid fire deranges the nerves of the enemy,
and renders their return less telling.

"Bang—bang!" "Whiz!" "Terra! terra!"
(to lie down). "Carica con palle" (charge with
ball). "Con grenata!" (with grenade). "Bang!"
"Whiz!" "Acqua! acqua!" (water, to sponge
out). "Terra!" "Fuoco! Fuoco!" (fire).

"Don't lie down!" Cowper called out,
skipping about in his eager excitement. "Never
mind."

"But I do mind," said Colonel Dowling (as
brave a man as ever breathed), quietly lying
down with the rest. "Think of my guns."

Besides these sounds, in which the elements,
earth, fire, and water, were mixed up in a manner
a little puzzling, there was considerable shouting
whenever one of our missiles entered the
enemy's works. But, in spite of all efforts, and
a fire so rapid as to heat the guns almost to
danger, the foe would not be silenced until our
ammunition failed when they ceased also.

A few minutes later we took leave of our
friends and returned towards St. Angelo. When
we imagined ourselves quite out of range, a
shell from a battery on the Capua side exploded
close beside us. I picked up a hot fragment,
as a reminiscence of my first day under fire.

                                 DRIFT.

                 A YORKIST TRAGEDY.

To this day there is a controversy among the
learned as to the character of Richard the Third.
And of course the popular opinion, which rests
on the main facts of the man's life, is the just
one, however sophists or satirists plead, explain,
justify, refine, weigh, hesitate, and end by falling
foul of each other, and dropping their subject
out of sight.

Yet a digest of the "Patent Rolls" of his
reign, published in the ninth report of the
public records, exhibits this crook-back'd
usurper in his private character, "grateful for
services rendered to his house in prosperity and
adversity; mindful of old servants, and willing
to lessen his own revenue to benefit faithful
towns, or relieve distress."