who gave us a song with a chorus, something
to this effect:

As we march through life's campaign,
     In spite of every by-gone ill.
Were I to choose my life again,
     I would be a soldier still.

No one could have been more rapturously
encored and applauded, or have succeeded
better in firing the minds and imaginations
of the soldiers; every one was mad with
excitement, an extra tot of grog was served
round, and we all lay down in our clothes to
await the morrow, each man eager for
vengeance, his heart throbbing and blood boiling
at the idea of the hand-to-hand fight with
Pandy; and all as confident of success, as if
the fearful odds that we were to contend
against were in our favour.

A light touch on the shoulder awoke me;
I sprang up, and saw three or four officers
standing round a lantern, reading the orders
which had just arrived from camp. They
were short, clear, and precise, and each officer,
as he hurriedly looked out his own name on
the list, and found out for what duty he
was told off, inquired, "At what o'clock
do we assault?"

"About six, I believe," was the answer,
"or, at all events, as early as practicable; but
we know nothing for certain."

We all shook hands, and separated, to
repair to our several posts. My orders were
to hold two twenty-four-pounders in readiness
to take into the city, viâ the Cashmere
Gate at a moment's notice; so I set to work
with a will, to get the ammunition together,
the oxen harnessed, and the drivers ready to
start, the instant they might be required.

About half an hour after daylight, the
General and his staff arrived; it was the
first time I had ever seen him; he came into
the battery, and commenced reconnoitering
the walls from behind the cover of the
gabions, while I had a good opportunity of
examining him; he is a tall man, with very
large quiet contemplative eyes, a high
forehead, grizzled hair, no whiskers, but a
moustache, and a goat's beard; in age
probably between sixty and seventy; his passion
for his old trade, artillery, unconquerable;
since then I have had many opportunities of
seeing and observing him, but I never yet
saw him pass artillery of any kind, guns,
mortars, or howitzers, large or small, without
looking over them carefully, putting his
thumbs into the vents, trying with his own
hands if they were loaded or empty, and,
finally, when departing, giving them an
affectionate pat, a sort of parental farewell,
as if to say, " Now do be good guns, and
behave properly till I see you again."

Shortly after the chief engineer, and two
or three of his attendants, arrived, much on
the qui vive about some infernal machine
for blowing up or opening something
somewhere,—I rather think the Cashmere Gate.
The chief was a little lively man, with a face
like a ferret; and, having been hurt in the
leg some days previously, hopped about like
a lame kangaroo.

And now a dull heavy sound begins to be
heard, continuous, regular, slow. It comes
nearer, nearer; it seems to steal on your
excited ears like the muffled roar of an
approaching torrent; suddenly the leading files
come in sight, and a column slowly turning
the angle of the road, like some huge
caterpillar, vanishes on its way to Delhi.

Everybody knows all about the assault.
Indeed, there seem to be many people in
England who are better up on the subject of
the assault and capture of the city, than
either the engineers who planned it, or the
general and the army who executed it. I
will only mention one of the finest sights of
that morning—the charge of the Bengal Horse
Artillery—one that can never be forgotten
by those who saw it.

Suddenly, I am told that the Cashmere
Gate is opened, and I find myself taking in
my guns. The stupid oxen won't move, they
don't like cannon-balls, and they hate the smell
of powder; the more stupid native drivers
pretend not to understand me. They turn
and twist every way but the right, I abuse
them mildly, according to the custom of
the country, by expressing doubts as to
their parentage, and giving hints as to the
misconduct of their female relations, but
without effect; so, drawing my sword, I
experimentalise with the point, upon both
man and beast, and then we jog along merrily
enough.

The Cashmere Gate is blocked up by the
most heterogeneous living mass that can be
conceived; natives eager for plunder swarming
into the city, officers' servants, officers
themselves, stray camels, commissariat carts
and officers, a few tattoos, some dead Pandies,
Goorkhas, Sikhs, Pathans, the wounded
being carried out in doolies, soldiers clearing
away the dead, aide-de-camps, bullocks, an
insane elephant, and a sprinkling of women,
goats, sheep, and poultry. All of these that
could speak, were speaking: English oaths,
Hindoo yells, Moslem curses,filled the troubled
air; whilst bullets went sportively whizzing
about, occasional round shot dropped in, and
shells burst playfully in every direction.

With much trouble, difficulty, and danger,
I worked a way in for myself and guns,
one of which I was directed to leave in
charge of another officer, and to take on the
other at once to the head of the bazaar,
opposite Skinner's House, where we had our
furthest picquet, and there fire at discretion.
We were momentarily expecting a sally up the
street of the bazaar; which, if attempted
previous to the arrival of the gun, would
most probably have been successful, and
with our picquets driven in, we should have
been compelled to retire on the Cashmere
Gate with much loss, forfeiting the