Our gallant

galloped toward the rear, the dead rider still keeping his seat. Colonel fell at the same discharge, mortally wounded; three of the officers of our regiment were killed instantaneously, the Major being amongst them. The Cornet was badly hit; the Colour-Sergeants were down, and our whole line was awfully gapped by our loss. The old flag was falling from the hands of its bearer, as I pulled back my horse, seized it, and carrying it to the front, ordered my men to close up. In an instant the command was executed, and another discharge tore amongst us from the deadly guns, creating a terrible havoc, but as the men fell, others filled their places, and with a cheer we were upon the Russian gunners. There was no mercy given there was none asked. We tore through the spaces at the guns like a whirlwind of death, and where there were men a moment before, there was a heap of ghastly corses bleeding and gashed with terrible wounds. But what avail was it. A mile and a half in our rear were our friends. Before, behind, and upon each side of us were masses of enemies.

"You have handled your men well, Walton," said a voice beside me. It was Lord Cardigan.

"I have few to handle, now," said I.

"Get back," he said, "get back, or we are all lost!"

Amidst all the confusion we reformed, for between us and the main body of our army, in the valley, masses of cavalry had poured down to cut us off. Half our men were cut away. So great was the loss of officers in my own regiment, that I was in command; and it was with a feeling of pride I surveyed the short line that marked the followers of the colours I still held uplifted, though torn by shot into shreds. None of us could hope to pierce that dense column of heavy cavalry which intercepted our retreat, but in the faces of those grim soldiers, whose uniform was in rags, whose swords were dripping with blood, and whose splendid horses were as much under the influence of excitement as themselves, there was read only a fierce determination to sell their lives as dearly as they could. We were formed in three lines as before, and a mere handful, as we were, dashed at the Russians with a cheer, and at a pace that shook the ground. There was a terrible shock of horses and men, and their first line went down like leaves before us. One Russian, an officer with a face like a young Antinous, and a figure fit for Hercules, seized the eagles of the second line, and cheered his men at us. It was in vain. We burst through them with a terrible shock, and our diminished line, like a wedge, had penetrated to their rear rank, when the most horrible event in recorded war took place. The Russian artillerists fired from the heights on their own men as they struggled with us, and their shot, designed to leave us no escape, even at the loss of their own troops, tore through the warring crowd of friends and foes alike. With wild despair, a cry broke from my lips, as I saw my gallant fellows fall in scores around me. The Russian officer, whom I before noticed, was at some distance, encouraging the havoc of his swordsmen amongst us, and waving the eagle exultingly.

"Save yourselves," I shouted to my troops, I die here."

as best

you can; for me,

I rode at the Russian, whose breast was covered was orders, and in an instant we had crossed swords with dreadful determination. Perfectly isolated, we fought in the height of the cruel confusion, the thunder of artillery and the din and shock of combatants around. I soon found my weakened frame tell against me. The blows of the strong-armed Northern were paralyzing my muscles to guard myself from them, and I gave myself up for lost, when a loud cheer in the rere of the Russians roused me from my momentary despondency, and I saw the gleaming helmets and scarlet uniforms of our heavy brigade shivering the ranks that prisoned us, as if they were glass. A trooper of the Royals, as he dashed by, hewing desprately, struck my enemy on the sword-arm and cut him to the bone, when, dragging the eagle from him, I seized his horse by the bridle, and through the open space, cleared by the brigade of General Bentinck, urged him forward through the smoke towards our lines; half stupified, my prisoner offered no resistance. A cheer received me as I reached a group of officers surrounding the Commander-in-Chief, still holding the colours of my regiment and the captured eagle. My prisoner was a relative of the emperor, and a colonel. I left him and my trophy with a staff-officer, and rode down with my colours to muster my men as they reached our lines. One by one they came in-some bleeding-some grimed with the smoke and stained with the blood of others. Three officers of my regiment beside myself were living, and twenty troopers rode with me to take up our ground near the staff. The Commander-in-Chief rode down, as the light cavalry had all come up again and was formed in line. Ninety of us were drawn up--the survivors of the light brigade-ninety soldiers who had ridden a charge unexampled in history, and passed through a trial by battle, the like of which may never be again. Five men had fallen for one who came back, but ten times five of their enemies had fallen to their comrade's vengeance. With the Commander-in-Chief came many a military leader whose name was renowned in war. The French Marshal rode with his English confrere, and veterans from Indian, Peninsular, and African campaigns, came down to do us honour. With the courtesy of his nation, and the admiration of valour, in whose quest France stands first in the world, the gray head of the French warrior was uncovered and bent as he came abreast of our line, and his example was followed by all his companions. As each of us looked at the other, we thought of the gallant fellows who deserved this tribute more than we, and who lay mangled and lifeless on the plain before us. The voice of the Commander-in-Chief roused me from thoughts that grew sad.

"Who is in command of this regiment ?" he said.

"I, my lord," I answered, coming to the front. "Colonel Walton, I believe," said he.

"Captain is my rank," I replied.

"Colonel, sir," said the General, "Colonel from this moment, sir. You have won your grade. You will prepare to go to England on to-morrow with despatches. The brigade to which you belong has rendered itself memorable by an act which, though not war," (here he looked at the French

Commander)" is the most memorable and magnificent in history, and for morale, is worth a thousand victories."

*

Travel-stained, I stood amid a glittering throng on the staircase of the French ambassador's residence at London. My orders were urgent to deliver my despatches to the minister-at-war, on my arrival. I delayed not a moment in hurrying to his residence as soon as I reached the metropolis, but found him absent at a ball given at the French Embassy. I went at once to the place, and explaining my business to a footman, one of the attaches came forward.

"This way, Colonel Walton," said he.

As I strode up the staircase, many a glance was turned on me with disdain from the exquisites assembled there. I followed my conductor to the door of a magnificent saloon radiant with light and beauty.

"What name?" said the usher at the landing.

"Colonel Walton,” I replied.

"Colonel Walton," said he, as I stepped in. In an instant the dancing ceased, the conversation was hushed, and, as I walked forward, a burst of applause rose from the gorgeous assembly, again and again repeated.

"Colonel Walton," said a gray-headed stately old gentleman, approaching me, "why, you are a mere boy, and yet the most gallant incident of the war is set down to your credit. See, we heard of you before you came, and this is our homage to the gallantry of one of the survivors of the Light Brigade."

I bowed, and was about replying, when a face caught mine that made me bound forward; it was that of Lady Castleton. I murmured my excuses to the minister, for he it was who had addressed me, and stood by Sophia in a moment. She came forward, her face beaming with pleasure, to meet me. "Amid all the honours that surround you," she said, "my congratulations are too poor and too much a duty to be of any value."

I gazed at her, and sunk my voice to a whisper. "And yet without them I should rather rest, among the dead of the Light Brigade."

"Can I believe you?" she said.

"For ever. Ah! Sophia, let it be for ever."

Her cheeks flushed redly-her hand clasped mine.

"For ever," she murmured, "if you will," and this was my wooing.

On the 27th of December in that year we were married. Rich, noble, beautiful, stood my bride by me at the altar. Our life began with promise of a happy ending-even in the blessing we asked from heaven as we knelt in the temple of God-and that promise has never become clouded since. There are glad homes in humbler spheres than that to which I was elevated-homes where the sorrow and trials of a lowly lot only make the love that lights them more warm to dissolve the coldnesses that straitened means or painful crosses would bring, but no home in all the land is happier than that where I never regret How I Married a Countess.

A VISIT TO THE LAND'S-END.

THE arrangements of cheap trains by the railway companies now-a-days carry a good proportion of the crowd of summer and autumnal excursionists to places which had, in time back, not rejoiced in many visiters. A few years ago, to have visited the Land's-End in Cornwall was an event to be remembered in a man's life, but now the road between Penzance and that celebrated headland is frequented daily by numbers of travellers in carriage, on horseback, and on foot, who are thus introduced to scenery and to objects with which they have not been familiar in other parts of the country. Perhaps many of them may be glad to hear what modern science has to say on the most striking of these objects-the numerous artificial arrangements of stones, single uprights, circles, chambers, etc., which have been usually called Druidical monuments.

It was in the latter part of the month of August that we proceeded to Penzance to visit an old friend who was passing the summer there. Penzance is an oddly built town, made up of bits and corners, and blind alleys, in the midst of which you can rarely find a short or direct way between one point and another. It is, nevertheless, not an unpleasant town, and it has a tolerably good beach, and is remarkable for the salubrity of its climate, and for the extreme fertility of the country immediately surrounding it, which supplies London with its earliest potatoes and other vegetable productions. This fertility arises, no doubt, partly from the richness of the soil, and chiefly from the mixture of mildness and moisture in its atmosphere. The drives and walks in the vicinity of the town are also agreeable; and it was by a road under a pleasant avenue of trees, and crossing a pretty little trout-stream, that, on the day following that of our arrival, we left Penzance to walk over the hills to the Land's-End. We gradually mount the hill, and for a time we have on each side good hedges and fields. Under the hedge on the left, at the top of the hill, where there are branch roads, stands the granite stump of an ancient cross. These crosses, usually made of granite, are very common objects in western Cornwall. We now descend the hill, cross a small stream at the bottom, pass along the ledge of another hill of as great elevation, and descend to another small stream, which we cross by the bridge of Buryas. We are now quitting the richlycultivated country, are leaving the trees behind us, and are entering upon a succession of wild downs, separated by hollows, which, where untouched, present a scrubby surface of furze-bushes and ferns, and which must formerly have formed a very desolate scene. But even here, where a small depth of soil has been able to collect on the rock, it still partakes of the fertility of the plain, and much land has been cultivated and divided into fields, with inclosures built of masses of the granite of the district instead of hedges. Even with these improvements, the prospect is desolate enough. Our way runs at the bottom of a hollow for some distance after leaving Buryas-bridge, till we pass over another hill at a place called Drift, and desceud again to a small stream, at a spot where there is another separation of

the road, and we take the turning to the right, along the side of which the stream runs for a short distance. We again mount a hill, and, as we approach its summit, a large mass of granite, some ten or twelve feet high above ground, placed in an upright position, in a corner of the field to the right, strikes our attention, and tempts us to climb over the fence of stones mixed with rather luxuriant plants and bushes, which have taken root in the earth which has accumulated between their crevices. It is an excellent example of that class of monuments which the Celtic archæologists call a men-hir, or stone pillar, but which in Cornwall is called simply a mén, or stone. It is locally known as the "Tregonebris Stone," from the name of the farmhouse under the hill on the northern side of the field.

Resuming our journey, at a short distance beyond the object we have been examining, the road leads us down into another hollow, or valley, across a stream at its bottom, and up another hill. When we gain the brow of this latter eminence, let us turn off from our road along a lane to the left, which leads first to a small hamlet or farm called Boscawen-ûn, and then, a little farther, ends in a large enclosed field, covered with abundance of furze and bracken, and not far from where we enter it we come almost unawares upon one of the most celebrated of the so-called "Druidical" circles in Cornwall. When the enclosures were made, the farmer on whose land it was very stupidly ran one of the hedges-in this instance a real good bushy hedge-through the circle, so that now we can only see and examine it in detail. To judge from the destruction of such monuments, which has taken place since the days of Borlase, the Cornish antiquary, we may be thankful that the circle itself escaped. The whole consists (or consisted) of nineteen upright stones, the tallest of which is about four feet and a-half high above the ground, and placed in the circumference of a circle, the diameter of which is about twenty-five yards, with one taller stone in a leaning position in the centre. Another similar circle at Bolleit, in the parish of St. Burian, about four miles to the south-east of Boscawen-ûn, has the same number of stones, and is of about the same dimensions; and several other such circles are still met with in the Land's-End district.

The question which continually presents itself to the modern excursionists to the Land's-End is-What are those singular monuments, and what was their object? and we will interrupt our journey for a moment to endeavour to give a clear as well as a brief account of them. Borlase, and indeed, most of the old antiquaries, called this class of remains indiscriminately Druidical, and had strange stories of the purposes to which they served. The circles, they decided, were temples of the Druids; when a cromlech, that is, a large flat stone, placed upon three or more upright stones-occupied the centre of the circle (which is not unusually the case, they pronounced it to be the altar on which the Druids sacrificed human victims ; and when there was only an upright stone in the centre, as at Boscawen-ûn, it was the rude pillar to which the unwilling victim of Druidic religious ferocity was tied for the slaughter. Various other ingenious speculations were hazarded, all equally worthless; and the modern system of careful and patient research, instead of hasty conjecture, has dispelled much mist, and