all parts of the tumultuous crowd as
slowly and with a horrid carnage it was driven by the incessant vigour of
the attack to the farthest edge of the hill. In vain did the French
reserves mix with the struggling multitude to sustain the fight; their
efforts only increased the irremediable confusion, and the mighty mass,
breaking off like a loosened cliff, went headlong down the ascent. The
rain flowed after in streams discoloured with blood, and 1800 unwounded
men, the remnant of 6000 unconquerable British soldiers, stood triumphant
on the fatal hill."

The battle of Albuera lasted four hours; its slaughter was dreadful.
Within the space of a few hundred feet square were strewn some 7000
bodies, and over this Aceldama the artillery had galloped, the cavalry
had charged! The 3rd Buffs went into the fight with 24 officers and 750
rank and file; at the roll-call next morning there were only 5 officers
and 35 men. One company of the Royal Fusileers came out of the fight
commanded by a corporal; every officer and sergeant had been killed.
Albuera is essentially a soldier's fight. The bayonet of the private,
not the brain of the general, won it; and never was the fighting quality
of our race more brilliantly shown. Soult summed up the battle in words
that deserve to be memorable. "There is no beating those troops," he
wrote, "_in spite of their generals_!" "I always thought them bad
soldiers," he added, with a Frenchman's love of paradox; "now I am sure
of it. For I turned their right, pierced their centre, they were
everywhere broken, the day was mine, and yet _they did not know it_, and
would not run!"

THE "SHANNON" AND THE "CHESAPEAKE"

"The signal to engage shall be
A whistle and a hollo;
Be one and all but firm, like me,
And conquest soon will follow!
You, Gunnel, keep the helm in hand--
Thus, thus, boys! steady, steady,
Till right ahead you see the land--
Then soon as you are ready,
The signal to engage shall be
A whistle and a hollo;
Be one and all but firm, like me,
And conquest soon will follow!"
--C. DIBDIN.

On the early morning of June 1, 1813, a solitary British frigate,
H.M.S. _Shannon_, was cruising within sight of Boston lighthouse. She
was a ship of about 1000 tons, and bore every mark of long and hard
service. No gleam of colour sparkled about her. Her sides were rusty,
her sails weather-stained; a solitary flag flew from her mi