able. Gold, if frequently under the refining process, becomes pure and bright, reflecting more clearly the image of Him who sits by, watching every change, and will bring each vessel out of the fire when meet for the Master's use. But there is one cloud peculiar to the Christian; not an object of dread -rather of the deepest gratitude; bright and light-giving, yet dense enough to hide him, when God sees fit, from those who seek his harm. We look into the book of history, and learn that no sooner had Israel fled from Egyptian bondage, than Jehovah manifested his presence with them in the pillar of fire by night and cloud by day, and so long as they continued faithful to him he went before them in the wilderness; and down to the present day, has led his own people "by a way that they knew not.” We turn over the pages of Revelation, and there find God graciously promising to teach those who acknowledge him, "the way that they should go," and "to guide them with his eye." We glance into nature's wondrous volume, and see that where the light of reason is lacking, the Maker of all has endowed his creatures with instinct, perfect in every mode of its application; a humble reliance on Divine guidance we are ready to exclaim, in the words of Mrs. Hemans' beautiful apostrophe to the "Birds of Passage" "Yet, through the wastes of the trackless air, Leeds, August 31st, 1855. * THE HORRORS OF WAR. "Ascend the watch-tower yonder, valiant soldier, SUCH was the language of one of the most gifted geniuses Germany ever produced, in reference to one of those bloody affrays, in the sketching of which—whether in prose or verse-he so much excelled. Unhappily, the quiet of the present generation has been disturbed by the shrill, clarion voice of War. Literary genius of high order has found its way to the scene of conflict, and the following vivid sketch, by an Eye-witness of the battle of the Tchernaya, presents one of the most graphic, and, we may add, awful pictures of War that we ever remember having met with. We give it, that our readers may know the price at which NATIONS purchase what is called glory. "About an hour before daybreak, the French sentinels in front of the bridge thought they could perceive shadows gliding past them in the darkness and fired. There was no reply, and silence deep as death followed; about the same time a few shots were heard from the hill occupied by the Piedmontese outpost, but, as the utmost stillness prevailed afterwards on every side, no precautions were taken till just as the first streak of light made itself visible in the horizon a sharp fire was opened from a party of skir mishers against the tête de pont, and a regular assault made upon the Sardinian picket. General della Marmora was already on the ground, and sent a battalion of Bersaglieri to reinforce the post, so that they might defend themselves till the troops could be got under arms, and the necessary arrange ments made. When the reinforcements arrived, half the picket was already hors de combat, and the assailants were up on the parapet of the little redoubt firing down into them. To prolong the conflict here would only have caused a useless massacre, and the Sardinians consequently withdrew behind an épaulement on the other side of the river, near the aqueduct, and there defended themselves till the day broke clearly, and the attack became general. On the side of the French, the tête de pont was assaulted in great force, and carried very soon after the enemy's first showing himself on the ground, notwithstanding the heroic resistance of the 20th regiment of the line, which in one battalion alone lost twelve officers. The bridge was now occupied, two batteries of artillery were now brought across, so as to sweep the road leading between the two heights towards Balaklava, and a strong column was pushed on to the assault and mounted the declivity. Strange to say, although General Pelissier had received full warning the previous night, he refused to believe in an attack until it actually commenced, and consequently no dispositions were made, and nobody was ready. The Russians had already reached the crest of the hill, while the French were still asleep. At this critical moment two battalions alone of the 2nd Regiment of Zouaves held the whole assaulting column in check, and contested the ground inch by inch till they were forced back upon their own tents. In the meantime the alarm was sounding, the troops got into order, the artillery into position, and a vigorous onset drove the Russians down the declivity, leaving it covered with their dead and wounded. All this, be it well remembered, occurred in the grey of the morning, which the smoke of the action converted into something like positive darkness, leaving everybody as yet in complete ignorance as to the force they had to contend with, or the dangers they had to bear. In the short pause which followed, however, and during which both sides prepared for a renewal of the struggle, the sun came out from behind the hills, the smoke rose, and the valley of the Tchernaya lay before us like a picture. The tract of table-land lying at the foot of the Mackenzie heights was covered with masses of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, About thirty guns were ranged in a crescent outside the bridge, and thundered unceasingly against the French position. On the hill from which the Piedmontese picket had been driven were crowds of men around a battery of field artillery, which fired incessantly, though against what I could never clearly make out. I must not forget to mention, however, that they had previously shelled two battalions of Turks encamped in the hollow near the Woronzoff-road, and forced them to retire. This retrograde movement was the only part the latter bore in the whole affair; but it is right to add they were under arms all ready, in case the positions had been attacked. The Piedmontese were drawn up in line behind a small eminence close to the ford on the Tchorgoun road, and their batteries on the heights to the right were vigorously replying to the Russian fire; the three divisions of French, Camoux, Herbillon, and Faucheux, were under arms, front line a little way back from the brow of the hill, and a great number of Zouaves were lying down in shelter behind a small ridge. Below, on the plain, along the hollow on which the English light-horse died so gallantly last winter, every turf beneath their feet a soldier's sepulchre, were ranged the Engligh and French cavalry, squadron after squadron, extending back nearly to the Turkish redoubts, ready to act in case the enemy should force the Piedmontese position and attempt to debouch upon the open ground behind. The pennons of the Lancers fluttered gaily in long lines in the fresh morning breeze, and when the sun rose high in glory and poured down its rays full on the plain, making scarlet look redder, and steel and brass brighter and more resplendent, gilding the hill tops, making the tents glitter, and rolling smoke and mist in great packs up the valley towards Inkermann, the scene became one of passing splendour as well as of passing interest. We looked in breathless anxiety for the renewal of the conflict. The combatants had taken breath-their blood was up, for hundreds on both sides lay already stark and stiff on the river side around the bridge, and the artillery evidently was simply playing an interlude till the curtain rose upon another act in the tragedy. We had not to wait long. From behind the cloud of smoke which natu rally hung around the Russian batteries came two large columns of the enemy, marching in quick time, about 200 yards apart and exactly parallel, a short distance from the river, and in a line with the bank. As they wound and twisted, mounted and descended, following the inequalities in the ground in long compact masses, their bayonets glancing in the sunlight, they looked exactly like two huge serpents creeping rapidly along, their scales glistening and their prey in sight. On arriving within about eight hundred yards of the ford, one halted, and the other turned off abruptly towards the river. It was evident they were about to assail the French position more to the right, on the side next the Sardinians. On reaching the water, some passed on small bridges hastily thrown over, the rest forded, and on gaining this side the column broke into loose order, and pushed on towards the canal or aqueduct, which rises within an embankment at the very foot of the hill. Before reaching it they had to traverse about 200 yards of smooth green sward; they were no longer exposed to the French artillery, because the guns could not be depressed sufficiently to reach them, but they had their flank turned to that of the Piedmontese, who had got the range to an inch, and fired with an accuracy little short of marvellous. The head of the column had hardly come up dripping from the water, when they found themselves in the midst of a storm of round-shot, grape, and shell, bent upon relentlessly, unrelaxingly, mowing them down by the score, and covering the survivors with clay and gravel. But I must do these survivors justice, and say that they bore up right gallantly, marched firmly onward and upward, but at last halted, turned, and fled-never stopping till they reached the river, when they got shelter under the banks and amongst the old willows. An officer remained for some time alone on the declivity, vainly urging them to follow him. Reinforcements now came up from the second column; they re-formed, but again in loose open order, or rather no order at all, for they marched exactly like a flock of sheep. This time they never wavered nor faltered, climbed on slowly and laboriously, and at last reached the crest of the hill, and came out on the level. When the head of the column attained this point, the Zouaves, who were lying down behind the ridge on the Russian left, jumped up and ran off to join the main body, posted near the artillery on the centre of the plateau, and at the same moment the whole of the French, the artillery included, retired about a hundred yards before the advancing enemy. For some moments I thought the French were about to give way and retreat. One could see them falling back on all sides, and closing up into a small round mass, but in the twinkling of an eye this mass opened like a fan, two black lines shot from it on each side across the plateau, the centre closed up, divided itself, and the next moment a sheet of flame broke from the whole line, followed by a cloud of smoke, and the crash of the musketry fell on our ears in a long, continuous, unfaltering whirr, like the roar of a waterfall, drowned every second by the mightier thunder of the artillery, which had made half a wheel to the right, and raked the crest of the hill with a tempest of grape. It was impossible to repress for a moment a sentiment of pity as one looked upon the crowd of Russians looming out through the smoke, as it rolled across them, feebly returning the fire, unable to advance, afraid to retreat, ten thousand deaths in front-ten thousand more behindhelp and hope nowhere. They paused for a few seconds, seemed to hesitate but were speedily relieved from all embarrassment as to the course they should pursue by the advance of the French, whose cheer rang merrily through the morning air as they levelled their bayonets and rushed to the charge. The Russians gave one "Hurrah," as if they intended to come up to the mark, but instead of suiting the action to the word, they wheeled about and flung themselves down the hill-side in complete disorder, the Sardinian artillery again playing upon them as before. Some hundreds threw down their arms and surrendered to the French, sooner than run the gauntlet once more across the aqueduct and the river. The remnant of the column got under cover on the other side of the stream, and remained there for some minutes, until two battalions of Piedmontese came out upon the plain, and throwing out skirmishers advanced upon the river. The Russians now retired in haste, and not in very good order, skirmishing as they went, until they reached the high ground ou which their cavalry and the reserve of their artillery were stationed. During the pursuit the Piedmontese made some prisoners. The scene which presented itself on the banks of the river, below the canal, was something fearful beyond description, much more fearful than the ordinary horrors of a battle-field. The canal itself was choked with dead, most of whom had doubtless fallen into it living, after rolling down the hill side, and found repose in its muddy waters; broken muskets, bags of bread, cartridges, or dark red-stain on the white chalky gravel, often alone marked the spot where the men first fell; in a moment afterwards tumbled back to perdition. Many had fallen, after scrambling up to the brink of the aqueduct, and ere they had time to cross it, and if not caught in the bushes, rolled into the plain, breaking their bones in the descent, and lay there as we passed, shrieking in agony, and imploring us to kill them, and thus put an end to their suffering. Never did eye rest upon humanity in forms so mutilated, defaced, and disfigured, as those unhappy wretches, who lay writhing there in their bloody rags, their faces so plastered over with gore and dust that neither wife nor mother would ever have recognised son or husband in those hideous masses of mortality. Some, but they were a small minority, sought to drag themselves to the shade of a few bushes that skirted the river; some sought to hide their heads from the fiery heat of the mid-day sun under their tattered garments, and others lay with faces upturned and ghastly, their limbs still trembling in the last quiver, and the flies already burrowing in their wounds. Men shot down by any sort of missile, and lying where they fall, gory and mutilated though they may be, is a sight to which one soon gets habituated, but wounded men who have been rolled over a rough soil, and their bones broken in their progress, is one of those sights that one rarely witnesses, and which he who has once seen it never wishes to see more. On towards the bridge the dead lay thicker and thicker. On the banks of the river about it, and in the river itself, they were "heaped and piled," mostly fine men, in the prime of life—many with a rieux grognard air, which bespoke long years of service. Nearly every one had a brandy bottle, either actually in his hand or lying near him, or broken under him in his fall. I was riding with a Polish officer, who conversed with a great many of the wounded, who informed us that large quantities of brandy had been served out to the soldiers before the action, except the artillerymen. There were a great many small platforms lying about, some resembling ladders with the rungs very close, and carried by rope-slings attached to each end, as bridges to be thrown across the aqueduct. The great majority, however, passed without them. The Zouaves had made a general collection of crosses, relics, and medals, and retailed them to the visitors, in addition to which pickings from the dead bodies, they made small collections of money from the persons of the wounded, managing dexterously to extract it from the inside of the trousers close to the knee, where the Russian soldiers generally carry their money, while pretending to examine into the nature of their wounds, thus avoiding giving any mental pain to the sufferers." 472 PORTRAIT GALLERY. PART V. JOHN FOSTER, THE ESSAYIST. THERE have been but few men more distinguished by independent thought than John Foster. If ever any one possessed a perfect security against being seduced by the cry of "Lo, here!" or "Lo, there!" it was he. He could not build the "house" of great conclusions on the "sands" of common report and familiar faiths. He could not "believe" simply because of the " sayings" of others-he needed "to hear" for himself. Naturally gifted with powers of profound reflectiveness, intensely interested in the greatest problems of humanity, and providence, and God, and withal, too conscious of his own dignity and claims, as a man, and as the man John Foster, to like or bear the thought of being made the victim of imposition and falsehood,-thus endowed and thus prompted, his investigations were conducted with much care and nicety. He could not be content with shows and seemings, even of the clearest, fullest form-was not to be satisfied with the shells awarded to serious thinkers by the moral monkeys of the world. He weighed each portion of moral merchandise, rang each piece of mental coin, scrutinized each vote tendered for truth. A proposition uttered to him, the first effect was not belief, but inquiry; a fact stated, and he "asked questions." Prevailing opinions, received theories, common customs, were fair matters, he thought, for examination; many of them, alas! he found for post-mortem examination! And the things that were discovered to be true and genuine were not the goal of his investigations. They could not be received as ultimate realities. They were surfaces, counters, windows, locks, indicating, revealing, representing, opening truth which to him was always "the great deep," "the true riches," "the inner room," "the hid treasure." The process was, of course, slow, but the results were blessed; and he might well "like his mind for its necessity of seeking the abstraction upon every subject." Such a man's life is to be estimated according to the number-not of his nights and days, his eatings and drinkings, his walkings and restings-but his thoughts and feelings; his wonderings and solicitudes, "the visions of his head," and the " searchings of his heart." 66 We are fully aware that the character of our times is unfavourable to a just estimate of John Foster. He did not excel in the things that get men glory now-a-days. It is, forsooth, a practical" age. The great men are the men whose works tell with considerable effect. Depth, comprehensiveness, prospectiveness, are little. The finer and more spiritual have small account. "Show us a sign," is the unbelieving cry. Small profits and quick returns," is the shallow rule. We have got to do so many things by steam, that a great moral injury has resulted, in the strengthening of a foolish impatience of the comparative slowness of the best and worthiest processes. Assert before such an age the claims of Foster, and it is more than probable that scepticism will at once refer to the absence, in his case, of certain marks of present and palpable fruitfulness. "What did he do?" "What organization did he originate or greatly assist ?" "What social grievance did he remove ?" "What band of men did he lead ?" To such inquiries the answer is but one, and one which will afford a rich source of delight to the superficial questioners. He certainly did nothing of this kind, and, what is more, did not think much of the doing of these things. But yet he did something. He wrote a few books, which those who do not appreciate him might perhaps find it difficult to understand; and he threw out, in letters and private conversation, many seeds of valuable truth, over |