CHAPTER IX.

OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS—_continued_.

The health of the British army both at home and abroad has improved very much of late years. The British soldier is better fed, better clothed, and better lodged now than he ever was before; hence in India the mortality has been reduced by one-half, and a corresponding change has been effected in the number of admissions to our military hospitals. Still the fact cannot be overlooked that a larger amount of sickness prevails among soldiers than among civilians of the same age and rank in life, whose physical wants are less carefully attended to; and while other causes may intervene, this difference is to be attributed mainly to the habits of the men themselves. The surest test of the moral character of a regiment is the number of admissions to hospital. When a regiment is demoralised, the wards will be crowded; when a healthy moral tone prevails in the ranks, they will be comparatively empty. Drunkenness and immorality have done more to thin the ranks of the British army, and to crowd our unions with discharged soldiers, than the bullets of the enemy, the scorching sun of the tropics, the fatigues of actual warfare, or the malaria of unhealthy stations.

On consulting the statistics of mortality connected with the Highland regiments when first raised, we are surprised at the small number of casualties which occurred among them. They were always first in the field of danger, and yet there were fewer deaths among them than in many regiments in time of peace. We find, for example, that the 42nd Regiment embarked for Flanders on the 18th of June, 1794, and landed at Ostend on the 26th of the same month. They shared in all the hardships of that unfortunate expedition, and took part in the disastrous retreat to Deventer, the miseries of which have been compared to the sufferings of the French after the burning of Moscow. Disease, the result of the severity of the weather and the want of food and proper clothing, thinned the ranks of the British army; many of our best soldiers sank under the accumulated hardships which beset them. The Dutch, on whose gratitude they had the strongest claims, inhospitably closed their doors against the sufferers, and refused to render them any assistance. The result was that some of the newly-raised regiments lost more than three hundred men by disease alone, while the 42nd, which had three hundred young recruits in its ranks, lost only twenty-five men, including those killed in battle, from their disembarkation at Ostend till their embarkation at Bremen on the 14th of April, 1795. This immunity from disease is to be attributed to their temperate habits as much as to their natural strength of constitution and power of enduring fatigue and privation. An amusing incident occurred while the regiment was stationed at Alost in the month of July. A party of 400 of the French cavalry entered the town, and being mistaken for Hessians, met with no resistance till they reached the market-place, where one of them attempted to cut down a 42nd Highlander of the name of MacDonald, who was walking along, unsuspicious of danger, with his basket on his head. He was severely wounded in the hand which held the basket, but promptly drawing his bayonet with the hand which was disengaged, he attacked the dragoon with such fury that he was compelled to retreat. Donald then continued his course, muttering his regret that he had not his father’s good broadsword to cut the rascal down. The enemy were soon recognised and driven from the town. It is worthy of remark that the practice of enticing mere boys into the service was then unknown in the Highland regiments. The profession of arms was so popular in the North, that they could always find a sufficient supply of able-bodied men. Their average age on enlistment was twenty-two years, a period of life not too young to render them incapable of enduring the hardships and sufferings of military service, nor too old to unfit them for learning that discipline without which an army would soon degenerate into an armed mob. In short, they were picked men, and the advantage of this carefulness of selection was manifest in their exemption from disease, and their power of enduring privations under which others less robust would have succumbed. The Ross-shire Fusiliers when reduced were as strong and efficient as when embodied. Not one man had died during the period of service, a case unparalleled, we believe, in the annals of the British army. The money which is too often spent in the canteen or in still worse places was remitted to their friends, and this generous self-denial was not without its reward.

Another characteristic trait in the character of these men was their quiet, orderly, and kind deportment to the inhabitants of the different countries in which they were stationed. Soldiers are apt to look upon themselves as a distinct class, and to assume a certain haughty bearing in their dealings with civilians, who, of course, are prone to retaliate. The Highlanders seem never to have forgotten that they were only civilians in arms, bound by the laws of courtesy as well as by the rules of military discipline. During the years 1743-44 the 42nd Regiment was stationed in different parts of Flanders, under the command of Field-Marshal the Earl of Stair, where, if they had been so disposed, they might have levied contributions on the powerless inhabitants. The latter, however, had such confidence in their honesty and integrity, that they specially requested to have them appointed the guardians of their property, and bore willing testimony to the faithfulness with which they had discharged this duty. Few of them, we are told, were ever drunk, and they as rarely swore. They retained in Flanders the simple habits of their own native glens, and when they left, the Elector-Palatine wrote to his envoy in London, desiring him to thank the King of Great Britain for the excellent behaviour of the regiment while in his territory, “for whose sake,” he adds, “I will always pay a respect and regard to a Scotchman in future.”

In the month of May, 1815, the intelligence reached England that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and the three Highland regiments which had been stationed in Ireland at once embarked for Flanders, and took up their quarters at Brussels, where they became very popular among the inhabitants. They were billeted among the citizens, who, instead of regarding this as a hardship, rejoiced in their presence, and had such confidence in their honesty, that they often committed their shops to their care when they had occasion to go out. It was not unusual to see a stalwart Highlander nursing a Flemish baby, and handling it as tenderly as if he had been “to the manner born.” But, in truth, our Highland soldiers have always been remarkable for their fondness for children. When the 78th Highlanders forced their fiery way to the Residency at Lucknow, and were welcomed by the starving women whom they had saved from a fate worse than death, they seized the children from their arms, pressed their bearded faces against their tender cheeks, and shed tears of generous pity over them. Those tears did not unman them or unfit them for their duty, as all who are familiar with the annals of the Indian campaign will at once admit. No wonder that the kind-hearted Highlanders at Brussels made a favourable impression on the hearts of the Flemish maidens with whom they were brought in contact. A soldier of the 42nd had gained the affections of the daughter of a wealthy tradesman in whose house he was quartered at Brussels, and though he had never told his love, a mutual understanding had sprung up between them. When the British forces advanced to Waterloo, the Flemish maiden trembled for the fate of her lover. The power of Napoleon was shattered on that hard-contested field, but the Highlanders returned not to Brussels. The 42nd embarked for England, and arrived in the vicinity of Edinburgh on the 18th of March, 1816, where they were welcomed by the inhabitants with acclamations of joy, and entertained at a public dinner. The postal arrangements were not so perfect in those days as at present. Long weary months passed away, and the Flemish maiden heard nothing of her lover. One day a party of Highlanders were carousing together in Edinburgh, and toasting their sweethearts, as was the custom at that period. It was observed that one of them was silent, and refused to toast his mistress. “Leave him alone,” the others said; “we all know that he left his heart at Brussels.” The remark had scarcely been made when it was announced that a person had called to see him. On entering another room, he found there a young lady dressed in the deepest mourning, who rushed forward and welcomed him with a cry of joy. It was the Flemish maiden. In broken English, and with many tears, she told him of all the anguish she had suffered from his absence and silence. She had borne it all till the death of her father left her mistress of her actions, when she resolved to visit England in order to ascertain his fate. On reaching London, she learned that the 42nd had been sent north to Edinburgh, and followed the regiment there. She only knew her lover’s name, but a soldier, touched with pity by her romantic tale, searched the town till he discovered where he was. The rest may be left to the imagination of our readers. The war was now over, and she had no difficulty in purchasing the discharge of her lover. The officers of the regiment took an interest in the young couple, and were present at their marriage, after which the Highlander and his bride returned to Brussels, where they established themselves in business, and were as prosperous as they deserved to be.

Often, indeed, in the history of the Highland regiments—

“Shine martial Faith and Courtesy’s bright star Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of War.”

We could multiply instances of their kindness and forbearance to the helpless inhabitants of foreign lands, whom they might have plundered with impunity, and of the proofs of gratitude shown by the latter to their benefactors.

Alluding to the services of Keith’s and Campbell’s Highlanders with the allied army in Germany in 1759, the _Vienna Gazette_ of 1762 says—“From the goodness of their disposition in everything, the boors are much better treated by these savages than by the polished French and English.”

When these two regiments were ordered home, such was the character they had established for themselves during three campaigns that the inhabitants of Holland welcomed them with acclamations on their march through that country, and the women crowded around them and presented them with laurel-leaves. This display of friendly feeling may have been owing partly to the long services of the Scotch Brigade in the Dutch service, and the frequent intercourse between the two countries; but it was elicited in a great measure by the excellent conduct of the Highlanders themselves. After landing at Tilbury Fort, they marched for Scotland, and were treated with the most marked attention by the citizens of the different towns where they halted, especially by those of Derby, who presented the men with gratuities in money. This unusual liberality is said to have sprung from a grateful remembrance of the respect shown for their persons and property by the Highlanders when they visited the town in 1745, under the command of Charles Edward, the Young Pretender.

Some of these Highlanders had given a remarkable proof of the high spirit of honour which prevailed among them before leaving Scotland. Every one is familiar with the massacre of Glencoe, that detestable deed of butchery the details of which, after the lapse of more than a century, cannot be read without a shudder of horror. Part of the Mac Ians had escaped, and when Charles Edward landed in the North, their young chief joined his standard with a hundred and fifty men, and accompanied him in his march to the South. At first success attended his arms, and the Highland army passed near a beautiful mansion, the property of the Earl of Stair, whose forefather of the same name, from motives of private revenge, had caused the unfortunate Mac Ians to be murdered in cold blood by those whom they had welcomed as friends. It was part of the policy of Prince Charles to conciliate the Lowland proprietors who still kept aloof from his cause, and a guard was posted for the protection of Lord Stair’s house, which was believed to be in some danger of being attacked by the Mac Ians in revenge for the massacre of their forefathers. No sooner had the chief of Glencoe heard of this precaution than he deemed his honour insulted, and demanded an interview with the prince.

“If a guard must be posted here,” he said, “let the Mac Ians, who have most reason to hate the name of Dalrymple, supply that guard. If you refuse this request it must be from want of confidence in the MacIans, who, finding themselves distrusted, can no longer follow your standard. They are willing to die for you, but they will not submit to the insult of being watched by others.”

It was fortunate that the prince understood the character of the young MacIan, and granted his request. The guard was duly posted, and the mansion of the Dalrymples received no injury. When we consider that old Lord Stair was the author of the massacre of Glencoe, and that revenge among the Highlanders was almost a sacred duty, we cannot withhold our admiration from the chief who could restrain his men on such an occasion, and from the men who voluntarily submitted to such restraint. The name of young MacIan of Glencoe is worthy of being ranked with those of Scipio and other heroes of antiquity, who knew how to practise, under the pressure of strong temptation, the difficult duty of self-denial.

“This murderous chief, this ruthless man, This head of a rebellious clan,”

spared the mansion of his hereditary foe.

Such were the elements of which our Highland regiments were formed. When the mountaineers transferred their services to the House of Hanover, they did not lose their distinctive character; they shrank from no duty, however dangerous, but they never inflicted unnecessary suffering on the unprotected. The latter were always prepared to express their sense of their forbearance, and to lament their removal to another station. After the battle of Waterloo the 78th Regiment did garrison duty at Brussels till 1816, when they received orders to return home. The inhabitants had come to regard them as a part of themselves, and requested the mayor to try to prevent their removal. This could not be done, but the mayor expressed the feeling of his fellow-citizens by issuing the following document:—“As Mayor of Brussels, I have pleasure in declaring that the Scotch Highlanders who were garrisoned in this city during the years 1814 and 1815 called forth the attachment and esteem of all by the mildness and suavity of their manners and excellent conduct, insomuch that a representation was made to me by the inhabitants, requesting me to endeavour to detain the 78th Regiment of Scotchmen in the town, and to prevent their being replaced by other troops.” The mayor’s eulogium applies to all the Highland regiments stationed at Brussels, but the 78th were the best known because they had been longest there. _Les braves Flamands_ witnessed their departure with the liveliest feelings of regret. “They are kind as well as brave;” “they are part of ourselves” (_enfans de famille_); “they are lions in the field, lambs in the house.” Such were the expressions that greeted the plumed warriors of the North as they marched for the last time through the streets of Brussels.

Nor was it in foreign lands alone that the Highlanders secured the confidence and esteem of the inhabitants by their good conduct. The 92nd, or Gordon Highlanders, who were embodied in 1794, and derived their name from having been raised chiefly on the estates of the Duke of Gordon, in the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Inverness, were ordered to Ireland in 1798, to assist in quelling the insurrection which had broken out in that unfortunate country. Nothing could be more trying to the temper of the men than the duties they had to perform. They were constantly moved from place to place in the midst of a hostile population. On one occasion they had to march ninety-six Irish miles in three successive days, with arms, ammunition, and knapsacks. Notwithstanding their arduous duties, and the avowed hostility of the population to the red-coats, the Gordon Highlanders conducted themselves with such forbearance, that, on their being removed elsewhere, public testimony was borne to the fact that they had been “exemplary in all duties; sober, orderly, and regular in quarters.” They had earned the same good character when stationed in the island of Corsica in 1795, and such was the estimation in which they were held in Ireland, that a parting address was presented to the Marquis of Huntly, the colonel of the regiment, in which it is said that “peace and order were re-established, rapine had disappeared, confidence in the government was restored, and the happiest cordiality subsisted since his regiment came among them.” Many of the privates in this regiment belonged to a different class from those who usually enter the army; they were the sons of respectable farmers, who had been induced to enlist by the personal influence and blandishments of the beautiful Duchess of Gordon, the mother of their colonel.

In the Peninsula the conduct of the 92nd was as exemplary as in Ireland. Unmoved by hunger and the example of others, they respected the lives and property of those who could offer no resistance. Napier has rendered his readers familiar with the horrors which followed the capture of St. Sebastian in Spain. A more pleasing picture is presented by the conduct of the Gordon Highlanders and the old “fighting 50th” when they drove the French from the town of Aire on the 2nd of March, 1814. Places thus captured were almost invariably given up to pillage and destruction, and the miserable inhabitants deemed themselves fortunate if they escaped with their lives. On this occasion there was not a single act of plunder or violence; the Highlanders took quiet possession of the town, and paid for every article they required. Their generous forbearance produced such an impression on the inhabitants of Aire, that they presented an address to Colonel Cameron expressive of their gratitude for exemption from plunder and rapine, the usual fate of the defenceless in times of war. The Highlanders have always been popular in Ireland; they are sprung from the same Celtic stock, and speak a dialect of the same language. Though they had no sympathy with the Irish during the rebellion of 1798, and took an active part in quelling it, they were guilty of no unnecessary cruelty, and discharged their duty in such a way as to conciliate the esteem of those who were opposed to them. It was said of them that “their conduct and manners softened the horrors of war, and they were not a week in a fresh quarter or cantonment that they did not conciliate and become intimate with the people.”

At this period duelling was an established custom in the British army, and some of the Highland officers were as ready to take offence as Sir Lucius O’Trigger in _The Rivals_, or the redoubtable Captain MacTurk in _St. Ronan’s Well_. They were jealous of their personal honour, and as ready to challenge one another as those of a different race. We read of a Captain Campbell who fought a duel in a dark room without seconds, and killed his opponent. The absence of witnesses led the jury to give a verdict of murder, and the unfortunate man was hanged. A duel was fought at Gibraltar, in 1795, between Captain, afterwards Colonel Cameron, and Lieutenant, afterwards Sir John Maclean, in consequence of some disputed point of precedency. Both escaped without any serious injury. The Marquis of Huntly, the colonel of the 92nd, to which Cameron and Maclean belonged, took them to task for their conduct, and warned his officers against the practice of duelling. “I have the more right to insist upon this,” he said, “as I believe you are all, more or less, connected with my father’s estates.” The hot-blooded Cameron started to his feet. “I,” he exclaimed, “have no connexion with your father’s estates or your father’s clan; such an argument, therefore, cannot apply to me.” The marquis knew how to soothe his wounded feelings, and this was his first and last duel. Nothing more readily rouses a Highlander’s ire than any insult offered to his country, his language, or his dress, and strangers, ignorant of this peculiarity, were sometimes involved in quarrels without any intention of giving offence. We remember the case of an English officer, the nephew of an archbishop, who happened to be seated at a mess-room table opposite to a Highlander who wore the national costume, the uniform of his regiment. They were strangers to one another, and it was their first and last meeting in this world. The English officer made some bantering remark on the Highlander’s dress, which was regarded by the latter as an insult, and led to an immediate challenge. They agreed to settle their difference at once, and on the first exchange of shots poor Mr. ⸺, the English officer, fell. Highland soldiers have now learned to bear any amount of “chaff” on their national peculiarities without taking offence, but national feeling was stronger and more sensitive in former days, and the barbarous custom of duelling often led to death in cases where an apology would now be deemed ample atonement. It is somewhat remarkable that the horror excited by the death of an Indian officer, slain in mortal combat by his own brother-in-law, an officer of the Life Guards, and a Highlander by birth, produced such a reaction, that the custom of duelling—that barbarous relic of a barbarous age—may now be regarded as obsolete.

An interesting work might be written on the female warriors of all nations, including the standing army of the King of Dahomey. In every country and in every age there have been men who, in point of valour, were women; and women who, in point of valour, were men. The Amazons of antiquity, the _vivandières_ of France, and the camp followers of the British army, would all be entitled to some passing notice; but more attractive still would be the personal history of those women who, instigated by the promptings of valour or love, have entered the army and served for years without their sex being discovered. The wives of soldiers who have followed their husbands to the field, sharing their dangers and ministering to the wants of the wounded, might also find place in such a work, to which we willingly present the following contribution. Towards the close of last century, a stalwart, buxom Scottish lass became the wife of a private in the 42nd Highlanders, and was permitted to accompany the regiment when it embarked, in 1795, to take part in the expedition to the West Indies. She soon learned to share in all the hardships and dangers of a soldier’s life, was frequently under fire, and became as skilful in dressing wounds as the most experienced surgeon. She was known to every one in the regiment, and was equally a favourite with officers and men. She was present at, and took part in, the attack on the island of St. Vincent, then occupied by the French and the insurgent natives. In one of the skirmishes between the 42nd and the enemy, Lieutenant-Colonel Graham was severely wounded, and left insensible on the field. After a time his own men returned and, believing him to be dead, dragged his body across the rough channel of the river to the sea-beach. The motion elicited some signs of life, and they hastened in search of a surgeon; meanwhile the body was borne along in a blanket for about four miles till they reached a post occupied by the 42nd. Colonel Graham still continued insensible, and no surgeon could be found to dress his wounds or restore him to consciousness. It was plain then, unless something were done at once he could not long survive, as a bullet had entered his side, come out beneath his breast, and shattered two of his fingers. He was already exhausted with the loss of blood. Fortunately for him our Highland Amazon was at this post, and at once proceeded to act the part of the good Samaritan. She washed his wounds, and bound them up with such skill that the surgeons, on their arrival, did not find it necessary to unloose the dressing. The colonel remained in a dangerous state for three weeks, when he was removed to England, where he gradually recovered and rose to the rank of Lieutenant-General and Governor of Stirling Castle. It is to be hoped that he did not forget the kind-hearted woman to whom he owed his life.

Be that as it may, she accompanied the 42nd in their different expeditions, and proved herself a skilful nurse in hospital, a fearless leader on the field of battle. Wherever her husband went she followed, watching over his safety, and threatening to avenge him if he fell. There is reason to believe that, like other veterans, she came at length to love fighting for its own sake, and that anxiety for the safety of her husband was only a cloak to justify her presence amid the wild excitement of the battle-field. On one occasion, before the commencement of an attack, the officer in command, being anxious to expose her husband to as little danger as possible, left him in charge of the men’s knapsacks, which they had thrown aside before rushing up the hill. He remained at his post, but his wife, borne along by an irresistible impulse, rushed forward at the head of the attacking columns, and cheered them on to victory. No man could refuse to follow where a woman led the way. Three redoubts were carried in rapid succession, and just as the officer was giving orders to charge the fourth and last, he was suddenly tapped on the shoulder. On turning round he beheld his friend, the female warrior, with her clothes tucked up to her knees, and the proud expression of victory in her lace. Seizing his hand, and shaking it heartily, she exclaimed, “Well done, my Highland lad! See how the brigands scamper, like so many deer! Come,” she continued, “let us drive them from yonder hill.” Her advice was acted on, and the success of the Highlanders was complete. When the fighting was over, friend and foe shared alike in her sympathies. Her skilful hand, like the spear of Achilles, could heal the wounds it had made.

About forty years ago, in almost every village in Scotland might be seen tall, erect, gray-headed old men, retired veterans, who, after fighting the battles of their country in every quarter of the globe, had returned to the place of their birth, the memory of which had haunted them during long years of absence and exile. They were the leaders of public opinion in the small community in which they lived—the village Nestors, from whose lips dropped words of wisdom, tales of strange adventure, and dangers encountered by sea and land. They feared God and honoured the king; they had only one failing—an overweening love of the bottle; they were the oracles of every tap-room, where, amid the applause of their boon companions, they fought their battles o’er again, even to the thrice routing of all their foes and the thrice slaying of the slain. It was not the mere love of drink that led them there; mingled with this weakness was the pleasure of recalling scenes in which they had borne a part, battles in which they had fought and conquered. Often the schoolboys on the village green would cease from their sports and gather round one of these veterans in an admiring circle, as, seated beneath a shady tree and leaning on his crutch, he told of the gallant deeds of the Gordon Highlanders or the Old Black Watch. His rude eloquence never failed to awaken the enthusiasm of his audience, and many a Scottish soldier was first led to think of the profession of arms, and to long, like Norval, to follow some brave chieftain to the field, from listening to these veterans. They have now gone the way of all living; we know of only one veteran survivor of Waterloo in the North, but we can recal many who lived and flourished a quarter of a century ago. Old Hyderabad stands before us at this very moment. There he is, with all the towering majesty of six feet and some additional inches, with shaggy eyebrows and straggling hair as white as snow, with a rough, stern, but not unkindly face, rendered still more stern by a sabre-cut on the brow, with his formidable pikestaff in one hand, and his ram’s-horn “sneeshin’-mull,” or snuff-box, in the other. His real name was James Bruce, but he was universally known as Hyderabad, from the interminable stories he told of the capture of that Indian city, at which he assisted. His stories occasionally exceeded the bounds of credence; for example, he used to relate that any eccentricity of manner observable in his conduct arose from a singular accident which happened to him at Hyderabad. He was fighting his way through the streets, when a bullet-wound in the leg laid him prostrate; one of his assailants rushed upon him and laid open his skull with a cut of his sabre. “I put up my hand to my head,” said James, “to feel what was the matter; it so happened that I had just been takin’ a pinch and forgot to put up my mull. Aweel, you see, I was so startled at the size of the hole in my head that I lost hold of my sneeshin’-mull, and it dropped inside my skull. Up came the doctor, and, without thinking of the mull, he clapped the skull together and trepanned it; the wound soon healed, but sometimes I feel a little queer in the head.” No wonder that he did, considering that he believed that there was a ram’s-horn in the place where his brains should have been. The delusion had originated from a sunstroke which he received in India, and which would have killed any other man than Hyderabad. It is worthy of remark that, though he was universally known as Hyderabad, few ever ventured to address him by that sobriquet; it was dangerous to take liberties with one whose pikestaff was ever ready to punish any impertinence. We can only recal one occasion when James was thus addressed. He was walking with stately gait through a country fair, when a young urchin, set on by his older companions, walked up to him, and said in his most winning way, “How d’ye do, Old Hyderabad?” Had the earth yawned beneath James’s feet he could not have looked more surprised than he did on hearing these ominous words; here was an urchin who barely reached his knee addressing him familiarly by that name which the boldest never ventured to mention in his presence. It was like a mouse insulting a lion, but what could he do? He was too tender-hearted to touch a child, but such liberties must be repressed, so he flourished his pikestaff in the air and gave a yell such as a savage gives when he despatches his foe. Years have elapsed since James uttered that yell; his voice is now among the voices of the night; but it is still ringing in the ears of him who evoked it, and who fled in terror from the redoubtable presence, and equally redoubtable pikestaff, of Old Hyderabad.

Nor have we forgotten Old Corunna, the one-eyed veteran, who fought with Abercrombie in Egypt, and helped to lay the green turf on the grave of Sir John Moore in Spain. Many were the stories he used to recount of that disastrous retreat, of that fatal embarkation. We have seen his one eye dimmed with a tear as he spoke of Moore, that gallant leader who was dear to his men amid all their sufferings; we have seen it lighted up with genuine humour as he told of wealthy officers marching at the head of their men without shoes or stockings, and the latter whispering to one another, “There goes ten thousand a year.” Unlike Hyderabad, Corunna was of small stature, but wiry as a terrier, retaining his vigour to the last, and ready to meet all comers. The fame of one of his encounters still lives in his native parish, and has long survived him. At the period when he flourished, it was not unusual for professional prizefighters to visit country fairs and to challenge the rustics to a friendly combat. If the challenge was not accepted, they claimed, and usually received, a certain sum of money; if they fought and failed to win, the money belonged to the victor. It so happened that Corunna was refreshing himself in a booth or tent at one of these country fairs when a noted pugilist appeared and gave the usual challenge. No one seemed disposed to take it up, till Old Corunna, over-brimming with whisky and valour, rushed from the tent, divested himself of his great-coat, and went at the bully with such thorough good will and masterly science that victory soon declared in his favour. That was, perhaps, the proudest day in poor Corunna’s existence. During the fight a thief had stolen his great-coat, but this loss was very soon made up, and Corunna remained to his death the champion of the parish. He has several sons now serving in the British army.