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drilled for ninety days, than eighty
thousand who had been drilled for
fifty; but that does not solve the
question. The point is not which is
most serviceable in the field and for
the duties of a campaign, but, which
is most likely to render the whole
regular force in the country available
against the enemy. The larger num-
ber is indispensable for this. Eighty
thousand men would be little enough
to garrison the fortresses, keep quiet
the manufacturing towns, guard the
railway posts, keep up the communi-
cations, and restrain rebellion in Ire-
land. If, by discharging those vari-
ous most important duties, they could
enable nearly the whole of our regular
force to be advanced to the front to
meet the enemy, the country might be
saved, even if sixty or seventy thou-
sand invaders were landed on our
shores. But as, at least, the whole of
the eighty thousand would be required
in such an event, for the duties of the
fortresses or interior, any lesser force,
though better disciplined, would com-
pel the deduction of a large part of
the regular army, and therefore more
than neutralise all the service it could
render. Every military man, every
man even moderately acquainted with
military affairs, knows that if forty
thousand regular troops are to be
assembled to meet the enemy in the
field, in defence of a country, at least
double that number must be stationed
in garrisons or left behind to guard
depôts, protect convoys, and keep up
communications. Napoleon invaded
Russia with five hundred thousand
men, but he never had more than a
hundred and thirty thousand men in
any one field; and out of two hun-
dred and forty thousand effective men
who composed the military force of
Louis XIV., he never was able to
draw together above eighty thousand
in the field to make head against the
armies of Eugene and Marlborough,
who, on their side, were equally weak-
ened by the necessary garrisoning of
fortresses and detachments to their

rear.

We cannot conclude without quoting the following admirable and just observations from a most able and experienced military officer, whose father taught British seamen the breaking of the line in Rodney's

battle in 1784, and who himself has done so much to instruct his country and all Europe in gunnery.

"What has been said above," says Sir Howard Douglas, "relates only to the protection afforded by the naval forces of Great Britain; to which alone, and irrespective of the internal defence and security of the empire, the present work has been confined. The author is, however, fully aware that it would be unsafe to rely solely on either the naval or the military resources of the country for the preservation of her independence, in the event of her being threatened with foreign invasion, and that it can only be by means of both that we can, in all times and under all circumstances, maintain our position as a first-rate European power.

"It would be out of place, in a work relating essentially to gunnery, to enter at large on the consideration of the insufficiency of the military force of the nation, and the want of fortified positions, by which the progress of an invading army might be arrested, or even retarded. This may be a matter for future discussion. But the author is induced to touch incidentally upon this important subject by the perusal of a remarkable pamphlet which has just appeared, entitled 'De la Défense Nationale en Angleterre,' by Baron Maurice (Paris, 1851 ;) in which that writer (an officer of Engineers in the service of the Swiss Confederation,) after making an enumeration of the naval and military strength of Great Britain, and comparing the artillery of this country with that of France (pp. 58-60,) estimates briefly the chances of success for France in an invasion of England, (p. 68, &c.,) and gives a project for putting the invasion in execution ;-disclaiming at the same time any intention of predicting a fatal issue for this country, for which he professes the highest esteem.

"Describing the fundamental principles on which the defence of a country depends, M. Maurice states, (page 115, &c.,) that if the country attacked be like France or England, one whose existence depends on the security of its capital, it is important that this metropolis should be protected at least from a coup-de-main after the loss of a battle; and he repeats the following observations by Napoleon in vol. ix. of his Memoirs :'-'If, in 1805, Vienna had been fortified, the battle of Ulm would not have decided the issue of the war; the corps commanded by Kutusoff would, at Vienna, have waited for the other corps of the Russian army, which were then at Olmutz, and for the army of Prince Charles, which was advancing out of Italy.

If Berlin had been fortified in 1806, the army, which was defeated at Jena, would have rallied there, and the Russian army would have joined it. If, in 1808, Madrid had been a fortified place, the French army, after the victories of Espinosa, Tudela, Burgos, and Sommosierra, would not have marched upon that capital, leaving in its rear Salamanca and Valladolid, the English army of Sir John Moore, and the Spanish army of Romana: and these Anglo-Spanish armies might, under the fortifications of Madrid, have united themselves to the armies of Aragon and Valencia;'-and the author might have added what had been the fate of Lisbon as well as Madrid, and what, consequently, the issue of that righteous and retributive war in the Peninsula, which Great Britain undertook for the independence of the nations in that_part of the world, had not the Great Duke ordered the construction of the lines of Torres Vedras. Lastly, if Paris, in 1814 and 1815, had been fortified, so as to have been capable of holding out but one week, what an influence would it not have had on the destiny of Europe! And what is now the state of the French metropolis in that respect?

"In conclusion, M. Maurice tells the world that England has reason to place confidence in her good fortune, and in the maritime supremacy which a long struggle has given her; but that it would be wise in her to consider that she is not invulnerable. Steam-navigation, railroads, and the electrical telegraph, he continues, have powerfully increased her defensive resources; but at the same time they increase the means of attacking her, and prepare the way that leads to her shores. England, trusting to the prospect of a long peace, has enormously extended her commercial enterprises; but thirty-five years of peace have passed, and if a war should suddenly break out, is she prepared to meet it? Such, he adds, is the thought which has presented itself to the minds of some of the most eminent men of Great Britain."—(P. 138.)

It is often asked in Parliament, how it happens that, with the large sums annually voted in Parliament for the army, we have so few efficient men to produce; and how does it happen that, while a French soldier costs £38 per annum, an English one costs, taking everything into view, £82? We answer in one word, because we are twice as rich as they, and therefore money will only go half as far. Long ages of peace and pro

sperity-the last interrupted only within these few years-have inured the English to so much comfort, and such good living, that no one could be got to enter the army who was put on the Continental pay and fare. A Cossack gets 8s. 6d. a-year of pay, out of which he is obliged to furnish himself with white-starched neckcloths. A French soldier's pay is under 5d. a-day, and, after deducting what is stopped off for rations, &c., he has somewhat about d. a-day to enjoy himself! What a temptation to such brave disciplined starving men, London with its £20,000,000 in the bank in solid gold! When Free Trade has made us as poor as the French, and money, in consequence, goes as far, we shall be able to raise our armies as cheaply, because our people will be reduced like them to the lowest point consistent with existence; but we cannot hope for a similar reduction till it has worked that melancholy change upon our people.

Let it not be supposed that there is any danger, in stating the facts we have now brought forward in regard to our unprepared state, of making the French acquainted with them. They know them perfectly already, as well as any of our officers at the Horse Guards or Ordnance Office. There is not a gun mounted, nor a battery traced out, nor a ditch cleared, nor a glacis levelled at Portsmouth, Plymouth, or Sheerness, that information is not immediately forwarded to Paris by French officers or agents on the spot. The only people who are ignorant of, or rather, though aware, insensible to them, are Mr Cobden and the Manchester school of politicians. They are so infatuated with the belief of universal peace that nothing will open their eyes till London is taken, or Plymouth in flames. Our real danger is not in Paris, but in Manchester; it is not the strength of our neighbours, but our delusive idea of security, which is our real danger. The nation has within itself ample means of averting all danger, if it would only make use of them; if it is ruined, it will not be from its want of strength, but from its want of foresight.

To conclude, let the people of England reflect, and reflect deeply, ou

this consideration. If Lord Derby's Administration is driven from the helm by the results of the next election, this country may see what awaits them. A more vital interest than that of Free Trade, a more terrible fate than the re-establishment of Romanism, is involved in the issue of the contest. It will not be the Whigs and Lord John Russell who will in that event be called to the helm. The family clique of the Russells and the Mintos is worn out. Their journals tells us what must be done. The new administration must be framed on an extended basis, and we know where the extension is to be sought. The Chesham Place meeting has prefigured it in the clearest colours. It is Mr Cobden, Mr Bright, and the Manchester school, who are to be taken into the Cabinet, and we know what their principles are they have told us themselves repeatedly. They are to sell our ships of the line, disband our troops, cut off twelve millions of taxes, and trust in Europe to the tender mercies of the French, as we

have done in Asia to the tender mercies of the Sikhs, in Africa to the tender mercies of the Caffres. Undeterred by the calamitous result of the principles of the Peace Congress in these two quarters of the globe, and which the resolution of our chiefs and heroism of our soldiers alone prevented from involving our Colonial Empire in ruin, they are prepared to pursue the same system in Europe in presence of Louis Napoleon, the recollection of Waterloo, and five hundred thousand men. Like all fanatics, whether in religion of politics, they are inaccessible to reason, and deaf to all arguments drawn from facts, how clear and convincing soever. Be it so. We have done our duty in unfolding the stake at issue in the next election, and the irreparable ruin which will threaten, and probably overtake the nation, if, from a passion for Free Trade, it loses all the wealth which that system is said to have created. Let it take its decision; but it cannot say it has done so unwarned or uninstructed as to the dangers which threaten it.

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"En Lady Anne! The like of you yammering morning and night about wee Katie at the mill. What's John Stewart? Naething but a common man, and you the Earl's dochter. I wonder ye dinna think shame." "Whisht, Nelly," said the little Lady Anne.

"I'll no whisht. Didna Bauby Rodger speak for me to Lady Betty hersel to make me bairn's-maid; and am I to give you your ain gate now that I've gotten the place? I'll do no such thing; and ye shanna demean yoursel as lang as I can help it. I've been in as grand houses as Kellie Castle. I've had wee ladies and wee gentlemen to keep before now; and there's plenty o' them, no that far off, to haud ye in company: what would ye do wi' Katie Stewart?"

"I dinna like them; and eh, Nelly, she's bonnie!" answered little Anne Erskine.

"She's bonnie! Lady Anne, ye're enough to gar onybody think shame. What's ony lady's business wi' folk being bonnie?-no to say that it's a' in your ain een, and she's just like

ither folk."

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The despotic Nelly was mollified. "It's a' wi' guid wholesome diet, and rising in the morning. Ye ken yoursel how I have to fleech ye wi' cream before ye'll take your parritch; and cream's no guid for the like of you. If ye were brought up like common folk's bairns, ye would have as rosy cheeks as Katie Stewart."

The little Lady Anne bent down by the burnside, to look at her own pale face in the clear narrow stream. "I'll never be like Katie," said Anne Erskine with a sigh; "and Janet's no like Isabell Stewart: we're no so bonnie as them. Bring Katie up to the castle, Nelly; there's John Stew

art at the mill door-ask him to let Katie up."

"But what will Lady Betty say?" asked the nurse.

"Betty said I might get her if I liked. She'll no be angry. See, Nelly, John Stewart's standing at the door."

With reluctance the nurse obeyed; and, leaving Lady Anne on the burnside, advanced to John Stewart.

The mill lay at the opening of a little uncultivated primitive-looking valley, through which the burn wound in many a silvery link, between banks of bare grass, browned here and there with the full sunshine, which fell over it all the summer through, unshaded by a single tree. There was little of the beautiful in this view of Kellie Mill. A grey thatched house, placed on a little eminence, down the side of which descended the garden-a very unpretending garden, in which a few bushes of southernwood, and one or two great old rose-trees, were the only ornamental features-was the miller's dwelling; and just beyond was the mill itself, interposing its droning musical wheel and little rush of water between the two buildings : while farther on, the bare grassy slopes, among which the burn lost itself, shut out the prospect-very rural, very still, giving you an idea of something remote and isolated— "the world forgetting, by the world forgot"—but with scarcely any beauty except what was in the clear skies over it, and the clear running water which mirrored the skies.

And on the burnside sits the little Lady Anne Erskine, the Earl of Kellie's youngest daughter. She says well that she will never be pretty; but you like the quiet little face, though its features are small and insignificant, and its expression does not at all strike you, further than to kindness for the gentle owner, as she sits under the hot September sun, with her feet almost touching the water, pulling handfuls of grass, and

looking wistfully towards the mill. A dress of some fine woollen stuff, shapeless and ungraceful, distinguishes her rank only very slightly; for the time is 1735, when fashions travel slowly, and the household of Kellie practises economy. Like the scene is the little lady; without much of even the natural beauty of childhood, but with a clear, soft, unclouded face, contented and gentle, thinking of everything but herself.

Turn round the paling of the garden to the other side of this grey house, and the scene is changed. For the background you have a thick clump of wood, already brilliant in its autumn tints. Immediately striking your eye is a gorgeous horsechestnut, embosomed among greener foliage-a bit of colour for an artist to study. The trees grow on an abrupt green mound, one of the slopes of the little glen-the only one so becomingly sheltered; and from its steep elevation a little silvery stream of water falls down, with a continual tinkling, to the small pebbly bed below. Between this minstrel and the house spreads a 66 green" of soft thick grass, with poppies gleaming in the long fringes of its margin, and blueeyed forget-me-nots looking up from the sod. One step up from the green, on the steep ascent, which has been cut into primitive steps, brings you on a level with the milldam, and its bordering willows; and beyond shows you a wider horizon, bounded by the green swelling summit of Kellie Law, the presiding hill of the district, from which a range of low hills extends westward, until they conclude in the steep wooded front of Balcarras Craig, striking a bold perpendicular line across the sky. Rich fields and scattered farm-houses lie between you and the hills, and some of the fields are populous with merry companies of "shearers," whose voices, softened by the distance, touch the ear pleasantly now and then. These lands were well cultivated and productive even at that time; and on this side of Kellie Mill, you could believe you were within the fertile bounds of the kingdom of Fife.

And the little figures on the green contrast strikingly with the young watcher without. Foremost, seated

in the deep soft grass, which presses round her on every side, with its long, bending, clastic blades, sits a child of some eight years, with the soft cherub face which one sometimes sees in rural places, delicately tinted, beautifully formed. Round the little clear forehead clusters hair paler than gold, not in curls, but in soft circlets, like rings. Just a little darker as yet are the long eyelashes and finely marked brows; and the eyes are sunny blue, running over with light, so that they dazzle you. It is considerably browned, the little face, with the sun of this whole summer, and, with perhaps just a shade too much of rosy colour, has a slightly petulant, wilful expression; but when you look at Katie Stewart, you can understand the admiration of Lady Anne.

Only a little taller is that staid sister Isabell, who sits knitting a great blue woollen stocking by Katie's side. Isabell is twelve, and her hair has grown a little darker, and she herself looks womanly, as she sits and knits with painful industry, counting the loops as she turns the heel, and pausing now and then to calculate how much she has to do before she may escape from her task. The stocking is for her father: he has an immense heel, Isabell thinks secretly, as she almost wishes that some such process as that severe one adopted by the sisters of Cinderella, could be put in operation with honest John Stewart. But yonder he stands, good man, his ruddy face whitened over, and his fourteen stone of comfortable substance fully needing all the foundation it has to stand upon: so Isabell returns to her knitting with such energy that the sound of her "wires" is audible at the mill-door, and John Stewart, turning round, looks proudly at his bairns.

Janet stands on the threshold of the house, peeping out; and Janet by no means looks so well as her sisters. She has a heavier, darker face, a thick, ungainly figure, and looks anything but good-humoured. They are all dressed in a very primitive style, in home-made linen, with broad blue and white stripes; and their frocks are made in much the same form as the modern pinafore. But simple as its material is, Janet has the skirt of

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