and intrepid advance; and thus it is that our loss is comparatively small, though I deeply regret to say severe. The enemy fought with much resolution; they maintained frequent rencounters with our cavalry hand to hand. In one charge of infantry upon her Majesty's 16th lancers, they threw away their muskets, and came on with their swords and targets against the lance."[20] "There was no dust, the sun shone brightly." Unquestionably, not a particle of dust, and all bright sunshine, from the first paragraph to the last of this unrivalled production. It is a diorama and a panorama of the battle. Truly, oh reader! "Duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,-- Would'st thou not stir in this!" In the luminous rays of such a description, we are made eye-witnesses of the stirring dashing scene in all its circumstantial variety and general grandeur. What a sight it is, that steady advance with his "troops well in hand!" But for a peculiar flashing of the eyes, and sternness in the features, of the men, we should have fancied them in the Home Park at Windsor, encircled, not by ferocious Sikhs in the horrid harness of war, but by the graceful array of gentler--though, in sooth, more irresistible--foes. Sir Harry Smith has disappeared--very likely hidden himself behind a baggage waggon or a huge drum. Sapient speculator! behold him yonder on the house-top, darting his eagle vision down into the centre of the distant enemy, and unmasking and anticipating their movements with unerring foresight. Many serious things his vigilance must watch; but, without distracting his attention, the "glistening of the bayonets and swords of his order of battle," fills his heart with boyish glee. The fierce cannonade from the whole hostile line has begun, and, although the balls fall short at first, quickly reaches us. Under this murderous shower, he _halts his line_ for a minute's pregnant reflection, as an elderly gentleman, playing golf on a rainy day, takes his spectacles from his nose, and wipes the water-drops away, before venturing the decisive stroke of the game. Nothing escapes him; every thing is done in the nick of time. Infantry, cavalry, and artillery, charge to the right or the left, or straight before them, dash through the enemy's front, or scour the flanks, or sweep the rear, perambulate squares, and perforate encampments, just as if the serried ranks of the Sikhs had been unsubstantial creatures of the imagination, or mist-wreaths from the "wet nullah," which a lively fancy had invested with human form and warlike panoply. But one hundred and fifty-one gallant men killed, and four hundred and thirteen wounded, sufficiently proved that "one of the most glorious victories ever achieved in India," had not been won in a combat with phantoms.