September passed slowly away without bringing the expected aid. The enemy changed their tactics, and tried to reduce the garrison by hunger. Our countrymen, no longer roused to exertion by the fierce excitement of fighting, sank into a sort of stupor, and bewailed the dull monotony of their existence, which was occasionally relieved by the bands of the mutineers playing familiar airs, and more especially the National Anthem. Meanwhile Havelock, with his gallant little force, was fast advancing to their help. The Highlanders were on the march to Lucknow, though the shrill music of the war-pipe was not yet heard within its walls. Our readers are all, doubtless, familiar with the story of Jessie Brown, the Scottish servant-maid, whose watchful ear drank in the slogan and pibroch of her advancing countrymen when others could hear nothing. It is always an invidious task to dispel a pleasing illusion, but a sacred regard for truth compels us to state that Jessie is a purely mythical being—a creature of the imagination as much as Mrs. Harris. The story of Jessie is one of those _canards_ with which French journals delight to entertain their readers; it first appeared in the _Pays_, was dramatised and introduced on the stage, and Jessie’s paternity, we understand, has been the subject of litigation. Notwithstanding our protests, she will doubtless live in the future history of Lucknow till a second myth-destroying Niebuhr appear to vindicate the truth. On the afternoon of the 25th of September the garrison could hear, not the sound of the bagpipe, but the boom of Havelock’s artillery, and all who could walk hurried to the roofs of the houses and strained their eyes to catch the first glimpse of their countrymen. On they came, a small but resolute body, driving the enemy before them at the point of the bayonet, and pressing them into the river, where many of them perished. Little resistance was offered till the advance column began to force their way through the Red Gate, where the enemy opened a murderous fire of small arms upon them. There was no time to pick up the wounded or rescue the bodies of the slain. A rush was made, and Havelock’s band was within the walls. The enthusiasm of the garrison knew no bounds: they cheered, they waved their hats, they wept with irrepressible joy, they embraced and implored blessings upon their deliverers. Poor Kavanagh, with true Milesian hospitality, offered his last three bottles of liquor to the exhausted soldiers, who required no pressing to induce them to empty them.