In the account of the Storming of San Sebastian, which occupies this and part of the next Canto, I follow chiefly Napier’s _History_, book xxii. chap. 2. The part which I assign to Nial in leading the false assault on the night of the 29th of August was in reality undertaken and bravely executed by Lieutenant Mc Adam of the 9th regiment. As stated in my text, the leader was the only one of the entire party that returned alive! The storming took place on the morning of the 31st August, 1813. The leader, Lieutenant Maguire of the 4th regiment (whose name I have restored to its antique Celto-Irish form, “Mac Iar”) was struck down precisely as described in my text. (See Napier.) The following account is from Gleig’s _Subaltern_:-- “The forlorn hope took its station at the mouth of the most advanced trench about half-past ten o’clock. The tide, which had long turned, was now fast ebbing, and these gallant fellows beheld its departure with a degree of feverish anxiety such as he only can imagine who has stood in a similar situation. This was the first time that a town was stormed by daylight since the commencement of the war, and the storming party were enabled distinctly to perceive the preparations which were making for their reception: there was, therefore, something not only interesting but novel in beholding the muzzles of the enemy’s cannon from the castle and other batteries turned in such a direction as to flank the breaches, whilst the glancing of bayonets and the occasional rise of caps and feathers gave notice of the line of infantry which was forming underneath the parapet. There an officer from time to time could be distinguished leaning his telescope over the top of the rampart or through the opening of an embrasure, and prying with deep attention into our arrangements. Nor were our own officers, particularly those of the engineers, idle. With the greatest coolness they exposed themselves to a dropping fire of musketry, which the enemy at intervals kept up, whilst they examined and re-examined the state of the breaches. It would be difficult to convey to the mind of an ordinary reader anything like a correct notion of the state of feeling which takes possession of a man waiting for the commencement of a battle. In the first place, time appears to move upon leaden wings, every minute seems an hour, and every hour a day. Then there is a strange commingling of levity and seriousness within him, a levity which prompts him to laugh he scarce knows why, and a seriousness which urges him ever and anon to lift up a mental prayer to the Throne of Grace. On such occasions little or no conversation passes. The privates generally lean upon their firelocks, and the officers upon their swords, and few words except monosyllables, at least in answer to questions put, are wasted. On these occasions, too, the faces of the bravest often change colour, and the limbs of the most resolute tremble,