A frightful spectacle was that hill-side of the Alma, on the evening of the renowned 20th of September, 1854. England’s best and bravest lay dead, their pale faces lit by the setting sun: some retained the expression of that intense energy which bore them fearlessly to the mouths of the Russian guns; some, with faces calm and beautiful as an infant’s, seemed peacefully sleeping, and smiling as they slept: others, with limbs contracted, and features frightfully distorted, bore witness to the fierce agonies of the death-struggle. Russian and English and French lay commingled, as they fell in the deadly struggle; and among the heaps of corpses, many in whom the spark of life yet lingered, lay miserably groaning, or faintly crawled with shattered limbs, in search of help. Some of the bodies were headless, the brains scattered around the bloody trunk: and others were so frightfully mutilated that it was difficult to recognize any trace of humanity. While some of our men helped to bear the wounded from the field, and bury the corpses of the slain, others hovered about, and plundered the dead of clothes, arms and such matters as could be carried away; the sailors especially were active in securing trophies of war. Russian orders and crosses, Russian arms, and even the black bread from the soldiers’ knapsacks, were eagerly sought; the boots were real prizes, and the seamen, who would heartily lend a hand to succour a wounded comrade, or even a foe, had no delicacy in appropriating the clothing of the dead. An expeditious mode of measurement, by which they secured the articles which would best fit, caused some amusement, even at such a time. Jack, seating himself at the feet of a dead Russian, placed the sole of his foot against that of the corpse; if they agreed in size, the boots were at once appropriated; if otherwise, the critical mariner proceeded to another selection. For two days the armies remained upon the field; had they marched at once, it is more than probable, nay, almost certain, they might have entered Sebastopol with but little resistance. Marshal St. Arnaud wished to make an immediate advance; but Lord Raglan refused to leave his wounded untended on the field. Though possibly we ultimately lost by this delay, we can scarcely blame a general who showed such a fine humanity even among the horrors of warfare. Our English courage is of the old chivalric sort--we fight as men, for great principles, not for the lust of conquest: our soldiers are every one a treasure of immense value, rightly used, not to be cast away to perish when their first use is passed. Human life is to Englishmen intensely sacred: we cheerfully lay it down when demanded, and in proportion do we honour and cherish those who have perilled it in our cause. A single life wilfully sacrificed for a mere strategical advantage would have been a stain on our English honour, which we should not speedily have forgiven.