fame of the defeated French Imperial Guards. Here were the Dublin Fusileers--the “Green Linnets,” the “Die Hards”--the East Surries--the West Yorks--and Devons, who had been part of that indiscriminate blunder and glory--the Boer War. And now the infantry, in closing ranks, unrolled the endless phalanxes. Where regiments, as entire units, were absent, companies took their places, and English cheers saluted the swinging standards. The Thirty-fifth, which took the Royal Roussillon French Grenadiers at the Battle of Quebec--the Thirty-fourth, which impregnably covered the retreat from Fontenoy--the Thirty-ninth, which defended Gibraltar in 1780, and captured the insurgents’ guns and standards at Maharajpore, in 1843, along with the Fortieth--the Forty-second, with the red heckle in its bonnets, to commemorate its capture of the French standards of the “Invincible Legion,” in 1801, as well as for its distinguished ardor in the Battle of Guildermalsen, in 1795, and the “Little Fighting Toms” stirred the crowds, and even to those who regarded the pageant with glances of bitterness, as the hollow mask of a cruel abdication, even to their glassy stare, this epic review brought a momentary gleam of gratitude and pride. Here was the Forty-sixth, whose colonel, with the English nonchalence which always wins so enduring a regard with Englishmen, in spite of a kind of artifice of mere stubbornness in it, preached a sermon to his men, under a heavy fire, about the Lacedemonians and their discipline--and which, at least to an American, awoke only hateful memories--and here the Fiftieth, “The Blind Half Hundred,” who fought with damaged eyes in Egypt, and who shone resplendent with courage and gallant sacrifice at Vimiera--Ah! and here was the Fifty-seventh--“the Die Hards”--which had thirty bullets through the King’s colors, and only one officer out of twenty-four, and one hundred and sixty-eight men out of five hundred and eighty-four left standing at Albuera. The people shouted and stormed, an avalanche of flags suddenly sprang up over the walled street, and at points showers of flowers and bags of fruit descended in a tornado of delight. Surely, if Englishmen had such blood in them, the nation would yet live.