scarcely passed an interval of five minutes between the arrival of one unfortunate fellow or another, who had been wounded in the sortie; and three surgeons were employed constantly from twelve o'clock until five in dressing their wounds. Brave fellows! had those who at home are inclined to look contemptuously on the soldier—had they but passed _that_ night in _that_ church, how differently would they feel towards the men whose sufferings so well entitle them to sympathy! In the morning the hospital was crowded with the wounded; the whole of the floor—pews, and all, filled with groaning sufferers, principally shot in the legs, and not a single bayonet-wound amongst them; which showed that in the contest the enemy kept at full musket's length from them, _except when they could not help it_; and no doubt _their_ hospital proved on the same morning that they pretty often were _obliged_ to be within a shorter distance of the British soldiers. It was twelve o'clock next day before proper quarters could be procured for my wounded friend; and about an hour before we removed him from the hospital, Lord Paget, Captain Paget of “the Revenge,” and Captain Richardson of “the Cæsar,” came in to visit the wounded. My friend was lying upon one side, apparently asleep, after having taken a cup of tea. These officers made the kindest inquiries after, not only him, but every man who seemed to be severely wounded. Next to my poor friend lay a man who had been shot through the body two days before; he was sitting up, or rather propped up by pads or pillows, and suffered, to all appearances, excessively from difficulty of breathing,—I suppose from being shot through the lungs. Captain Richardson recognized him as a man who came to Walcheren on board of his own ship, and spoke to him in the most tender-hearted manner. “Poor fellow!” said the Captain, “he has a wife and five small children, God help him!” and the manly weather-beaten cheek of the sailor felt the purest tear upon it that sensibility ever shed. He strove to restrain his feelings, and turned aside. The poor wounded soldier wept loudly as he cried “God bless your honour!” and those who were present joined in his feelings. Captain Richardson was, from appearance, the last man in the world, I should have thought, to have been capable of the “melting mood,” for he was a brawny stern son of the sea; however, the feeling heart was there; and never did it appear more evidently than in the behaviour of that rough sailor. I am convinced that the last moments of the poor soldier (who very soon after died) were softened by his tenderness. Lord Paget and his brother did honour to their feelings also, in the kindness and solicitude they manifested for the sad sufferers; indeed, his Lordship (I understood from one of the surgeons after the siege was over) visited the hospital several times a-day, divested of all the “pomp and circumstance” of his rank, and used to go from bed to