We will drive over to that eminence there and look at the squares of ruins, and notice the fragments of columns which remain. Turn your head round, and look at those sentinel chimneys standing so erect, and so regularly in line. Ah, that is where the old barrack stood, and those chimneys, no doubt, heard many a well-told tale of the bivouac and the battle-field. Could they but speak to-night, what reminiscence would they relate of Lucknow and Cawnpore, of the Heights of Alma, and bloody plain of Inkerman. What stories would they tell you of the gallant fellows who on bleak winter nights gathered round their base, and chatted and talked of battles fought and won, and the great deeds of bravery they had seen. These high chimneys have many bits of history locked within them which the world shall never know. They stood there when the city was almost as bare of houses as it is now. They have seen the busy workman, and heard the sound of his axe and saw; they have seen the city grow more and more strong and beautiful; they have watched its growth from a mere hamlet to a metropolis; they have witnessed the erection of noble structures on sites where trees and bushes flourished before; they have seen St. John on the morning of the 20th June prosperous, enterprising, and full of energy and life; and they have seen her again before the sun went down, stricken to the earth, with her buildings in ruins, and the work of almost a hundred years in ashes. The old sentries keep guard to-night, blackened and bared.