No. 27 is a very clever drawing by Leech--they are all clever of course, but this seems specially good. The youth [on Westminster Bridge--time, two on a foggy morning] white with fear walks on perfectly straight without taking any notice of the rough who asks: "Did you want to buy a good razor?"--but he _is_ taking a lot of notice though. The youth walks exactly like one does walk when a beggar pesters as he slouches alongside just behind one, but here the frightened youth has good cause indeed for the shaking fear that Leech has by some magic put into these strokes of his pencil. The "Reduced Tradesman" too is exactly good--but let the picture speak for itself, it wants no words of mine. [Illustration: 30.--OUT OF THE RAIN. 1854.] There is an amusing "Russian" account, in No. 28, of our troubles at home during the Crimean War; and No. 29 shows a street-Arab asking the Queen's coachman, "I say, Coachy, are you engaged?" [Illustration: 31.--BY LEECH, 1854.] Glancing at Nos. 30 and 31, we see in No. 32 Leech's picture of the heroic charge at the Battle of Balaclava, on October 25, 1854, with Lord Cardigan leading his famous Light Brigade of Cavalry. Here are Mr. Punch's lines on this gallant charge, which was subsequently immortalized by Tennyson in his "Charge of the Light Brigade":-- THE BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA. [_Nine verses, on the battle generally, precede the lines below, which refer to the charge of the Light Brigade, illustrated by Leech, in No. 32.--J. H. S._] But who is there, with patient tongue the sorry tale to tell, How our Light Brigade, true martyrs to the point of honour, fell! "'Twas sublime, but 'twas not warfare," that charge of woe and wrack, That led six hundred to the guns, and brought two hundred back! Enough! the order came to charge, and charge they did--like men: While shot and shell and rifle-ball played on them down the glen. Though thirty guns were ranged in front, not one drew bated breath, Unfaltering, unquestioning, they rode upon their death! Nor by five times their number of all arms could they be stayed; And with two lives for one of ours, e'en then, the Russians paid; Till torn with shot and rent with shell, a spent and bleeding few,-- Life was against those fearful odds,--from the grapple they withdrew. But still like wounded lions, their faces to the foe, More conquerors than conquered, they fell back stern and slow; With dinted arms and weary steeds--all bruised and soiled and worn-- Is this the wreck of all that rode so bravely out this morn? Where thirty answered muster at dawn now answer ten, Oh, woe's me for such officers!--Oh, woe's me for such men! Whose was the blame? Name not his name, but rather seek to hide. If he live, leave him to conscience--to God, if he have died: But you, true band of heroes, you have done your duty well: Your country asks not, to what end; it knows but how you fell!