The British soldier must have credit, over all others, for steady unflinching courage and cool discipline in standing still under the raking fire of an enemy, until his commander sees a proper opportunity to give the order to advance; but on these occasions the faces of the bravest often change colour, and the limbs of the most resolute tremble, as the fatal thud of the enemy's bullets is heard and seen to take effect upon some respected comrade or favourite officer. Those who have not experienced this peculiar feeling can form but little idea of the effects which it produces on the mind of a soldier at such a time. On such occasions no conversation is supposed to be going on, but now and then a stifled whisper expressing an anxious desire to hear the welcome sound of the trumpet to "advance" is heard. Every minute seems an hour, as bullet after bullet whistles through the ranks, and the round shot, first ploughing up the ground or scattering the dust in front of the brigade, comes crashing amongst the men and horses. Sometimes a huge shell is seen "whizzing" through the air, and hovering for an instant ere it explodes and deals death and destruction in every direction. This appears like cool, unexcited courage, and no troops in the world have ever displayed it with less flinching than the British. But it would be absurd to say that it is done with out fear of death. It is hard to stand still or sit still on your horses and be shot at, with a consciousness that every second of time may be your last, and the next you may be in eternity. But when once the order is given to "advance"-- first at a "walk," then a rapid trot, then a fast canter, and finally, amidst the clash of the sabre-scabbards on the stirrup-irons, and the rumbling roll of the horses' hoofs, the shrill voice of the commander is heard as he turns his head to the trumpeter and shrieks out the order "charge," and the latter turns in his saddle and sounds the blast which calls many a good soldier to his last account--instantly the horses stretch out their necks, lay back their ears, and dash into a gallop at full speed; each man clenches his teeth, drops the hilt of his sabre on his right thigh, firmly clutched in his hand, and leaning forward in his stirrups, he is rapidly borne to the ranks of the enemy. Sometimes he has to encounter, as at Balaclava, a field-battery, bellowing and belching forth fire and smoke, first seen, then terribly realised as the men and horses that happen to be riding in the line of fire tumble heels over head in a quivering mass of mangled flesh, blood, and ghastly splinters of bone--seen but for one instant, when seen at all, but long enough to make you remember it for ever; and it renders you temporarily insane with excitement for the time being: your only desire is to kill. On, on, you ride, amidst the fire and the smoke, the blood and the thunder, until you meet the foe hand to hand: a streak of fire flashes