hear their thunders repeated in deafening echoes by all the neighbouring hills.

From time to time as the veil of smoke is cleared away, I see before me on the opposite side, rising by a gentle ascent, two sister hills, clothed in green luxuriance of the first flush of vegetation, excepting where their summits are broken by the low and hasty works of the Americans. Behind these scanty defences methinks I see our gallant fathers swarming to the rescue of freedom and the country. Their homely apparel has but little to attract the eye, but now and then, when some favourite officer makes his appearance, a shout of gratulation passes along their lines and proves the ardour that inspires them for their cause.

3

2

Below the hill the flourishing town extends its white dwellings interspersed with trees and gardens along the shore, and farther to the right the British forces spread forth their long and brilliant array. There grimvisaged War clothes his iron front with all his bravest pomp and pageantry. The "meteor flag" of England flames in the van: at the head of every regiment its gilded banner floats in dazzling beauty on the breeze. The splendid dresses charm the eye: the martial music bursts inspiringly upon the ear, while the brazen artillery and burnished armour almost mock, as they reflect his beams, the summer sun that shines above.

To complete the picture, the hills of Chelsea, Charlestown, and Cambridge rise in the background forming a vast natural amphitheatre, their summits crowded by the whole population of the neighbourhood, men, women, and children, who are also clustering like bees upon the house-tops and steeples of Boston and Charlestown. In the meantime the harbour sleeps without, in tranquil beauty, reflecting like a mirror,

from its polished surface, the emerald isles that gem its bosom and the ships that are lying at the wharves; while a clear, unclouded sky spreads its blue canopy above the whole, as if the elements of nature were purposely contrasting their most magnificent forms of silence and repose with the agonizing effort and noisy bustle of the hostile movements of men.

Splendid panorama! How soon to be defiled with stains of dust and blood! Fearful, ominous silence! How soon to be broken by shouts of rage and groans of agony! How soon these peaceful, happy homes shall be wrapt in flames! How many of those hearts, which are now almost bursting with the swollen tides of passion, shall in two short hours be cold for ever!

It is now three o'clock. The signal is given by a general discharge of the field-pieces for the movement of the British army. Their columns proceed slowly, to give the artillery time to take effect. The American drums beat to arms. Putnam, who is at work on Bunker Hill, quits his entrenchment and leads his men into action. I hear him addressing them.

"Powder is scarce and must not be wasted: reserve your fire till you see the whites of their eyes; then take aim at the officers."

The order is repeated along the whole line. The British are now within gunshot of the works. A few sharp-shooters disobey their orders and fire.

"Fire again before the word is given at your peril," exclaims Prescott; "the next man that disobeys orders shall be instantly shot."

Lieut.-Colonel Robinson, who with Colonel Buttrick had led the troops so gallantly at Concord on the 19th of April, runs round the top of the parapet and throws up the muskets. The British are at eight rods distance.

"Now, men! now is your time!" says the veteran Prescott. "Make ready! take aim!-fire!"

The smoke clears away, and the whole hill-side is covered with the dead. The British return the fire: they rally they attempt to advance. In vain. Victory! victory! They have turned their backs: they are flying from the field. Thus ends the first attack.

An ominous pause, like the lull that from time to time interrupts the wildest tempest, prevails upon the scene of action, only broken by the occasional discharges of artillery from the ships and batteries. But the British are preparing for a second attack. Let us place ourselves again upon the opposite heights and mark its progress.

General Howe has rallied and re-organised his men : with unshaken intrepidity they advance through the tall grass, under the heat of a blazing summer sun, loaded with knapsacks of more than a hundred pounds weight, toward the lines. The artillery push forward to within three hundred yards of the defences, and open their battery to prepare the way for the infantry. A deep silence broods over the American lines. The men are ordered to reserve their fire till the British are at six rods distance.

The British mount the hill by slow and regular approaches they fire in platoons with all the precision of a holiday review, and, though without aim, not entirely without effect.

Meanwhile the Americans reserve their fire. At length, when the British are at only six rods distance, the order is given. The discharge takes place. Victory! once more victory!-Again the enemy are turning their backs! Again they are hurrying from the hill! Where are now the brilliant ranks that only a few mo

ments since extended far and wide around its sides ? Hundreds of the men have fallen, including some of the best officers. For the second time on this eventful day has the order been given for the British army to retreat.

Here ends the tale of triumph. Oh that here too could end the story of the day! Let us hasten through the closing act of this glorious tragedy. Undaunted by this new repulse, the British general gives orders at once for a third attack. Enlightened by experience, cured of their vain presumption,' they now adopt a more judicious plan. They throw aside their knapsacks, reserve their fire, and trust to the bayonet. They have discovered the vulnerable point in our incomplete defences, and have brought up their artillery where it turns our works and enfilades10 the whole line.

8

In the meantime what remains for our gallant countrymen? Their ammunition is exhausted: they have no bayonets: no reinforcements arrive. They wait with desperate resolution the onset of the British, prepared to repel them as best they may, with the few charges of powder and ball that are still left, with the butt ends of their muskets, and with stones.

Colonel Prescott perceives at last that further resistance is only a wanton sacrifice of valuable life, and issues the order to retreat. The Americans leave the redoubt and retire with little molestation from the field.

1 Gratulation, expression of joy.
2 The flourishing town. Charles-

"

town, at the foot of Bunker's Hill. 3 Bravest pomp, brightest, finest display; "bravery sometimes means finery. Panorama, generally applied to a large painting embracing many scenes, and unrolled so as to bring one into view at a time. Here ap

Abridged.

plied to the general view of the landscape itself. (Gr. pan, all; orama, a sight.)

5 Ominous pause, a pause betokening some impending evil.

6 Fire in platoons, a whole square of soldiers fire together.

7 Vain presumption, overweening confidence. The British looked upon the enemy with contempt

as "a mere rustic rout, with calico frocks and fowling-pieces." 8 Vulnerable point, the weak point, where a damaging blow might be struck; "vulnerable," lit. able to

be wounded. (Lat. vulnus, a
wound.)

9 Turns our works, gets round at
the back, or unprotected part.
10 Enfilades, rakes with shot along a
whole line. (Lat. filum, a thread.)

I

ADDRESS TO THE MEN OF SHEFFIELD.

BY BISHOP GOODWIN.

AM not going to tell you on which side to vote at the next election, because I have no business to introduce politics. I will say this, however, that every man who has a vote and who does not consider that vote as a solemn responsibility, but simply looks upon it as a thing which he may perhaps turn into a five or ten pound note, that fellow is not worthy of the name of an Englishman.

There is another point with regard to being an Englishman, which I will come to in a moment or two. You will scarcely believe it, but Sheffield is in my mind every day of my life. The fact is I shave every morning. I have a box containing seven Sheffield razors, one for every day of the week. These razors were given me nearly forty years ago, just at the time when I began to shave. They have never been ground during those forty years, and have very seldom crossed a hone. I just leave them alone using each in its turn, and so we get on very comfortably together.

I have told you this because there is a moral attached to it. It proves that the men who made those razors did not scamp their work. There is a difference between the article made for exportation, and the article made for use, and these were evidently made for use. Some months ago I read an article in the Times, in which