“Her haughty schools
  Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say—­
  A few strong instincts, and a few plain rules,
  Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought
  More for mankind at this unhappy day
  Than all the pride of intellect and thought.”

The regiment chiefly concerned was the 19th, (for which regiment the word Wattepolowa, the scene of their martyrdom, became afterwards a memorial war-cry.) Still, to this hour, it forces tears of wrath into our eyes when we read the recital of the case.  A dozen years ago we first read it in a very interesting book, published by the late Mr Blackwood—­the Life of Alexander.  This Alexander was not personally present at the bloody catastrophe; but he was in Ceylon at the time, and knew the one sole fugitive[18] from that fatal day.  The soldiers of the 19th, not even in that hour of horror, forgot their discipline, or their duty, or their respectful attachment to their officers.  When they were ordered to ground their arms, (oh, base idiot that could issue such an order!) they remonstrated most earnestly, but most respectfully.  Major Davie, agitated and distracted by the scene, himself recalled the order.  The men resumed their arms.  Alas! again the fatal order was issued; again it was recalled; but finally, it was issued peremptorily.  The men sorrowfully obeyed.  We hurry to the odious conclusion.  In parties of twos and of threes, our brave countrymen were called out by the horrid Kandyan tiger cats.  Disarmed by the frenzy of their moonstruck commander, what resistance could they make?  One after one the parties, called out to suffer, were decapitated by the executioner.  The officers, who had refused to give up their pistols, finding what was going on, blew out their brains with their own hands, now too bitterly feeling how much wiser had been the poor privates than themselves.  At length there was stillness on the field.  Night had come on.  All were gone—­

  “And darkness was the buryer of the dead.”

    [18] Fugitive, observe.  There were some others, and amongst them
    Major Davie, who, for private reasons, were suffered to survive as
    prisoners.

The reader may recollect a most picturesque murder near Manchester, about thirteen or fourteen years ago, perpetrated by two brothers named McKean, where a servant woman, whose throat had been effectually cut, rose up, after an interval, from the ground at a most critical moment, (so critical, that, by that act, and at that second of time, she drew off the murderer’s hand from the throat of a second victim,) staggered, in her delirium, to the door of a room where sometime a club had been held, doubtless under some idea of obtaining aid, and at the door, after walking some fifty feet, dropped down dead.  Not less astonishing was the resurrection, as it might be called, of an English corporal, cut, mangled, remangled, and left without sign of life.  Suddenly he rose up, stiff