ey appeared a volley was discharged, and they fell. Every
attempt was made by the officers to make prisoners, but with indifferent
success; indeed, such was the exasperation of the troops at the murder
of Lieut. Weir, that it was a service of danger to attempt to save the
life of one of these poor deluded creatures. The fire from the house
soon communicated to the church. Chenier, the leader, with ten others,
the remnant of the insurgents who were in the church, rushed out; there
was one tremendous volley, and all was over.

By this time many other parts of the town were on fire, and there was
every prospect of the whole of it being burnt down, leaving no quarters
for the soldiers to protect them during the night. The attention of
everybody was therefore turned to prevent the progress of the flames.
Some houses were pulled down, so as to cut off the communication with
the houses in the centre of the town, and in these houses the troops
were billeted off. The insurgents had removed their families, and most
of their valuables and furniture, before our arrival; but in one house
were the commissariat stores, consisting of the carcases of all the
cattle, sheep, pigs, etcetera, which they had taken from the loyal
farmers; there was a very large supply, and the soldiers were soon
cooking in all directions. The roll was called, men mustered, and order
established.

The night was bitterly cold: the sky was clear, and the moon near to her
full: houses were still burning in every direction, but they were as
mere satellites to the lofty church, which was now one blaze of fire,
and throwing out volumes of smoke, which passed over the face of the
bright moon, and gave to her a lurid reddish tinge, as if she too had
assisted in these deeds of blood. The distant fires scattered over the
whole landscape, which was one snow-wreath; the whirling of the smoke
from the houses which were burning close to us, and which, from the
melting of the snow, were surrounded by pools of water, reflecting the
fierce yellow flames, mingled with the pale beams of the bright moon--
this, altogether, presented a beautiful, novel, yet melancholy panorama.
I thought it might represent, in miniature, the burning of Moscow.

About midnight, when all was quiet, I walked up to the church, in
company with one of Sir John Colborne's aides-de-camp: the roof had
fallen, and the flames had subsided for want of further aliment. As we
passed by a house which