erriest amongst the merry, carried away by the joyous influences
that are associated with the keeping of Christmas. And in all
English-speaking countries, and especially in our old home, England,
it is looked upon as a season to be given up entirely to pleasure in
the present and bright hopes for the future. Memory takes me back to a
Christmas which hardly came up to the ideal, and the contrast of then
and now, of trials and miseries endured then, as compared with present
comforts, may make us more satisfied with, and thankful for what we
now enjoy. Twenty-nine years ago England had contributed as her share
of the Crimean invading force over 35,000 men, of whom a scanty 8,000
were on Christmas Day, 1854, available for duty; many of the remainder
had helped to fill the huge trenches hastily dug for graves on the
fields of Alma and Inkerman, or slept below the innumerable little
mounds which surrounded our camp hospitals, and inside the canvas
walls of these the number of sick exceeded the total of those who
still stood in the ranks, although none were received into hospital as
long as they were able to carry themselves and their rifles. During
the greater part of December we had been reduced to half rations, and
sometimes to no meat at all; half a pound of biscuit; one blanket, and
threadbare suit of uniform contributed but small support and
protection to meet a climate not unlike that of Nova Scotia. And we
were entirely without fuel, other than the roots of small alder
bushes, which were grubbed up with pickaxes carried off from the
trenches, and sometimes the pickaxe handles were used to warm a
canteen of water for tea. But soon these became so scarce that we were
without a single fire in the camp of my regiment for three days. In
spite of all, however, Christmas was at hand, and we all set ourselves
to be jolly. Even the celebrated Mark Tapley would have considered the
circumstances were fairly creditable. The authorities also considered
it incumbent on them to make an extra effort, and it was announced
with great pride that the commissariat had secured some live cattle in
honour of the season, and we were to receive an issue of fresh meat.
But this was the extent of their ambition, and their pride met with a
fall, for, after waiting till after three o'clock, our pioneers, who
drew the rations, returned with the melancholy intelligence that there
was nothing for us that day. 'The Zouaves,' so said the commissariat
off