howing the glorious
array of the scarlet British infantry. As soon as the air was clear
Pakenham gave the word, and the heavy columns of red-coated grenadiers
and kilted Highlanders moved steadily forward. From the American
breastworks the great guns opened, but not a rifle cracked.
Three-fourths of the distance was covered, and the eager soldiers broke
into a run: then sheets of flame burst from the breastworks in their
front as the wild riflemen of the backwoods rose and fired, line upon
line. Under the sweeping hail the head of the British advance was
shattered, and the whole column stopped. Then it surged forward again
almost to the foot of the breastworks; but not a man lived to reach
them, and in a moment more the troops broke and ran back.

Mad with shame and rage, Pakenham rode quickly among them to rally and
lead them forward, and the officers sprang around him, smiting the
fugitives with their swords, and cheering on the men who stood. For a
moment the troops halted, and again came forward to the charge; but
again they were met by a hail of bullets from the backwoods rifles. One
shot struck Pakenham himself. He reeled and fell from the saddle, and
was carried off the field. The second in command was wounded, and then
all attempts at further advance were abandoned, and the British troops
ran back to their lines. Another assault had meanwhile been made by a
column close to the river, the charging soldiers rushing right up to the
top of the breastworks: but they were all killed or driven back. A body
of troops had also been sent across the river, where they routed a small
detachment of Kentucky militia; but they were, of course, recalled when
the main assault failed.

For the first time in a quarter of a century the British soldiers, the
men who had conquered the conquerors of Europe, had met defeat. Andrew
Jackson and his rough riflemen had worsted in a fair fight a far larger
force of the best of Wellington's veterans, and had accomplished what no
French marshal and no French troops had been able to accomplish
throughout the long war in the Spanish Peninsula. For a week the sullen
British lay in their lines; then, abandoning their heavy artillery, they
marched back to the ships and sailed again for Europe.

IMPORTANT NOTICE.

TO THE READERS OF "HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE."

HARPER'S ROUND TABLE? We imagine how puzzled and surprised a great
throng of you are when your favorite HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE sudde