ildhood the state of
affairs at the date of the war more vividly than volumes of history could
have done.

Those who have attempted to construct a coherent narrative of past times
from the fragmentary information furnished by survivors, are aware of the
difficulty of ascertaining the true sequence of events indiscriminately
recalled. For this purpose the newspapers of the date were
indispensable. Of other documents consulted I may mention, for the
satisfaction of those who love a true story, that the 'Address to all
Ranks and Descriptions of Englishmen' was transcribed from an original
copy in a local museum; that the hieroglyphic portrait of Napoleon
existed as a print down to the present day in an old woman's cottage near
'Overcombe;' that the particulars of the King's doings at his favourite
watering-place were augmented by details from records of the time. The
drilling scene of the local militia received some additions from an
account given in so grave a work as Gifford's 'History of the Wars of the
French Revolution' (London, 1817). But on reference to the History I
find I was mistaken in supposing the account to be advanced as authentic,
or to refer to rural England. However, it does in a large degree accord
with the local traditions of such scenes that I have heard recounted,
times without number, and the system of drill was tested by reference to
the Army Regulations of 1801, and other military handbooks. Almost the
whole narrative of the supposed landing of the French in the Bay is from
oral relation as aforesaid. Other proofs of the veracity of this
chronicle have escaped my recollection.

T. H.

_October_ 1895.

I. WHAT WAS SEEN FROM THE WINDOW OVERLOOKING THE DOWN

In the days of high-waisted and muslin-gowned women, when the vast amount
of soldiering going on in the country was a cause of much trembling to
the sex, there lived in a village near the Wessex coast two ladies of
good report, though unfortunately of limited means. The elder was a Mrs.
Martha Garland, a landscape-painter's widow, and the other was her only
daughter Anne.

Anne was fair, very fair, in a poetical sense; but in complexion she was
of that particular tint between blonde and brunette which is
inconveniently left without a name. Her eyes were honest and inquiring,
her mouth cleanly cut and yet not classical, the middle point of her
upper lip scarcely descending so far as it should have done by rights, so
that a