one eye which had never
flinched before the prospect of actual warfare. After the meal,
at which many a veteran 'told his battles o'er again,' a number
of toasts were proposed by the Mayor, including 'The Allied
Sovereigns,' 'The Prince Regent,'' The Duke of Wellington'
(with three times three), 'The Troy Gallants,' 'The Memory of
their first beloved Commander, Major Hymen'--this last being
drunk in silence. The company then dispersed, to reassemble
below the Town Quay, where the boats which had adorned Monday's
festivities were again launched, this time upon their native
element, and proceeded, amid the clanging of joy-bells from the
church tower, to cross the harbour, on the farther shores of
which a large and enthusiastic crowd awaited them. In the first
boat were the musicians; in the second a number of ladies and
gentlemen in fancy costumes. A score of boats followed, filled
with spectators; and were welcomed, as they reached the shore,
with loud expressions of joy. Lord Wellington was again mounted
on horseback, with General Platoff and some Cossacks.
Bonaparte and his followers were also mounted, and some
skirmishes took place of so lifelike a character as to evoke
universal plaudits. . . ."

A wooden-legged man, who had been stumping it for many hours along
the high road from Plymouth, paused on the knap of the hill, mopped
his dusty brow, and gazed down upon the harbour, shading his eyes.
He wore a short blue jacket with tattered white facings, a pair of
white linen trousers patched at the knees, a round tarpaulin hat, a
burst shoe upon his hale foot, and carried a japanned knapsack--all
powdered with white dust of the road in which his wooden leg had been
prodding small round holes for mile after mile.

He had halted first as his ear caught the merry chime of bells from
the opposite shore. Having mopped his brow, he moved forward and
halted again by a granite cross and drinking-trough whence the road
led steeply downhill between the first houses of the village. He was
visibly agitated. His hand trembled on his stick: his face flushed
hotly beneath its mask of dust and sweat, and upon the flush a
cicatrix--the mark of a healed bullet-wound--showed up for the moment
on his left cheek, white as if branded there.

The people were shouting below, cheering vociferously. Yes, and
along the harbour every ve