In February, however, the tide began to turn; the weather assumed a milder character, which it retained, despite occasional relapses, until the arrival of Spring; fresh supplies of warm clothing had come to replace those lost in the Prince; the rain had almost entirely ceased, and, while the ordinary roads were every day becoming more practicable, the railway, that stupendous innovation on the routine of military engineering, was already in full operation as far as Kadikoi; the Commissariat benefited by the general improvement in the position of affiiirs, and full rations once more became the rule, and scarcity the exception. The story too of the unexampled hardships endured by the troops, narrated with the force and fidelity to be expected from men who had witnessed and shared in them, had reached home at a season when the ever-warm English heart is most peculiarly open to the influences of love and brotherhood and compassion — and through the length and breadth of the land it was felt that no Christmas cheer could be enjoyed, no Christmas festivities be indulged in, while the troops we had sent to conquer Sebastopol were starving before its walls, and no effort made from home to relieve them. A committee was formed, with the Earl of Ellesmere at its head, for receiving and forwarding to the Crimea such comforts and luxuries as might be most appropriate to the condition of the troops and the period of the year. Contributions poured in from every quarter with unexampled rapidity and profusion, and it was soon discovered that the yachts which had been placed at the disposal of the committee were quite inadequate to the stowage of the enormous quantities of goods which were continually arriving. Steamers were accordingly freighted for this purpose at the expense of the fund, the subscriptions to which, in money alone, eventually exceeded 20,000/. The articles thus sent out were, for the most part, of a nature different from and supplemental to those supplied by the Commissariat, and this timely change of diet is stated to have had the most beneficial effect on the health of the Army. Reinforcements now began to arrive; invalids, restored to health and strength, returned to their several regiments; confidence once more arose, the siege-works were resumed, and everything gave promise of the renewal of operations in the Spring, under happier auspices, and with a fuller assurance of success. This promise has been, in spite of one unavoidable and painful reverse, amply redeemed by the steady and irresistible progress of the Allies during the Campaign of 1855, and by the great event of the 8th September, which was its necessary result. But the story of this Campaign will more appropriately accompany the series of Mr. Simpson's drawings which is now being published, and which are specially devoted to its illustration.
It is with pain that we have been compelled, at the close of this brief and imperfect sketch of events destined to form the most glorious page in English History, to allude to the calamities which for a time darkened but could not dim their lustre; and in doing so we have not been actuated by any desire to exhume forgotten faults and shortcomings, or to I'ip up
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bygone controversies, better covered in oblivion. Great mistakes and fatal errors were no doubt committed, and it is difficult to believe that there was not somewhere an almost inexcusable want of forethought and prudence; but, on a calm and dispassionate review of all the facts, it will, we believe, be generally admitted, that the blame which has been so freely cast on individuals was more strictly due to a vicious and unmanageable system.
It would have been unjust, however, to those who suffered in consequence, to omit or pass lightly over events which redound so highly to their credit; and which form the cloud whose very blackness brings out and heightens the bright lustre of their heroism.
Splendid as were the achievements at Alma, and Balaklava, and Inkermann, parallels more or less just may be sought and found to them; but the world's history does not present a spectacle so sublime, as the noble fortitude and unmurmuring patience of the men who perished at their post rather than desert it; and who fell, not with the flush of battle on their cheeks and the shout of victory on their lips, but yielding to the slow sapping of want and sickness and deferred hope, fighting with an unseen and ever-restless foe, and cheerfully protracting the hopeless struggle from which death alone could force them to desist.
They lie on the bleak hills of the Chersonesus, and beneath the gloomy cypresses of Scutari, with no monument to record their mournful glories; but their epitaph is written in the hearts of their countrymen, as it has been graven in characters of fire on the stronghold of their foe.