paratively none. Those circumstances having been weighed, Parliament considered it a fair adjustment to continue the Duchy of Lancaster as a peculium of the Queen, on condition that the chancellorship of the duchy should remain a ministry of state, and that the nation should be informed, through an annual report, of the profits arising from such official administration. In 1837, the net revenue of that duchy was estimated at 8,9121. only. By judicious management, it has now reached more than 40,000l. a-year, which is paid into her Majesty's privy-purse, without reference to her parliamentary annuity. The Duchy of Cornwall has, in like manner, been left in royal hands. It belongs of right to the Prince of Wales, as heir-apparent. Former sovereigns invariably appropriated its entire revenues pending the prince's minority. Our reigning Queen, however, generously renounced them. When she ascended the throne, the Duchy of Cornwall produced a net income of 15,7861. The admirable management of the late Prince Consort worked it up to 60,000l. a-year, all of which profit goes into the privy-purse of the heir-apparent, without farther responsibility than the property of a private gentleman, and in excess too of his parliamentary allowance of another 60,000l. a-year. It should be also noted that the country is not deprived of its share of benefit in this act of royal generosity and foresight, inasmuch as the Prince of Wales, at his majority, was enabled to purchase a large estate, with a country residence, out of the accumulated funds of twenty years from the duchy a heavy call upon Parliament for extra aid being thus obviated. These two duchies are now the sole portions of the British Crown lands for which no commutation has been accepted by the royal family, and which have therefore remained under their exclusive and irresponsible control.

From the time when, in the course of history, the revenues of the Crown began to be turned to better account, and particularly since they began to be commuted piecemeal by the nation, variouslyconstituted courts or commissions have administered them. In 1851 the duty was finally confided to two ministers, styled Commissioners of Woods and Forests (the first is sometimes a member of the cabinet), who, being associated under the Treasury, are temporarily invested with all the powers, privileges, and prerogatives of the Queent in respect of the receipts and expenditure special to her land-revenue. The Queen herself, the Treasury, and the two commissioners divide between them the inferior patronage of the commission, while Parliament receives accurate information as to the state of the royal property through a matter-of-fact debit and credit, which appears each year in our national budget.

This strange error has arisen from wrongly inclining to regard her

* Erskine May's Hist. vol. i. c. iv; Redgrave's Official Handbook, sec. vi. † 14 & 15 Victoria c. 42.

Majesty as a mere executive, rather than as a true constitutional monarch, and from ignoring the history of the Crown lands. Let it be added, that the portion of our parliamentary estimates which immediately concerns those lands has for years been so satisfying as to have much exceeded in amount the whole of the royal annuities put together; and conclusive proof is afforded that, instead of being pensioners on the nation's bounty, or even paid officials, the reigning family of England, by surrendering the chief landed possessions of the Crown, to say nothing of other hereditary sources of revenue, have indubitably made us their debtors.

HORACE, ODE V. LIB. I.

WHAT youth of slender mien, mid roses, Pyrrha ! to thee,
Sprinkled with liquid scent, urgeth his loving plea,
Stretched in a pleasant grot?

For whom is that auburn knot,

Simple in neatness, weft ? Sad, he will often weep
Change in the gods and thee; and as the roughened deep
Surges when black winds blow,

Poor novice! will taste of woe.

He, who now credulous thinks gold in thee fondly to see,
Ignorant of the gale, and of its flattery,

Trusts thou wilt ever shine

Brimful of love divine.

Wretched are those to whom thou, the untried, seem'st fair.
I, as the tablet shows, hang in the temple there

Brine-dripping garments to thee,

Mighty thou, god of the sea!

C. A. WARD.

AN OLD PENINSULAR MAN

THE following is an abridgment of all the most interesting parts of an old soldier's autobiography, omitting an early portion relating to the battle of Monte Video, and the unfortunate defeat of our army under General Whitelock. I have retained as far as possible the veteran's own words.

I was born (he says) at Edinburgh in 1790. At the age of sixteen I went on the stage, to the horror of my parents, who were Calvinists of the extremest opinions. Having ignominiously failed, I enlisted with a Highland friend of mine, Donald M'Donald, in the 71st regiment, which very soon afterwards was ordered to South America.

(Here follows the inglorious campaign, which I omit.)

On the 27th of June 1808, soon after my return from South America, I was embarked with the troops starting on an expedition to Portugal, under Sir Arthur Wellesley. We landed at Mondego Bay, August 1st. My first battle was the battle of Vimiero, on a Sunday morning-August 21st. It is a lovely valley, through which the little river Maceira winds, and is surrounded on all sides by mountains or the sea.

We had been all under arms by an hour before daybreak, and were dismissed with orders to parade again at ten o'clock to attend divine service. Two hours after dawn I was quietly perched on the side of a mountain, thinking of home and of Arthur's Seat. Below me I could see some of my comrades washing their linen in the river, while others were cleaning their firelocks. Suddenly some dark-blue French columns began to show over the opposite hills. Instantly we beat to arms, and packing up everything, left it on the camp-ground, and pushed on. After a march of two miles over the hills, the enemy came at us sharply. We gave them one steady volley and three cheers-three distinct hearty cheers — then we were still as death; but they came on bragging and shouting, to the very points of our bayonets. Our awful silence and determined advance was too much for them. I felt my breath go; I looked along our line; but the steady determined scowl of our brave kilted men made my heart swell with pride, and I was eager to get to work. The French put about and fled without much resistance after all; and we took thirteen guns and the general at that first push. They came down upon us again just as we were in a hollow; but we gave them another specimen of a charge, and pursued them three miles.

At

night from our camp-ground we saw the peasants prowling about, plundering and mangling the dead, and killing any fallen Frenchman that showed the least sign of life. When darkness came, the wretches kindled a great fire, and remained round it all night, shouting like savages or cannibals.

Having taken Lisbon, and advanced into Spain as far as the Escurial, we were compelled to fall back to Salamanca and commence a retreat. The cold was terribly severe; and I often woke in the morning to find my club of hair frozen to the ground. The roads bad, our marches sometimes forty-seven miles in the day, all the country covered with snow,-our sufferings were almost more than we could endure. At Sahagun we hoped to attack the enemy, and there was hope in every breast. 'We will beat them to pieces, and then have our ease and enjoy ourselves,' said my comrades. Any struggle was better than the dreadful way of life we were pursuing. With heavy hearts we received orders to retire to our quarters. 'By St. Patrick,' said an Irish lad near me, we beat them so asy, sure the gineral means to march us to death, and fight them after.'

On the 26th it rained all day, and the roads were knee-deep in clay. A regular march became impossible. The troops lost their alertness and spirits, and became bitter, quarrelsome, and savage, galled at having to run from an enemy they had so lately beaten. Our fellows began to plunder the Spaniards who had not taken arms. After repulsing the Imperial Guard at Benevente, and capturing General Lefebre, we reached Astorga, and found General Romana's army a mere mob of sick and hungry peasants. They would not let us make a stand here, which was all we wished; but, having first burnt our stores, our shameful flight continued to Villafranca. Our first sixteen miles was up mountains and through a pass. The dismal silence was only interrupted by the groans of worn-out men, who, unable to proceed farther, laid themselves down in despair to perish in the snow, or else the report of a pistol announcing the death of an exhausted horse. The rain poured in torrents; the partly melted snow was half-knee deep, and stained by the blood from our wounded feet. I envied the dying men; but my friend Donald kept me from falling out of the ranks to lie down and die. To add to our misery, we were forced by turns to drag the baggage. This was more than human nature could sustain. Many wagons were abandoned and much ammunition destroyed. Men began to say to each other of their comrades, That man's shoes are better than mine. If he was dead, I'd have them pretty quick.' Some of the soldiers would not leave Villafranca, but hid themselves in the wine-cellars they had broken open. Many stragglers came up to the army dreadfully cut and gashed by the French cavalry, who rode through the long lines of lame defenceless wretches, slashing among them as a schoolboy does

amongst thistles. Some of these poor fellows, faint and bleeding, were forced to pass along the line as a warning to others. Those near me said, 'These officers of ours are worse than the French. They do not help us, and yet they will not let us die in peace.'

The day after we drove back the French and renewed our forlorn march. No shelter, no fuel, no food; the sick and wounded, hitherto dragged in the wagons, were now left to perish. The road was one line of bloody footmarks, and on every side were strewn the dead and dying. I and Donald, who was nearly blind, at last began to fail: we had long been bare-footed and lame. He who had encouraged me, now himself lay down to die.

We sat down together silent; we looked around, then at each other, and closed our eyes. Near us, here and there, were about thirty other stragglers. Groans and curses could be heard between the pauses of the wind. I attempted to pray and recommend my soul to God, but I could not arrange my ideas. My mind seemed gone. Half an hour had passed, and sleep was stealing over us, when a bustle aroused me. It was an advanced party of the French. Unconscious of fear, mere habit aroused me. I started on my feet, levelled my musket, fired, and formed with the other stragglers. The French faced about and left us. The danger roused us; we shook off our lethargy, and joined again at Castro. I often heard the French say, as they turned from our bayonet points, We would rather face a hundred fresh Germans than ten dying Englishmen.' Our men kept constantly saying, 'Let us unite, whether our officers will fight or not, and annihilate these French cowards; let us show them at home it is not our fault we run. Let us save England from disgrace, and take a sweet revenge.' Some new scene of horror now occurred every day, and near the summit of Monte del Castro I saw a crowd of soldiers gathered round some object. I knew it could be no common occurrence that roused their sympathy: I joined them. There, in the midst, lay a young and beautiful woman stone dead, and a child about six months old clinging to her breast and crying for milk. No one spoke, but tears were in every eye. At that moment one of General Moore's staff officers came up, witnessed the scene, took the infant, and wrapped it in his cloak. Poor child!' he said, as we blessed him for his goodness, you shall be my care.' The women and children began to die fast, and we left many on the snow covered with a blanket or a coat. By the time our reserve left Lugo the officers suffered as much as the men. Men of fortune were to be seen with strips of old blankets wrapped round their feet and legs. The soldiers, grown malicious and bitter from their sufferings, used to say, 'There goes three thousand a year,' or 'There is the prodigal son on his way home.' The great fault of our soldiers was the craving for spirits. Many sacrificed their lives for drink, and lying down tipsy were shot by the merciless French.