Litchfield enquirer., 1855-03-22

iahaciS S3 Riiu 6fc SaoCnSu uoCh " HtA2H H3z1oAe ' of bayonets. They raily, and advance again more slowly and determinedly.s
 Then the bugles of the Fifth sound; and the fiery horses are wheeled into order for the onset.
 Look at Cecil Gray! he has forgotten the miniature he has forgotten it's original ; he has forgotten the little cottage by the Thames, where sine is signing prayers to Heaven for him now he thinks only of glo- ". His breast heaves and pants, and his hand clutches his hil,. waiting fol the nex. signal-twang.
 Another bias. ofthe bugles, and the whole Fifth, instantly brisiling all over with sword likea single being, spring into the pas de lcharge. A thunderiag hurricane of battle they swoop right down on the advancing l foe with the speed of the wind. God of heaven! what spectacle! With wha, sublimely terrific shock the two hostilemas. ses of men and horses crash together !- Sword clangs on sword {; horse and rider sink the Sea of combat surges over them. The Fifth cut the foe through and through, and when their bugles sound the rally, they disregard the signal, determined to fight till they clear the field or die. Horse against horse, with onset and repulse. Saxon and Cossack, they cleaye one another down, swaying to and fro like stormy sea.
 Where Is Cecil Gray? Wonder is his plume. Watch it. l, losses above the thick of the fight, as if it were alive with glory. There, it loses itselfin the smoke of pistols. It emerges. We lose sight of it again. Wonder once more it flies along the field, like some splendid bird of prey, that kills its quarry, but stops not to devour.- Swords leap up above and about it; other plumes nod and sink around it; riderless horses whirl away from it. and roll down, and surge, and struggle, and die in the over whelming pillows of battle. But that plume, and the sword which goes with it, cease not for an instant in their sublime career. | The wounded French Chasseur who re- clines on his elbow here nigh us, watching that plume, forgets his pain, and calculates, C'est superGe!" And it is superb i.is glorious.
 But now that plume is the dreadful cen Ire of vortex of foes, which dashes upon 1t, as upon lone sail, the foam capped whirl- pool in the sea. Other plumes fly to the rescue. Sabres flash up thick and fast, and chop down into fiery brains, and cross, and thrust, and stab, and mix in horrible tur- moil of heroic desperation.
 I We close our eyes tightly, with shud- dering sickness and faintness. and when we open them on the scene again. the Russians are in total rout, and the gallant Fifth in rally, with shout and hurra. But the plume of Cecil Gray! It is gone! The prayers which have kept going up to Heaven from the cottage by the Thames have not been answered. That plume bowed to death. and went down while we were shutting our eyes. How gloriously he died :! On the field they found him the evening of that day, with monument of slaug gh,ered heroes piled up to his glory. And as his surviving comrades spaded him grave and wrapped his cloak around him, and laid him to his rest, they talked anima,inglys of his hero- ism; and then they spoke ial.eringly of one who-
 "Nomore of that, my com.sde 7" said he who had been his bosom friend, in choking voice. "There, ,''-he had taken the lockel from the neck of the dead, clipped, with his sword, lock from the hero's hair, and shut Il over the miniature ;--" that shall be her tidings !-and may-God-pity and-com fort her!''
 1 The big blindlng tears streamed down those stern mems cheeks-they filled up the grave, breathing hard with the rush o homes dear emotions, but speaking no, another word.
 A cottage by the Thames.