raj up in his city and fortress of Mooltan. Major Edwardes seems strongly impressed with the idea that immediately after this crisis, his own irregular force and that of the friendly Nuwab of Bhawulpoor, under Lieut. Lake (a worthy confederate), could have carried the place and finished the war without the intervention of the British army.

All they required, he says, were a few heavy guns, a mortar battery, some sappers and miners, and an able engineer (he names Major Napier, a most distinguished officer), to plan the operations. At that time the defences of Mooltan were incomplete, and much less formidable than they subsequently became; nevertheless, judging by after events, we are better satisfied that the attempt was not made. In the words of one of the most distinguished Indian generals, Mooltan was "a hard nut to crack." Moolraj and his officers fought with ropes round their necks, and he had gold in abundance wherewith to bribe fidelity. Major Edwardes might have tarnished his budding laurels by failure, or have thrown away life and brilliant prospects in an enterprise beyond his strength. We have far more pleasure in recording his promotion, and reading his animated pages, than we should have had in chronicling his fall, or subscribing to a monument to do honour to his memory.

"Time and tide" have brought us now to the siege of Mooltan. The last act of the eventful drama is about to commence. A formidable British force, under Major-General Whish, has invested the fortress. A Sikh army, under Sher Singh, is acting in co-operation, and the victorious troops of Edwardes and Lake are there to assist in the final triumph. Above 20,000 men are collected for the enterprise. Moolraj trembles in his citadel, and the slow though certain hour of British retribution is close at hand. It is determined to carry the place by a coup de main. The attacking columns are standing impatient in their ranks, like greyhounds in the slips; the commanders, all young and gallant men, burning for distinction-when, suddenly, Sher Singh, with his contingent, goes

*

over to the enemy, leaving a gap in the British position, and all the operations are paralyzed as if by a sudden lockjaw. The general pauses, withdraws his advanced brigades, raises the siege in the moment of expected victory, concentrates his force at a convenient distance, but still close to the very suburbs of Mooltan, shutting out all supplies or communication with the adjoining country from the enemy, and waits patiently the arrival of further reinforcements, and a heavy battering train, to proceed now according to established rules. An interval of three months elapses in comparative inactivity, and all the world are astonished. Various are the speculations and endless the opinions as to the causes of this most unlooked for event. Major Edwardes sums them all up in one short and unanswerable sentence:

"The sole and simple reason why the first siege of Mooltan was raised, was the treacherous desertion of Rajah Sher Singh and his army to the enemy on the morning of the 14th of September."+

The determination of the English general to withhold his attack, although most trying to a gallant officer at such a moment, was unquestionably sound and soldier-like. Had he persevered, notwithstanding the treason of his auxiliary, he might still have carried the place. British warriors, led by such men as he had selected to command his brigades, could have done anything; but the prize would have been dearly won, and the loss of life, in all probability, something fearful to think of. A British soldier's life is not to be sported with or dashed against every wall as a thing of trifling moment. In the balance of military value it weighs down the tenth legionary of Cæsar, or the Imperial Guard of Napoleon. There are occasions, in war, when a general, investing an important fortress, fights with his watch in his hand, and, in the face of a superior enemy, must snatch away his conquest against time or not at all. The Duke of Wellington was placed precisely in this predicament at Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajos, and Burgos; in all these cases it was absolutely necessary to war against rules, and

take the bull by the horns. At Mooltan there was no such emergency, it was a simple question of date; and delay, without endangering ultimate success, preserved hundreds of gallant men who live for future glory.

Two very remarkable instances of desertion in battle, similar to that of Sher Singh, occurred at Bosworth Field, in 1485, and at Leipzig, in 1815; and in both these cases brought destruction on the side betrayed. At Bosworth, the treachery of the Stanleys uncovered both the flanks of Richard's army, gave the superiority in numbers to his opponent, and neutralized entirely his own superior skill and courage. It was impossible to foresee or rectify the evil consequences; all that remained was a desperate charge, a despairing rush, one last struggle for victory, by slaying his rival in single combat-and a soldier's death alone amidst a host of enemies. Richard was unscrupulous of blood, and an usurper if you will; but he was a daring spirit, and in moral turpitude not much below the scale of his successor. At Leipzig, on the second day, Napoleon, although outnumbered by more than two to one, held all his positions, and looked stoutly for the result; when the Saxon army, posted in his centre, wheeled off in a mass, leaving an extensive gap in the French line, threw their weight into the ranks of the enemy, and turned their artillery on their former friends. No generalship, no human effort could retrieve this at such a crisis of such a battle; and the sun of Napoleon went down that day on the most fatal field that France had ever wailed over.

When the news of the first check at Mooltan arrived in England, everybody, as usual, was up in arms in a moment. The General was censured loudly; and all the movements and combinations criticised and condemned. Slight was the information, but long and loud were the complaints. John Bull, ever impatient of obstacles or delay, in his usual course of triumph, cares nothing for a long list of killed and wounded, provided the despatch announces a victory, and the Park and Tower guns reiterate the intelligence. English generals may well shrink a little from responsibility, when they are so harshly and so hastily judged. The days are over, it is true, when for an error in judgment, as in the case of Byng, we used sometimes to shoot an

admiral or a general (pour encourager les autres, according to Voltaire); but the obscurity of the half-pay list, or the ingratitude of neglect, full surely awaits the unsuccessful commander, whose failure of to-day, unless retrieved by a victory to-morrow, obliterates the services of half a century. Sir Robert Calder was severely reprimanded by the court which tried him, for not taking more than two ships, with a very inferior fleet. Napoleon was much more indulgent to his Lieute nants than we are to ours. He forgave Junot for the loss of Portugal, Girard for the surprise at Arroyo de Molinos, and Marmont, for the errors of Salamanca. Jourdan was surnamed "The Anvil," in the French army, from the perpetual beatings he receiv ed, and the philosophy with which he bore them. It is amazing how he obtained the opportunities of losing so many battles; in our service he would have been shelved after his first miscarriage.

We happened to be present at the dinner given to Sir Charles Napier, in Dublin, in November, 1848, at which time the recent events at Mooltan were the popular topic of conversation. In one of his speeches, that eminent officer, taking occasion to introduce the subject, thus expressed himself:-"Gentlemen at a distance," he said, "would do well to suspend their opinions until

more detailed accounts arrived. It was very difficult to judge correctly of matters so far away from us. He had been at Mooltan; he knew the place well; and he felt quite satisfied that when full particulars were known, the measures of General Whish would be as warmly commended as at that moment they were questioned." Time soon showed that he was right, and silenced the cavillers.

Major Edwardes commences his last chapter with the following apposite observations, which form a good conclud ing commentary on all that has preceded them::

"Mortals are proverbially too shortsighted to see the good that lies latent in misfortune; and our countrymen at that time very naturally lamented the failure of the first siege of Mooltan. But when the cold historian comes to look back on all this turmoil, will he not pause over this temporary check, and apostrophise its felicity for British India? Had Mooltan fallen in Septem

ber, Chuttur Singh could not have been joined by his son's, the Bunnoo, and the Peshawur armies; every petty Sikh horseman would not have raised his head, and seized his own village, in the convenient name of the Khalsa. There would have been, in short, no national insurrection; and perhaps the kingdom of Maharajah Duleep Singh might have weathered the storm. Beholding the passions that broke loose when Sher Singh broke faith, and the unconquered animosity of the Sikh army against the victors of the Sutlej, not even the best friend of the treaty of March, 1846, would perhaps wish that the matter could have been patched up. It is clear that we never could have been safe; and the rebellion would only have been deferred, till the young Maharajah was old enough to head the ungrate ful movement. Far better was it, then, that the nation, by our temporary reverses, was tempted into since. rity-into thinking that the ripe time was come for ejecting us. With a good cause, and a clear conscience, we have now completed the unfinished vengeance of 1846; and, instead of, at the end of a glorious experiment of magnanimity, retiring, in 1854, across our own border, the Beas, and leaving a mighty and implacable enemy in our rear, we have, in 1849, rid ourselves for ever of the last enemy between the shores of the Hindoo and the mountain barrier of the Moslem."

On the 27th December, 1848, the siege of Mooltan was resumed, with increased means, an efficient batteringtrain, and the assurance of success. On the 2nd of January, 1849, two breaches having been effected, the city was carried by assault, with daring gallantry and moderate loss. On the 22nd of January, two practicable breaches being also established in the citadel, the British columns were formed for the final attack, when Moolraj quailed at the last decisive moment, and surrendered himself without conditions, instead of dying under the gateway of his palace, as the more hardy Tippoo did at Seringapatam. He was removed to Lahore, tried, convicted, and sentenced to death; but recommended to mercy, as the "victim of circumstances!" A strange recommendation, as strangely acted on. His life was spared, and his punishment changed to transportation beyond the seas. was not without sympathisers, who pitied "poor Mooraj," while they forgot the fate of Agnew and Anderson,

VOL. XXXVII.-NO. CCXX.

He

and inquired not whether those victims of his duplicity remained still in their neglected burial-ground, or were removed by their countrymen and fellow-soldiers to a more distinguished cemetery. Let Major Edwardes tell us what befel their remains :

"The besieging army did not march away to other fields without performing its last melancholy duty to the memory of Agnew and Anderson. The bodies of these officers were carefully-1 may say affectionately-removed from the careless grave where they lay side by side, and, wrapped in Cashmere shawls (with a vain but natural desire to obliterate all traces of neglect), were borne by the soldiers of the 1st Bombay Fusiliers (Anderson's own regiment), to an honoured resting-place, on the sum mit of Moolraj's citadel. By what way borne? Through the gate where they had been first assaulted? Oh, no! through the broad and sloping breach which had been made by the British guns in the walls of the rebellious fortress of Mooltan."

Major Edwardes, who had the best opportunities of accurate knowledge, expresses no doubt of Moolraj's unqualified guilt. "The victim of cir. cumstances!" Why, if we refine on the point, every murderer may more or less establish a similar plea. We are neither bloodthirsty nor vindictive, but we think a great opportunity was here thrown away. The public execution of such a criminal as Moolraj (let us recollect the blood and treasure his rebellion, founded on murder, cost before it was subdued), at that precise time, while the second Sikh war was yet in doubtful progress, and England's fortune still suspended in the balance, would have been an exception of just severity, more profitable than ill-timed lenity. Commuting his sentence was, what Talleyrand would have called, “a great political mistake!" The object of punishment in such cases is neither revenge for individual offence, nor personal dislike. It is the vindication of general principles; the war of right against wrong; the triumph of social order over barbarian license, and the deterring multitudes from crime by one salutary example.

When General Pollock's army advanced on Cabul, in 1842, his instructions were, in case the chances of war threw Achbar Khan into his hands, to try him immediately by court-mar

2 E

tial for the murder of Sir William M'Naghten, and deal with him according to the evidence. There can be no doubt that the evidence would have been sufficient, and he would have been sentenced to be hanged, but very probably he might have escaped on the plea that he treated his prisoners with kindness that is to say, he abstained from cutting all their throats when he had them in his power. But he mistrusted the tender mercies of the "Feringhees," and avoided the question by a timely flight. Not long after this he perished ingloriously in a sort of domestic broil.

The most important facts connected with the second siege and capture of Mooltan, to the close of the campaign which immediately followed, are given by Major Edwardes with undiminished power, in condensed brevity, and are full of interest and excitement. Gallant deeds are recorded, and honoured names are placed in an enduring memorial. "A Year on the Punjab Frontier" will find its way to the shelves of all established libraries, and will be quoted again and again as a standard authority, We must here bring our review to a conclusion, and cannot take leave of the author more gracefully than in the words of his own " Envoy," and with the last sentiment expressed in which we heartily concur :—

"Thus having seen our enemies punished, and our friends rewarded, let you and I, dear reader, also lay down our arms, trusting humbly that we have obeyed the injunction inscribed by the Persian on his sword

"Draw me not without cause:

Sheathe me not without honour."

"Into One Year on the Punjab Frontier' have been crowded the conquest of an Afghan valley and two independent tribes; two attempts at assassination in my tent; three pitched battles; two sieges, and innumerable skirmishes. Very earnestly do I hope that all my future life may be given to the less glorious, but more useful arts of peace."

As a turbulent and independent nation, with a military establishment beyond their resources or necessities, the Sikhs exist no longer. As an integral portion of British India, they still occupy an important position, less dangerous to their neighbours, and far more useful to themselves. Major Ed

wardes has studied their character, and draws it with impartiality. Like the rest of the human family, it is formed of good and evil blended in unequal proportions. With much to condeinn, this clear-sighted writer sees also something to admire. The policy of employing the disbanded soldiers, and the mode he recommends of doing so, are so sound and obvious, that we take it for granted the resident authorities will adopt a system combining both safety and amelioration.

All at present is tranquil in India; railroads are in progress, civilization on the advance, and peace in the ascendant. How long this may continue, it is impossible to predict. Where, when, or from what cause, whether trifling or important, will a new collision be forced upon us? Finality in our Eastern Empire seems as chimerical as in home legislation. The laws of nature, as arranged by Providence, denote perpetual progress. Everything changes into something else. The impassable barrier of last year is to-day a beaten track. Already our dominion extends beyond the Indus, which rolls majestically along the map, and seems to proclaim itself our legitimate boundary. The frontier fortress of Peshawur looks into the mouth of the Khyber Pass, and scarcely feels secure from the predatory tribes who infest that difficult and commanding defile. Before long an advanced post may there be come indispensable. Then, at a little distance beyond, rises Jellalabad, fraught with so many glorious recol lections. At Cabul we have no unbalanced accounts to settle; but looking over the mountains towards the north, lies Bokhara, where the blood of Englishmen has been shed, as yet without atonement. Turning southerly, Candahar and Herat may be coveted by Russia as convenient outposts, should she, in the course of time, take a sum mer's ramble through Persia, and Eng. land may feel disposed to anticipate her. "Increase of appetite grows by what it feeds on." These may be idle speculations, more shadowy and fantastic than the forms of summer clouds; but while we abstain from aggressive wars, and are urged on by no unbal lowed thirst of conquest, we may wait patiently and trustingly the unerring march of events, and fear no results, with good discipline, able leaders, and, above all, with honest intentions.

GHOSTS in Chapelizod, my good sir! "Why who knows not so ?" A place that is itself a shadow of things past, the living spectre of old times. Chapelizod is all a ghost. If any one desires to see a suburban village of the once proud city of Dublin reduced to a marrowless skeleton, without a single speculation in its eye by which it can ever hope to rise again, let him go to Chapelizod. Dead walls; dead trees overhanging them; dead lights instead of windows in the houses; the men grave, the women lifeless, the little spirits squeaking and gibbering in the muddy streets! A veritable caput mortuum is Chapelizod. No wonder that Bob Martin should fancy he saw a ghost, for he was always looking at

one.

It is just fifty years since Chapelizod was marked for the silent tomb, and condemned to perish by a lingering death. The cold hand of Centralisation, long before the insatiable monster was known by that name, clutched its first victim in Chapelizod. I barely remember the event. A heavy storm came down from the west; great rains had previously descended, and the angry spirit of the river screeched. I heard it myself running under the skew arch of the old bridge. There was lightning in the sky, and the clouds flew across the face of the moon like mad things. As yet the air was calm on the surface of the earth, but towards midnight the gale arose and tore up a number of trees in the Park. Before twenty-four hours we all perceived how easy it would have been to foresee what was coming, for in the course of the forenoon the order arrived

for disbanding the Royal Irish Artillery. It was now no longer a mystery why it had blown great guns all the night.

That was the first special act of centralisation-always excepting the fatal centripetal movement from the house in College-green-which was perpetrated against Ireland. The glory of our national service was then extinguished, and Woolwich was made the arsenal sole of the United Kingdom. The royal regiment was broken up, its

guns transferred to Sarah Bridge, its veterans drafted-as many of them as thought proper to merge their name in an undistinguished throng-into the general service, and not a few who had grown old in the troop found an asylum in the Royal Hospital at Kilmainham.

The transition of an old soldier from Chapelizod to Kilmainham was easy, the principal change consisting in putting off a blue coat to put on a red. They were not required to seek unaccustomed seats, or new associations among strangers, in whom the very accents of their tongue would awaken a prejudice against them, and make them objects of vulgar derision; but they dropped gently down the vale of years, amongst their own countrymen, near scenes hallowed to memory, still looking upon those hills which had exhilarated their hearts in the pride and prime of life, and inhaling breezes, wafted down the stream, which had braced and invigorated their lusty sinews, when they were strong swimmers." They had friends and kindred at the old quarter, whom they continued to visit on festive occasions, "at the season of the year;" and it was pleasant to see the hearty old fellows, in their new" coats of scarlet," on the king's birth-day or a Whitsun-Monday, mixing with the crowd of villagers; one leading a little grandson by the hand, another engaged in cheering converse with a married daughter, or linked with some civil remanet of the bygone century, with whom, peradventure, he had quaffed many a social cup of ale; and all climbing the green slope that overhangs the Liffey, on their way to the grand review.

By degrees, as years rolled on, the bright red spots in that moving picture died out; but it was a consoling reflection to those who turned their thoughts to the evidence thus afforded of the sure and silent work of death, that the ties of lite had not been abruptly or prematurely torn asunder by the cold hands of centralizing economy. They who had served their country faithfully and loyally in their youth, were suf