As regarded themselves, the 23d were supposed at
first to have been barely not annihilated; but eventually, I believe,
about one in four survived. And this, then, was the regiment--a
regiment already for some hours glorified and hallowed to the ear of
all London, as lying stretched, by a large majority, upon one bloody
aceldama--in which the young trooper served whose mother was now
talking in a spirit of such joyous enthusiasm. Did I tell her the
truth? Had I the heart to break up her dreams? No. To-morrow, said I to
myself--to-morrow, or the next day, will publish the worst. For one
night more wherefore should she not sleep in peace? After to-morrow the
chances are too many that peace will forsake her pillow. This brief
respite, then, let her owe to _my_ gift and _my_ forbearance. But, if I
told her not of the bloody price that had been paid, not therefore was
I silent on the contributions from her son's regiment to that day's
service and glory. I showed her not the funeral banners under which the
noble regiment was sleeping. I lifted not the overshadowing laurels
from the bloody trench in which horse and rider lay mangled together.
But I told her how these dear children of England, officers and
privates, had leaped their horses over all obstacles as gaily as
hunters to the morning's chase. I told her how they rode their horses
into the midst of death,--saying to myself, but not saying to _her_
"and laid down their young lives for thee, O mother England! as
willingly--poured out their noble blood as cheerfully--as ever, after a
long day's sport, when infants, they had rested their weary heads upon
their mother's knees, or had sunk to sleep in her arms.
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