I stood on the Exchange at noon, to-day, to see the 18th Regiment, the
Connaught Rangers, marching down to embark for the East. They were a
body of young, healthy, and cheerful-looking men, and looked greatly
better than the dirty crowd that thronged to gaze at them. The royal
banner of England, quartering the lion, the leopard, and the harp, waved
on the town-house, and looked gorgeous and venerable. Here and there a
woman exchanged greetings with an individual soldier, as he marched
along, and gentlemen shook hands with officers with whom they happened to
be acquainted. Being a stranger in the land, it seemed as if I could see
the future in the present better than if I had been an Englishman; so I
questioned with myself how many of these ruddy-cheeked young fellows,
marching so stoutly away, would ever tread English ground again. The
populace did not evince any enthusiasm, yet there could not possibly be a
war to which the country could assent more fully than to this. I
somewhat doubt whether the English populace really feels a vital interest
in the nation.
Some years ago, a piece of rude marble sculpture, representing St. George
and the Dragon, was found over the fireplace of a cottage near Rock
Ferry, on the road to Chester. It was plastered over with pipe-clay, and
its existence was unknown to the cottagers, until a lady noticed the
projection and asked what it was.
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