Soyer's Culinary Campaign: Being Historical Reminiscences of the Late War.: With The Plain Art of Cookery for Military and Civil Institutions

me such a blow on the pate--the report, I mean--I can hardly hear now.” That man was not four feet from the shell when it exploded. I consider that we had a most miraculous escape, as our brave cockney observed, looking as pale as though, he hadn’t a drop of blood left, though generally possessing a regular rubicund face, the vermilion colour of which nothing but a good coat of whitewash could have affected. He was, in fact, quite stupified, and asked me if it was likely that another would burst. “Very likely,” said I, “if anybody sets it on fire.” “You in particular, my young fellow,” said I, “have had a narrow escape. If I had not called you back, you would have been blown to atoms, as a large branch was sent clean off a poplar tree near which you were standing.” The wooden fusee, a piece of the other fellow’s trousers, and a regular fright, were some of the trophies I gathered of this sad event. On our way home, our Snow-hill friend, who could not get rid of the bomb-shell feeling, and felt rather shaky, related the following clever move on the part of himself and Mr. Mesnil. It occurred a few days before in one of the ravines, and he almost trembled in relating the anecdote. “Ah,” said he, “you blame those poor fellows for setting fire to that shell. I’ll tell you what Mr. Mesnil and myself did the other day. As we were walking, we found a live shell, and being anxious to ascertain whether it contained those bundles of fused nails we had been shown by Joseph at Stuart’s canteen in the morning, we actually took up a sixty-four pound shot which was at hand, and pounded the shell four or five times, in order to split it, that we might inspect the contents. This did not succeed, so at length we gave it up in despair.” “Never!” exclaimed I. “We did, I assure you. Ask Mesnil.” Calling him as he was riding on before, I asked him if it was true.