too great almost for credence, they were breaking their way through the columns which enveloped them, when there took place an act of atrocity without parallel in the modern warfare of civilised nations.  The Russian gunners, when the storm of cavalry passed, returned to their guns.  They saw their own cavalry mingled with the troopers who had just ridden over them, and, to the eternal disgrace of the Russian name, the miscreants poured a murderous volley of grape and canister on the mass of struggling men and horses, mingling friend and foe in one common ruin.  It was as much as our Heavy Cavalry Brigade could do to cover the retreat of the miserable remnants of that band of heroes as they returned to the place they had so lately quitted in all the pride of life.  At 11:35 not a British soldier, except the dead and dying, was left in front of the Muscovite guns.

The “Times” Correspondent.

* * * * *

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

SCENE.—­Venice.  A Court of Justice.

Enter the_ DUKE, the Magnificoes, ANTONIO,
BASSANIO, GATIANO, SALARINO, SALANIO, and
others.

Duke.  What, is Antonio here?

Ant.  Ready, so please your grace.

Duke. I am sorry for thee; thou art come to
answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.

Ant.  I have heard
Your grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury, and am arm’d
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,
The very tyranny and rage of his.

Duke.  Go one, and call the Jew into the court,

Salan.  He is ready at the door:  he comes, my lord.

Enter SHYLOCK.

Duke.  Make room, and let him stand before our face. 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead’st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then ’tis thought
Thou’lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
And where thou now exact’st the penalty,
(Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh),
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
But, touch’d with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal;
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
That have of late so huddled on his back,
Enow to press a royal merchant down
And pluck commiseration of his state
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train’d
To offices of tender courtesy. 
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

Shy. I have possess’d your grace of what I purpose;
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond: 
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter and your city’s freedom. 
You’ll ask me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive
Three thousand ducats; I’ll not answer that: 
But, say, it is my humour; is it answer’d?