Thus far, I have said scarcely a word of the enemy in Sebastopol,—or indeed of any state of war in which our soldiers were living and dying. The calamities of sickness were in fact so much more fatal, and even more conspicuous, than those of the mere strife with the Russians that, without affectation, they occupy our attention now, almost to the exclusion of the incidents of the siege and the battle-field. We ought not to forget, however, that during the winter we have been dwelling on, the vast stores of ammunition collected in Sebastopol were poured out on our forces, like an ever-recurring hailstorm of iron and fire. When the din ceased, men thought themselves deaf,—so unnatural was the comparative stillness of that group of camps, and hum of tens of thousands of manly voices, which in fact resounded like a city. Every man saw wounds and death perhaps every day. Every man expected wounds or death almost every day. It is nothing new or surprising to say that there was no quailing in the midst of such a life, prolonged as it was from week to week, and from month to month. We cannot conceive of the British soldier as quailing under the liabilities he went out to meet. Yet, we ought to consider what the liability amounted to, not only because we are contemplating the life of the army, but because the resistance of Sebastopol transcends everything known in history for the deadliness of the destruction attempted.