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Into the mouth of hell,

Rode the six hundred."

There will appear the'names of the daring Zouaves who fearlessly climbed dizzy heights like mountain goats and scattered the enemy like whirlwind, and the deeds of the brave men who scaled the towers of the Redan and Malakoff, will fill all the world with wonder. Bat more glorious than these, will appear the self-denying actions of Florence Nightingale, who left the refinements of home for the rude scenes of the warlike camp, not to acquire fame but to do good, and the halo of glory around her name will shine brightly, long after the laurel wreath of victory shall have faded on the brow of the victorious warrior.

“ The drying of a single tear has more

Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore." The soldier, "seeking the bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth,” fought because the world looked on to applaud his brave deeds, and because the people would toss on high their caps and shout his praises, when he, returning from war, bearing honorable scars, should march in triumph through the streets, amid the swelling strains of martial music and waving of victorious banners. But this true woman acted only from the promptings of a Christian heart; she sought no applause, and steadily refused to be lionized by a grateful nation. Quietly she retired to the seclusion of home, and though the hand of Royalty offered her & title of nobility, she refused to receive it; yes, calmly rejected that for which men have sacrificed wealth and honor and have risked their soul's salvation. Invitations to spend the rest of the days at Court were declined, for the glitter and pageantry of regal life, so fascinating to many of her sex, had no charms for her.

As the weary Arab, traversing the desolate plains of the East, oppressed by hot winds and whirling clouds of sand, views with pleasure the green oasis covered with stately palms and rich verdure, so do we, living in the midst of selfishness and heartless indifference to others, daily seeing instances of moral and political degradation, and often feeling the hot winds of calumny and hate, behold with feelings of joy some individuals, whose characters, adorned with noble, God-like virtues, loom out from the midst of surrounding moral desolation like green spots from the desert.

Thus appears the character of Florence Nightingale, and already has her name as a model woman became a household word throughout the the civilized world. On the banks of his native stream, the bearded Russian often mentions to his listening children how on some battle plain a gentle being from its Enemy's camp, held the cooling draught to his parched mouth, by the watch-fires of the Sultan's army. The Turkish soldier, when recalling the memories of battles lost and won, with reverence speaks of the fair form that often glided by his bed in the crowded hospitals; and the crippled hero, sitting in the twilight hour at the door of his vine-clad cottage in France, or humble home in England, with kindling eye tell his hearers of the Ministering Angel of the Crimea; and here by our own happy firesides her name is mentioned with feelings of veneration.

Time steals on. She sleeps her last sleep in the quiet churchyard near her home. Consumption, that dread destroyer, that cats down old and young, that enters the halls of State and spatches from thence the Senator in the midst of usefuluess, that steals assassin-like into the home circle and bears away to the silent tomb the gentle mother, the maiden in all her loveliness and the youth in the flower of life; consump: tion, whose touch is death, had laid his icy hand upon her heart in the fields of the Crimea, and she returns to her home to fade away like a flower touched by frost.

The hour of death draws nigh. The evening wind, fragrant with the breath of Spring's early flowers, steals into the chamber of the dy. ing one, and as the shadows begin to gather around the earth, her soul

, like a captive bird released, wings its flight to a purer and better world. With sad hearts they bear her to the grave. Tenderly they let her down to rest wbile the man of God speaks the solemn words: “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The clods fall heavily on her coffin lid, while the deep-toned bell in the old church steeple tolls her passing knell. Fearfully the sorrow-stricken people turn away, and Florence Nightingale, the true heroine, the saint-like woman and self-denying philanthropist, sleeps beneath the willows that droop around ber tomb, but

The soft memory of her virtues, yet
Lingers like twilight hues when the bright sun is set.

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The sun goes down into the west,

The town is hushed and still,
The miller works while others sleep-

His thoughts are with the mill.
The river runs, the big wheel turns

In the water's wild embrace,
Unrest, unrest, it ever speaks
From out its prison place.

Through the long, long night

Through the silent night-
When all around is still,

Can be heard the dash

Of the big wheel's splash,
And the tick-tack song of the mill.
The miller wakes, the miller works,

His mind from envy free,
Preparing food for those who sleep-

Few men more staunch than he.
With shovel and sack, upon his back,

He tramps through the midnight hour
The dusty stairway up and down,
To dolt the meal and flour,

In the stormy night,

In the starless night-
When rains the valley fill,

Between the wail

Of the fitful gale,
Comes the welcome song of the mill.
On, on, he toils more drowsily,

Amid the clatter and din, and
The golden grains fly faster,

The wild stones whirl them in.
Worn to repose, the eyelids close,

His thoughts no longer seem
Attendant on the things around,
But far away in dream.

Trough the silent hour

In her summer bower-
The maiden on the hill,

By her lover's side

How the moments glide,
Can tell by the song of the mill.
A structure stout, that dear old mill,

With sides of modest gray,
Its hanging arch where the Peewit builds-

And roof no longer gay.
Through storm and food its walls have stood-

The battered oaken door
In time of need, was never closed,
Against the suffering poor.

May through the door

It's time worn floor
Ne'er by the base be trod,

And memories blest

Forever rest,
On its masters 'neath the sod.



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The warrior rests well upon his laurels, and that was the case with as, on the night of the 18th of June, 1815. No reveille was sounded in the morning for risiug, and we rested till nearly 9 o'clock. No roll was called, but the remnant of the survivors entered anew, by name, in each Captain's company. When we looked over the battle-field, what & difference in 24 hours! The flower of Wellington's and Napoleon's armies were resting that slumber, from which they will only awake when the trumpet of the resurrection will sound. A deep silence had reigned during the night, and there was but little activity on the first part of the morning of the 19th. What an aspect! A large field, unmeasur. able by the naked eye, all strewn over with human bodies, besides the horses! A tear of sorrow rolled down the cheeks of many a hero, when he saw his dear friends stretched out on the field of battle. Feelings, which I never had since, and never wish to have again, feelings of sad. ness and sorrow, penetrated my whole frame, when I here beheld the immense and unlimited power of the last enemy, the king of terror. Though death is an angel of peace to the believer in Christ Jesus, yet bis power is terrific, when seen on a large battle-field. His universal power was here beheld, in the equality with which he treated his subjects, Generals, Colonels, Majors, Captains and soldiers, all had to share equal in their ffnal earthly fate, and under his domineering influence. But let us direct now our attention to the wounded, and to their cries and lamentations. Wherever our eyes were directed, we bebeld the wounded, and their groans and lamentations reached the most obdurate heart. Whilst many were about to breathe their last, hundreds and thousands signified, by their loud calls for help, that something was necessary to be done for them. But a poet could make a much better description of a battle-field than I am able to do. A Homer would have done good service, to sing the praises of many an Achilles, who was numbered amongst the dead, and a Milton, to open his pathetic veins over the power and effects of sin, and to make experimental additions to his lost Paradise, The wounded of all ages called now for aid, from the youth of 16 up to the aged of 60, who were scattered over the large battle field, and lying amongst the dead of similar ages. The wounded were brought into the village of Waterloo, into large farm houses and barns, and laid there close together, until the Surgeons would approach. In two spacious farm houses and barns, I saw at least two hundred and fifty. These belonged to the three squares of Hanoverian troops. This will give you a faint idea of the wounded in the infantry, which at

least, in the centre of the army, had formed 50 squares when alive, besides the wounded amongst the cavalry, artillery, etc. The whole vil. lage of Waterloo was now a hospital. The dressing of the wounded was a heart-rending aspect. Some had musket balls cut out of orms and legs, and sometimes on the side of the head, others had arms and legs amputated. Human misery appeared here in all its different shapes. I cannot help but give you one instance of the wounded. I was ordered with 5 men, to bring one of our wounded soldiers to Waterloo. He had lost the lower part of both his legs. When we came to bim, he begged us to end his misery. We told him “that we had no other orders, but to bring him back to the surgeon.” But how to move him ? We had two blankets, wherein to carry bim. When we lifted him, he so overwhelmed us by his lamentations, that we laid him down again. This was done at 6 different times. At the seventh onset we concluded not to be moved by his cries, and in this stoical feeling we laid him on the blankets and brought him to the surgeons.

I saw him two years afterwards, with two crutches, and he thanked me cordially that we had not killed him. He said, "Life is sweet, even supported by two crutches !

After the wounded had been taken care of, I shall now shortly direct my attention to the second part of the battle field after battle, which is “plunder.” This was not forbidden, but not at all commanded. The English government wanted to make as much in a pecuniary point of the battle field, as possible. The French Colonel, killed by the six men in front of our square, bad been visited by a grenadier of our company, before I returned from taking care of the wounded, and in his belt he found six hundred francs. Had it been found by a man of temperate babits, it might have done him good in future life, but so it was, as L. T. Kosegarter, a poet of our time says, “like water thrown into a hollow cistern," which all ran through, and none was preserved. Till we came to Paris, all tbis money was gone, for in these three weeks he had more freinds than he ever had afterwards. In the pockets of dead soldiers, there was not much to be found; and indeed the officers who were killed, carried but little money.

All that I could find was two French carabines, which I sold afterwards in the fortress of Maubeuge for five francs. As all the cannons, powder wagons and ammunition, uniforms etc., fell into the hands of the English government, besides the treasury of the officers and soldiers who were killed, (each soldier had four dollars deposited in the Captain's treasury) this gave rise to the prize money, and in 1817, each soldier got a medal from the government and fifteen francs prize money. Indeed a great inducement to enter into an European army! It is often said that .

Republics are ungrateful ;" this cannot be said of the Uni. ted States of North America, when we consider the rewards in land and in money, given to the revolutionary soldiers, and to the soldiers in the last war with England, in 1812.

About eleveni o'clock, a. m., we got provisions of bread, meat, and some rum. Many of the remaining soldiers, from fatigue, had scarcely left the ground upon which they rested; and if bread and rum were always so wisely administered, as after the battle, when human nature was so nearly exhausted--if rum were only administered after three days battle,

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