which belongs only to her sex; and, in this battle, forgetful of every thing but that strong affection which had so long supported her, she rode deep amidst the enemy's fire, trembling, yet irresistibly impelled forwards by feelings more imperious than horror, more piercing than the fear of death."

It was in this battle that the Duke of Wellington is stated to have been struck in the thigh by a spent musket-ball, which passed through his holster.

Lady de Lancy, a sister of Captain Basil Hall, carefully attended her dying husband, Sir William de Lancy, in a peasant's cottage at Waterloo, for seven or eight days after the battle, in which he had been severely wounded, and, in fact, was at first returned as killed. In "Recollections, by Samuel Rogers," the following account is given by the Duke :—“ De Lancy was with me when he was struck. We were on a point of land that overlooked the plain, and I had just been warned off by some soldiers (but as I saw well from it, and as two divisions were engaging below, I had said, 'Never mind'), when a ball came leaping along en ricochet, as it is called, and striking him on the back, sent him many yards over the head of his horse. He fell on his face, and bounded upward and

fell again.

"All the staff dismounted, and ran to him; and when I came up he said, 'Pray tell them to leave me, and let me die in peace.'

"I had him conveyed into the rear; and two days afterwards, when, on my return from Brussels, I saw him in a barn, he spoke with such strength that I said (for I had reported him among the killed), "Why; De Lancy, you will have the advantage of Sir Condy in

H

Castle Rackrent; you will know what your friends. said of you after you were dead.' 'I hope I shall,' he replied. Poor fellow! We had known each other ever since we were boys. But I had no time to be sorry; I went on with the army, and never saw him again."

The Russian war is not devoid of such instances, which being so well known their repetition is unnecessary; but there is. one example which it would be ingratitude to omit, for it was left to the nineteenth century to exemplify woman's true sphere of duty in the battle-field;-this was shown by Florence Nightingale and her devoted sisterhood, and it is gratifying to remember the assistance rendered by the Times newspaper, in opening a subscription to aid this generous lady in her efforts to alleviate the sufferings of the sick and wounded. Whilst the army boasted of the bravest of the brave, the kindly sympathy and attention of woman were not wanting. Love was united to heroism, and should the time ever call for a repetition of such self-sacrifice, the example thus afforded will produce similar efforts, which seem to blend the chivalry of a past age with the practical duties of the present. Her task performed, she returned home, only anxious to escape observation, and to seek retirement. Her experience had eminently fitted her for the glorious mission she had undertaken, and her knowledge of hospital duties rendered her equal to the great emergency. To quote a soldier's words, showing the fascination she exercised over all under her care: "She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to a many more; but she couldn't do it to all, as you know, for we lay there by hun

dreds; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content."

Britain has welcomed home with open hand
Her gallant soldiers to their native land;
But one alone the Nation's thanks did shun,
Though Europe rings with all that she hath done.
For when will "shadow on the wall" e'er fail
To picture forth fair Florence Nightingale !
Her deeds are blazon'd on the scroll of Fame,
And England well may prize her deathless name.

Punch, in the accompanying stanzas, has happily eulogized the Dorcas of the Crimea :

A NIGHTINGALE IN THE CAMP.

THE men before Sebastopol! a more heroic host
There never stood, in hardship and in peril, at their post.
The foremost of those warriors 'twere a famous thing to be!
And there the first among them goes, if thou hast eyes to see.

'Tis not the good LORD RAGLAN, nor yet the great OMAR,
No, nor the fierce PELISSIER, though thunderbolts of war.
Behold the soldier who in worth excels above the rest;
That English maiden yonder is our bravest and our best.

Brave men, so called, are plentiful; the most of men are brave.
So, truly, are the most of dogs, who reck not of a grave:
Their valour's not self-sacrifice, but simple want of heed;
But courage, in a woman's heart, is bravery indeed.

And there is Mercy's Amazon, within whose little breast
Burns the great spirit that has dared the fever and the pest.
And she has grappled with grim Death, that maid so bold and

meek:

There is the mark of battle fresh upon her pallid cheek.

That gallant, gentle lady the Camp would fain review;

Throughout the Chief escorts her with such honour as is due. How many a prayer attends on her, how many a blessing greets How many a glad and grateful eye among that host she meets

Now goes she to look forth upon the Enemy's stronghold.
Oh, damsel, when its story shall in aftertimes be told,
When not a stone of that thieves' den shall rest upon a stone,
No name shall with its memory live longer than thine own.

Among the world's great women thou has made thy glorious mark;

Men will hereafter mention make of thee with JOAN OF ARC: And fathers, who relate the MAID OF SARAGOSSA's tale,

Will tell their little children, too, of FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

MILITARY EPITAPHS.

"Sure, if I reprehend anything in this world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs."

MRS. MALAPROP.