tect him!), I should be thankful if he met with the like charity from his neighbour."

The two women were overcome when they saw the forsaken state of the poor youth; and Mattea said to Speranza, a stout, robust young woman of about twenty," Raise him up a little; he has sunk too low."

Speranza climbed upon the straw, took him gently under the arms, and raised him up; while Mattea, with the hand which was unoccupied by the lantern, shook up the straw beneath him, pressing it with her knee, that it might not sink down again.

The unfortunate wounded soldier, feeling relieved, turned a grateful look upon the women, who stook looking upon him timidly. "Good people, pardon me for causing you this trouble, but I was unwilling that a man should bind my wound; for under this soldier's dress you see before you a woman, like yourselves."

..

The two women started, and exclaimed, both at once, 'Oh, Holy Virgin! are you really a girl?"

"Yes, dear friends. Loose this coat, and remove my clothes from my breast: they are soaked with blood."

Mattea, with gentle fingers, untied the cords of her belt, and unfastened the hooks and eyes of the collar and down the breast. She then, with a pair of scissors, cut open the under-clothes, to reach the wound.

A musket-ball had struck her under the ribs. The wound was dreadfully inflamed, and the blood still trickled down beneath her clothing. The women first carefully removed the garments from the wound. The blood flowed more profusely than before, and Mattea applied the towels, doubled up in many folds; still she was unable to stanch it. With anxious excitement, she called her husband. "Marco! run into the kitchen, pour some pure wine into a pan, place it on the fire until gently warm, and bring it us quickly! In the meantime, Speranza wiped the perspiration from the poor patient, as she bent over her, fall of tenderness, and encouraged her to place her confidence in God.

This was Polissena. Whilst she was combatting bravely from behind the trunk of a chestnut tree, in the act of kneeling to fire, a ball pierced her side. It was evening. She was still able to run rapidly down the hill, and through the little valley which ended with the fields in which the house stood. But, exhausted with fatigue and loss of blood, her strength failed, and she fell to the ground in a state of insensibility; then, recovering herself, with a great effort she rose to her feet, and after a few tottering steps, again stumbled and fell. Thence she dragged herself upon the ground as far as the shed, and there, upon the straw, abandoned herself to her fate.

While Speranza was offering consolation, and Mattea making efforts to stanch the flow of blood until the wine was ready, Polissena suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, justice and mercy of God! Sisters, I am a sinner! an impious creature! I have committed many crimes! I deserve to be utterly abandoned by all! I have lived a wicked life; I ought to die as I have lived, and be cast to perdition! But no! God has not forsaken me; he has sent me your charity; the prayers of my sister-that holy Yes, yes! my Ombellina! I see you; I hear you! Thank these noble women for me! Pray! oh, pray for me, for them!"

The women look around, saying, "Who are you speaking to, signora ?"

"With my sister. Do you not see her ?" "Where ?"

sisters! Oh, Holy Mary, forgive! Oh that I had a confessor !"

Signora, the curate lives at a great distance. How can we fetch him at this hour, in the midst of all these terrors of war?" "Patience, then! Oh, dear Jesus! I repent from the bottom of my heart! Ombellina, come! embrace me! I feel that I am dying! Sisters, promise me that when I am dead, no one but you shall approach me. You-you alone! You-you promise me ?"

"Yes," answered the women, with great emotion. “Don't be afraid; we give you our word, no one shall touch you. But we hope you will recover."

Polissena sought the hand of Speranza; but when she tried to take that of Mattea, she had not strength to press it. A cold shivering ran through her frame, she trembled, and fainted away.

Quick, Speranza! a little water and vinegar!" cried Mattea. At this moment, Marco came with the wine. Mattea hastily placed the towel upon the palpitating bosom of Polissena, sprinkled some of the wine in her face, poured a few drops upon her lips, and bathed her temples. Polissena re-opened her eyes, and with a deep sigh, murmured, "Oh, God!" "We are here, lady; fear nothing." At the same time she signed to Marco to withdraw.

Then Mattea dipped the corner of the towel in the pan, which Speranza held for her, and began very softly to bathe the wound, which softened and opened. She then tore off a piece of liner, folded it several thicknesses, and, dipping it in the wine, drew together the sides of the wound, and bound it up in the best manner that the posture of Polissena would permit.

Relieved by the application, Polissena recovered a little; her eyes brightened as she looked upon her benefactresses: she at length, with a sweet smile, said: Ah, kind friends, what gratitude I owe you!-to what painful trouble have I put you!--but you are so good, so full of charity. May God and the Holy Virgin reward you! But do not abandon me during those few moments of life which are left me, they are short -short. What are your names, dear friends ?"

They answered, "Mattea and Speranza." Their tears flowed as they performed every act of affection. "No," said they, "be assured we will never leave you. We are poor people, but we are also Christians; we have hearts like others. It is a consolation to us to help and comfort you, and God commands us to do it. Gladly would we carry you to our own bed, but we should thereby risk losing you."

(To be continued.)

FRANCIS HERBERT; OR, THE GALWAY STUDENT. A TALE OF THE WAR.

BY P. J. GANNON, Esq. CHAPTER I.

SLOWLY and solemnly swung the old bells of St. Nicholas's Church, in the ancient "Citie of the tribes," as the venerable old hands of "the old clock" pointed to the solemn hour of twelve, on the night of the 24th December, 1849, the eve of the joyous anniversary of the birth of the Redeemer of mankind. Slowly and solemnly, we say, rang out the old bells, "pealing into the arch of night," and pouring forth on the icy air, through the long, narrow, dim, and dusky lanes, their sweet, and gentle, and holy sounds conveying to the tired and lowly denizens of the humble abodes of the struggling poor, with which the good old town abounded, flinging across the still waters of the bay, wafting over the shores of the broad lake, and pouring sweetly and holily over meadow and moorland, those sounds "by gentle shepherds heard alone" on the plains of Bethlehem.

Glory to God on high, and peace on earth to men of good

will. How happy are the associations connected with those time-honoured Christmas chimes! What happy recollections gush forth, as the well-remembered tones peal deeply and mournfully on the ear. Far beyond the waters of the dark and muddy Mississipi--" the father of waters "-in the "dim forests of the West," seated in his rude hut, the lonely exile traces in the dying cimbers of his log-fire images of bygone days. When seated by the yule-log, piled high upon the hearth, surrounded by joyous faces and loving hearts in "his own loved isle of the West," he heard the joyous peals, ere the ruthless hand of the exterminator had sent him forth upon the world, a houseless and a homeless wanderer, and compelled him to seek in the backwoods of America, whose lordly pines fell beneath the strokes of his axe, a habitation wherein to rest his head, far away from those he loved so well.

How the lonely digger, on the banks of the Yarra Yarra, in his rude tent, pitched beneath the outspread branches of some tall tree, surrounded by rude and grisly companions, with his chin, perhaps, resting on his clenched hands, calls back the reminiscences of his early home, in some secluded and sheltered spot, where, surrounded by fond parents, affectionate brothers, and loving sisters, "who grew in beauty side by side," the Christmas-log burned bright upon the cheerful hearth, and he, the hope and joy of the happy circle, was looked up to and loved-such love as belongs alone to the early days of life's young dream. Alas! how changed the scene? Sixteen thousand miles now divide him from the scene of that cherished home, which he had quitted to seek in the bowels of the earth gold

"That had lured him away from his childhood's hearth, With its tones of love, and its voice of mirth."

Gold; not with the sordid, selfish, avaricious thirst of the miser, but with the higher and holier purpose of preserving that cherished home for those dearly-loved, though far distant objects.

On the arid plains of India, in the sultry air of night, when all is hushed save the buzz of the glittering fire-fly and the hum of the cicala, intermixed at intervals with the fierce cries of wild beasts from the distant jungle, where the deadly climate saps up the constitution, and where fever and malaria, the most deadly enemy of the British soldier, go hand in hand decimating our gallant Indian army. Even here the Christmas bells, chanting forth on the oppressive air the hallowed peals from some neighbouring temple, suddenly touches a chord in the breast of the poor tired soldier, as he paces his rounds or reclines wearily in his tent; and lo! "a change comes over the spirit of his dream"-he is once more in his old home; he seems to breathe once again the bracing air of his once "sweet home," and from the cheerful hearth, surrounded by a group of happy faces, he gazes forth from the window into the still streets, where the snow-flakes fall thickly, and amid the stilly silence abroad, the cheerful Christmas chimes come down from the quaint old turret,—

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinabulation that so musically swells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells." Three thousand miles away, on the shores of the Crimea, with the pelting rains and the piercing winds over head, and a sea of sticky, gluey mud below; beneath a climate far more deadly to our brave troops than the Russian bayonet; under the frail shelter of a rickety and wind-torn tent, or shivering in huts, which late accounts report to be "frail, ill-made, full of chinks and knots, which drop out and leave inimical little embrasures for the wind and rain to shoot through;" or abroad upon the ramparts, or guarding the moats or manning the bastions; or keeping watch and ward on the outlying heights; or in the trenches up to their waists in slush and

half-frozen gutter, in the dim and dreary darkness, many a brave and valiant heart, who, as they peer into the darksome night, amid silence broken only by the distant challenge of the lonely sentinel, or the baying of the distant trumpet, or the sullen roar of the cannon, or the sharp roll of musketry, shall, notwithstanding, conjure up visions of happy homes, of domestic felicity,-the laugh, the song, and the dance; the bright fireside, and the joyous groups of beautiful forms, congregated beneath wreaths of the holly and the mistletoe, and wonders will they ever come again? And lastly comes the recollection of one fair face,

"Like the remembered tones of a mute lyre;"

and then the merry Christmas chimes pealing forth once more, Glory to God on high, and peace on earth to men of goodwill."

Slowly and solemnly, we repeat, swung the old bells of St. Nicholas on the holy occasion referred to, as a young man of slight and attenuated frame, apparently about twenty-one years of age, wended his way along the now destroyed streets of the old town leading from the square, westward. The snow was falling in thick, feathery flakes, driven by the wind, as it moaned and swept in sullen and fitful gusts across the corners of the streets. Muffling himself up more closely-if drawing his light, worn, and threadbare outer garment around him more tightly might be constituted muffling-he moved swiftly along, till reaching the four corners at William-street, where stands the famed "Castle of Galway," when a violent gust of wind, laden with snow and unbroken from the sea, came with all its force, dashing him with violence against one of the lower windows of the mansion. A crash of broken glass ensues, and presently the hall-door opens, and a tall, militarylooking young man, with an incipient moustache and uncovered head, walks forth to ascertain whence the sounds of the breaking glass proceeded. Our hero, whom for obvious reasons we shall call by the name of Francis Herbert, expressed his apologies for the accident, and was about resuming his walk, which had been thus so unceremoniously interrupted, when the young gentleman, in a kind voice, arrested his progress.

'Stay, my friend," he said; "the night is severe, the snow falls thickly, and the wind is high; had you not better come in and let the storm pass over?"

The young man hesitated, thanked the gentleman for his kindness, begged to be excused, and was again about to resume his walk.

"Nay, my friend," replied he of the moustache, "this, you know, is Christmas-eve. You seem not well prepared to buffet the storm that now rages. See," said he ; and as he spoke a sudden blast swept over their heads, and slates, tiles, and chimney-pots flew fast and furious in every direction along the streets.

Herbert's disinclination to accept the proffered hospitality seemed increasing, when a large slate fell, shivered into a thousand fragments, upon the pavement, within a few yards of where they stood. Finding it vain as well as perilous to offer further resistance, Herbert reluctantly complied with the hospitable invitation, and was ushered into a capacious hall, dimly lighted by a single lamp, which hung from the ceiling. While Herbert was divesting himself of his hat, and shaking off the snow with which he was literally covered, our friend of the moustache stood attentively surveying every feature of his face.

"Is it possible," he at length said, "that you are Francis Herbert, my old schoolfellow and friend? Yes, surely," he added, after a slight panse, "I am not mistaken; and yet how much changed!"

My name," replied Herbert, "is surely that; but to whom I have the honour of being thus known I am not aware; and yet that voice-I should recollect it."

"Do you so soon forget your old chum Gerald Fitz-Henry?" and he grasped the hand of Herbert. How delighted am I,

my dear friend, to see you once more. But how is this, Frank; you appear sadly altered?"

Altered?" replied Herbert, while a slight blush overspread his wan checks, as he surveyed his thin, pale face, attenuated form, and sad and seedy garments, in a large mirror which stood opposite. 'Altered!" continued he; "frightfully so indeed!" and he cast another despairing look at his figure in the glass.

"We are both altered, it would seem," replied FitzHenry. "You had some difficulty in recognising me; but come," added he, "this is no time for explanations."

A burst of laughter issued from the half-open door opposite, through which a rich flood of light fell upon the red-tiled floor.

"They will wonder what detains me. We shall defer mutual explanation to another time;" and so saying he dragged rather than accompanied him to the drawing-room. (To be continued.)

Poetry.

AN EASTER OFFERING.

In the dim twilight of the dawning year,

List, while the Church sends forth her clarion voice,
And bids us with exulting spirits hear,
And in her highest festival rejoice.

Her highest,-yes,-though Christmas time be bright
With the first glory of Redemption's bliss,
That hath not still the full and dazzling light,
The perfect and surpassing joy of this.
That tells of life, with all its woes, begun

For Him who came a world condemned to save,
This bears the record of His conquests won,
Victor of Death, triumphant o'er the grave!
Then be our humble offerings freely poured,
And hymus of praise in grateful gladness sung,
And be the Holy Altar of the Lord,

With fairest wreaths and festive garlands hung.
With garlands,-ah! we look for these in vain,
Where shall we seek the flowers of summer now,
While winter's step is yet upon the plain,
And bare and leafless waves each lonely bough.
Scarce from its lowly home the violet peeps,
Searce lifts the primrose yet its golden head,
In silence still each early floweret sleeps,
By spring unsummoned from its woodland bed.
Then other votive garlands must we wreathe,
And other Easter coronals prepare,

That shall a fresher bloom and fragrance breathe,
Than all which Earth's most cherished blossoms bear.
The soul that now, from stains of sin made free,
With love renewed, and increased fervour glows,
Shall typify the lily's purity,

Blent with the richer beauties of the rose.

Her faith unmoved by danger or distress,
Her patience, firm in sorrow's keenest hour,
Her lasting trust, her deep devotedness,
Shall symbolize the sacred Passion-flower.

And like the May buds, that through the glade,
Fling out their sweets to every passer by,
Shall be her ready kindness all to aid,

Her constant and unfailing charity.

Her still and deep aspirings to the skies,

Her fervent hopes oft dimmed by anxious fears,

Shall image the convolvolus, whose eyes

Look up to Heaven, their blue depths filled with tears.

And those sweet buds that scatter their perfume,
Unprized, unknown, unheeded as they fail,
Shall, pictured in her quiet virtues, bloom,
Which shed unmarked their influence over all.

Such be the chaplet to the altar borne,
Whose leaves are gathered from no earthly bowers,
Such be our offering on Easter morn,

A living garland of immortal flowers.

SUSAN ANNE FALLON.

FOR HOLY THURSDAY.

OUR LORD WASHING ST. PETER'S FELT.
Nor many days have sped away,
Ere Jesus at the banquet lay,

With Lazarus, by prayer and tears,
Recalled to brave the troublous main,
Of this life's ocean once again;

Its rank temptations and its fears. And there the fervent Simon's joy In what it saw had sweet employ;

While Mary, skilled of old to buy The choicest ointment, thus to win The souls she hurried on to sin,

Perfumed the house so joyously! Methinks I see the tear-drop steal Down Peter's cheek, while he could feel

The words the Father's hand had traced Upon his inmost soul, as plain

As if his angel wrote again

What grudging Judas had effaced.

Yes, joy it was for him to see
His Master honoured lavishly.

Well was the precious ointment spent,
And Mary pleased the apostle well
By incensing with fragrant smell

The living God o'er whom she leant.

But now, the Christ, the Son of God,
The living One, from thorny rod

Of heathen soldiers would be crowned.
There Judas sits, prepared to kiss,
And Christ prepares,--even for this,
By kneeling, robeless, on the ground.
By kneeling, yes, at Peter's feet,
And Peter deems it is not meet

The living God should stoop to him. Thoughts of the homage Mary gave Gainsaid this office of a slave;

His faith with very love was dim.

And dost thou, Master, wash my feet?
Shall I be in the Master's seat,

And see thee like a menial crouch?
Thee whom I saw so lately raise
The dead to life-whom Mary's praise
Perfum'd on Martha's grateful couch?

But soon by fear and love compell'd,
No longer Simon hath withheld

From Jesus that which Jesus soughtThat awful threat," No part in me," Made Peter yield so willingly,

For all the Father's voice had taught!

Yes, Peter, wisely did'st thou yield,
Tho' Flesh and Blood had not reveal'd
Thy Master's grand humility!

Well did'st thou take the proffer'd boon; The paten and the chalice soon

Shall say what meant a "part in me!"

Once to thy heart the Father spoke,
Thro' thee th' eternal silence broke,

And told thee Christ was living God.
Now by the word that Christ has said,
Made clean, on Jesus hast thou fed-

In thee He walk'd, in thee He trod !

What God the Father did not tell,
What thou, as if by Satan's spell

Constrained, declaredst should never be,

That Jesus, who is now thy food,
Reveals to thee, by FLESH and BLOOD,
His fathomless humility!

HOLY SATURDAY.

J. B. M.

AMEN, Amen, I say unto you he that believeth in me shall himself also do the works than I am doing: and greater works than these shall he do, because I go to the Father."John xiv. 12.

THE DESCENT INTO HELL.

How shall thy going, Jesus, dear,

Which fills my heart with fluttering fear, Enable faith with brighter flame

To spread the lustre of thy name?

How shall the Flesh, which thou didst take
From Mary, for thy servants' sake,
By death become a fountain rife
With quicker powers than thy life?

Ah, I will follow thee to Hell,*
And ask the souls, if they can tell,
What greater wonder 1 shall find

Than that which thou hast left behind.

What greater power, in thy long stay
In limbo, Abel, canst thou say,
For Christ's disciples thou hast known,
Than that which they already own?

Or thou, Melchizedek, divine,
By that, thy deep prophetic sign,
If eye hath seen, or ear hath heard,

Or thought devised a mightier word?

Already their unbounded sway
Jesus is ready to obey;

At their command the substance wanes,
And Flesh, instead of bread, remains.

At their command the Blood that clings
To heathen feet and heathen things,
Is ready quietly to glide

Into the chalice, there to hide.

Where are the greater works than these?
I bid yon, on my bended knees,
In Jesus' and in Mary's name,
Aread me, if ye know the same.

Then I will kneel by Mary dear,
Her beating bosom I will hear,
While she is weeping near the grave
Of him who came all men to save.

It is scarcely necessary to observe that "Hell" is here used for the place of departed just spirits.

Aud shall I softly say, "Mamma,
You are disconsolate and careworn; ah!
Why not make your chaplain say
Mass for your husband's soul to-day ?"

Say, could she haply teach me how
Mass for the dead was bootless now,
Teach what to Mass, if not too sad,
Her son's departure meant to add?

Say how to Mass it added more
Than Mass itself possessed before.
Added to it that greater spell,
By which it now can open Hell.

Oh Jesus, 'tis "a greater thing,"
One soul to Paradise to bring!
This Mass through thy descent can do-
So to thy Father thou shalt go.

E'en Mary's chaplain when he press'd
His head upon thy heaving breast,
This power if he had come to know,
Would scarce have begged thee not to go.

But, Jesus, say thy words again,

I ask, what wert thou doing then?
The Mass is done: clean every whit
The eleven are 'mid whom you sit.

Now will you with the secret part,
Of what you do in Mary's heart?
Is her communion lasting still,
Yet lacking something for its fill?

Yes, Mary's own communion needs
Improvement till her Jesus bleeds:
To her communion 'tis not given
To send her husband's soul to Heaven.

Oh thou, communicant or priest,
Behold me from my task released!
This "greater work "ye all can do,
Since Jesus entered Hell for you.
Mass or communion now can send
A greater boon to sever'd friend
Thau Mary's own communion gave
Ere God was dead and in the grave,

J. B. M.

THE CHRISTIAN BROTHERS.-While we rejoice to learn that an establishment of Christian Brothers is about being formed in Kingstown, we cannot help regretting, in common with every Catholic elergyman and layman in Wexford, the removal of Mr. Hoope, the director of the house in Wexford, to preside over it. For six years he has been amongst us, and obtained the respect and esteem of all who knew him. To his zeal and energy Wexford is much indebted. When he came here the brothers had no residence, and hardly a school. Through his exertions, aided by the parish priest, and the munificence of Mr. Devereux, they have now a comfortable residence, five schools, such as would do credit to any town, and 500 pupils in regular attendance. Not only the rising generation themselves, but every parent and every employer feel the happy effects the good brothers' influence has already exercised upon those about them. The young lads of the Dr. Sinnott Schools presented Brother Hoope with an address upon his departure. It was accompanied with a valuable portmanteau as a memento. He is succeeded as director by Mr. Rigley, from the Cork house, a native of this county.-Wexford People.

27. Thur. Peace of Amiens, 1802.

28. Frid. War declared against Russia, 1854. 29. Sat. The Almond flowers.

FLOWER GARDEN FOR APRIL.-Perennial and biennial herbaceous plauts, whether in beds, borders, or single patches, should now be either parted, dressed, transplanted, or otherwise finally regulated and settled where they are to remaiu for flowering. Sow hardy Annuals. Fill your Mignonette boxes with Crocnses and Snowdrops from the open ground, to make the outside of the windows gay. Keep up a succession of forced flowers to adorn the Altar and the Oratory.

Answers and Observations.

AN interesting illustration will appear in the next number. I TRUST that our readers will peruse with care the valuable letter from Lord Edward Howard, which we this day publish. It is a document which demands the serious attention of all those who have at heart the education of Catholics.

RECEIVED.-J. L.-J. Monk.-J. Thompson, Durham.Charles Wade.-W. P. Wood. - M. Y. Mr. McKibbon's lecture at Carlisle.-J. Cannon, Ramelton.-W. F. S. IIIs Grace the Most Rev. Dr. Dixon, Primate of all Ireland, has received, I observe, a very pleasing tribute in the great Roman magazine, Civilla Cattolica, which I will present to the readers af the Lamp next week; as also a translation (from the same), of an important article on the "Nightingale" Fund.

THE beautiful poem by ***, on the death of Sister Winifred, in the Crimea, will appear in our next.

RECEIVED from J. C. twelve stamps for Crimea. Mr. Dolman has not published the book named.

Two valuable articles, by Mr. Bradley, have come to hand, on Proselytism in Glasgow, and on a commercial subject of importance. Both will appear without delay.

I BEG leave to thank the Rev. Mr. Curry, of Carlisle, for his friendly notice of the Lamp, at the Catholic Institution. May the Lamp always deserve the praise of such ornaments of the Church.

The Lamp.

CATHOLIC INTELLIGENCE FROM THE CRIMEA. (From the Special Correspondent of the Lamp.) Camp, Sebastopol, March 1st, 1856. THE Abbé Hauvert died here on Saturday last. Father Woollett administered the last sacraments to him.

The Abbé Weber has been in a dangerous state of health, and left the Crimea on the 25th February for Constantinople. There are only seven French priests at present in the Crimea.

Father Duffy at present attends the hospital of the 2nd Corps d'Armée of the French, instead of the Corps de Reserve. In the Land Transport Corps there is more sickness than in the rest of the army; but considering that there is a Maltese priest, an Armenian priest, and the Rev. Father Duffy, its spiritual wants are well looked to.

My communication of last week will have prepared your readers for the melancholy intelligence which I have now to forward of the death of Sister Mary Elizabeth Butler, which sad event took place at Balaclava at an carly hour on Saturday morning, the 23rd ult. The cause of her decease was typhus fever, caught in the discharge of her charitable duties in the hospital, where there had been some cases of infectious fever. She departed fully fortified and consoled by all the sacraments of our holy religion. This makes the second death in the small devoted band of Sisters since their arrival in the Crimea. The funeral took place on Sunday afternoon, previous to which the office for the dead was recited.

Ꭺ

There were present the Rev. Messieurs Unsworth, Cuffe, Duffy, O'Callagan, Malony, Strickland, and Gleeson. Sardinian priest also attended.

The nuns were in attendance, as also twelve of the Italian sisterhood, habited in their peculiar costume. The Rev. Mr. Unsworth, cross-bearer; the Rev. Mr. Gleeson officiated. The 89th regt. paraded for the occasion, and the coffin was borne on the shoulders of men of that regiment,- -a beautiful and appropriate tribute of respect of brave men to Religion and Virtue. Nothing could exceed the respectful demeanour of the soldiers, and a feeling of regret seemed to pervade all. There could not have been less than 2,000 persons present. No doubt there would have been even a larger attendance, were it not for the great review of the English army, which was taking place at the same hour.

The place of burial was in a highly picturesque spot, situated about 300 feet above the sea, on the same site where the lay Sister lately deceased was interred. The effect of the entire scene was extremely impressive, and all present appeared to be profoundly affected by it. Requiescat in pace.

I am sorry to report that sickness to a very alarming extent prevails in the brave French army. I am credibly informed that the deaths average daily the great number of 120. The principal discases aie fever and scurvy, induced, I fear, by misery, bad feeding, and wretchedness.

On Sunday last there was a grand military spectacle here, viz. an inspection of the infantry of the English army in the Crimea. Although a portion of the regiments were absent at Balaclava, &c. there was a goodly muster: about 24,000 men marched past before Sir W. Codrington and General