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ed at the interesting group. The girl's dress had slipped over her shoulders, and her polished neck and arm were covered by the thick disordered clusters of curls, like the folds of a black mantle. She lay as still as night. The old soldier's side, as he leant round, was partially exposed, and showed the seams of a ghastly wound. His grey hair, frayed and unshorn, strangely contrasted with the black tresses over which he was leaning, and the brawny hand and arm seemed too rudely placed upon the fragile and beautifully proportioned neck which it enveloped. As I looked, I saw a tear drop upon the girl's naked shoulder, and the old man gave a sigh that seemed to convulse his whole frame. "Poor Emilie!" he breathed, "what will become of thee when ;" his heart was too full to go on; he groaned and threw himself back in the bed, and his faithful attendant awoke. I felt as if intruding upon their sorrows, and began to offer an apo logy. Say no more," said the old man, "I have wished for this opportunity before-you have been kind to me, sir; will you, for the old soldier's sake, be kind to my girl?" "I will, by the Father of Mercy!" said I, for my heart was full. "God bless you, sir," said the old man,-"I am satisfied,-'twas the only thing that hung heavy on my mind, and now I can die in peace." The poor girl burst into

tears.

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"Do not weep, my good Emilie," said the old man, though a tear filled his own eye, and stood vibrating as if uncertain whether to overflow or return to its bitter fountain. Nature would have her way, the tear rolled down his cheek;-the old soldier dashed it off indignantly. "What matters it where the old and the miserable lie down in the grave?" said he ;-then added after a pause-" But it is a bitter thought that he who has escaped Spain's bloody fields, and the slaughter of Mont St. Jean, should find a grovelling death in a place like this;" and he cast his eyes around.

of war.

I thought so too." But I must tell you about Emilie," said he more cheerfully, and patted her neck. "She, too, has felt the fortune Her father was a peasant of the little village of Mont St. Jean, and for Emilie's sake, I love to call the battle by that name, though it is the French title. Every inhabitant had left the village on the morning of the 16th of June, except my poor Emilie, who was attending her sick father. We had been sorely harassed by the French artillery on the 17th, and suffered great loss. On the 18th, Count D'Erlon charged our position with his first brigade, and drove us back. We rallied, however, instantly," said the old man brightening, "and assisted by another corps, drove the Count's 1st and 2d brigades out of the village. It was in the charge upon the battery to the right, where I lost my arm, and my colonel at the same moment was cut to the ground by a grape-shot which carried off both his legs. When we got back to the village we were forced to be carried to the rear ;-Emilie, whose father had been killed by a ball which came through the roof of the cottage, accompanied us, and from that time has been the kind companion of my wanderings."

"Ah!" said Emilie, "I must tell the story;"-and she blushed through her dark features with the memory of the old man's gallantry. "My poor father was dead," said she, "and I was sitting by the body, horrified by the din of the fight around, when some French

cuirassiers"- They were of General Milhaud's division, and were annihilated," said the old man triumphantly. "They entered the cottage," continued Emilie, in a tone which partook not of the old soldier's exultation, "and after seizing every thing of any value, they dragged me from my poor father's corpse, and were about to carry me off." The hellhounds!" muttered the soldier raising himself sudden. ly on his arm, then agonized by the exertion, his brow burst out in large drops of sweat, and he sank exhausted on his pallet bed. Emilie soothed him with the most tender caresses, and when his features relaxed from their knotted and convulsed expression of pain, went on with her story. "The savage men had dragged me out of the cottage, and were about to place me on one of the horses, when I saw my brave preserver coming towards us. I saw not then the horrid state he was in, but I implored mercy and assistance ;-in a moment he rushed forward, and the soldier who was lifting me upon his horse fell bleeding at my feet!"-" I had reason to thank God my right arm was sound," articulated the soldier. "I have often wondered since, Sir," said he, addressing me, "where I found strength to strike that blow, but almighty God, who would not suffer such a horrid deed to be done upon an innocent creature like my Emilie, doubtless nerved my arm." A ray of sunshine fell upon the faces of them both, as he spoke;-it was worth a thousand sermons. The old man went on. My colonel had lost both his legs, as I said, and I could not leave him to welter in his blood, while I had an arm left to assist him, so getting a comrade to lay him across his horse, I led him to the village. But it was all in vain. He died in the evening; but the cry of victory cheered him in his death-moments." There was a stern exultation in the old soldier's voice; then after a short pause-"I was disposing his mangled limbs as decently as I could, when I heard the Prussians coming up, like a loosened torrent. Old Blucher and his staff halted close beside me, and as each battalion swept past the veteran chief, he took his pipe from his mouth and shouted "Courage-childrenforward! All is ours"-and the old man waved his remaining arm aloft in unrepressed triumph.

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Although more than eleven years have elapsed since this conversa tion, I believe that it is set down much as it occurred;-the old soldier's manner was too remarkable to be easily forgotten.

Two or three days afterwards, I saw him undergo the operation. At first he begged them not to bind him, appearing quite insulted at the idea of his interrupting the operation by any movement of pain. I firmly believe he would have perished rather than have stirred a muscle. The stone was large, and the surgeon unskilful. Many times successively was it drawn to the very lips of the wound, and as often slipped, by want of dexterity in the operator, amid a murmur of dissatisfaction from the assembled pupils. All this time the old soldier did not utter a groan. He saw at length that the surgeon was agitated. "Be calm, sir," said he with wonderful resolution," and we will dislodge the enemy yet!" Another time, when they offered him wine, he held the vessel containing it aloft, and in a mingled tone of devotion and sorrow, breathed "Poor Emilie!" then drank it off. When he had been suffering the most cruel tortures nearly an hour, and his countenance collapsing, spoke of approaching death,-another

surgeon took the instrument and almost instantly succeeded in extracting the stone. He begged to see it. He looked at it for a short time, then shaking his head and smiling faintly, he muttered—“ I would it had been lead, but God's will be done!"

I caught his eye as he was carried from the theatre ;—he nodded, and held up his finger impressively-his thoughts were with Emilie. Pale as a statue she had been standing at the door of the operation room, and instinctively followed the assistants to the sufferer's bed. The long watching and agony of mind, which she had endured in that loathsome house, had impaired a naturally delicate constitution, and the hectic flush with which she greeted me showed she was not long for this world. The old soldier died in two days, gently as though he had never known strife or carnage. Three months afterwards Emilie was laid by his side. The grassy mounds under which they sleep, are now undistinguishable in the field of graves, and the school-boy as he bounds joyously over their dust, or the mourner who seeks the spot to weep over those who are gone, dreams not that beneaththe OLD SOLDIER and Emilie have at length found a relief from their DANIEL MERSHAUM.

sorrows.

TO THE OWL.

Vox et præterea nihil.

STRANGE, melancholy mourner of the night,
Whose voice is as an echo of the past!

As, wheeling through the dark thy lonely flight,
Thou hold'st communion with the midnight blast.—
Lov'st thou, enamoured of its gloom, to mourn
For solitude on thy congenial yew?

Or fold thy wings on the sepulchral urn,

And moping there, some spirit nightly woo?—
Sad, strangely sad, unmeaning earthless thing!-
Beat thy wild dirges on the startled ear,-
Thy omen'd notes to superstition sing

A deadly song, and strains of boding fear :

She hears thy plaints in every night-wind's breath,

And deems, or makes thy voice the messenger of death.

T.

MATHEMATICS.

We have received various solutions of the questions in last Number, from which we select the following, particularly recommended by their conciseness—a cardinal virtue in such communications.

Solution of Question 1st, by Mr. W. Rutherford, Mathematical Teacher, Corporation's Academy, Berwick.

By the question, the person borrowed 6d. at the last tavern, to which add Is. (what he spent at each tavern) one half of which will be the sum he borrowed at the third tavern,—and so on, always adding 1s. to the last half, and taking one half of the sum, which will give what he borrowed at the second and first taverns; consequently he had 11 d. at first.

Solution of Question 2d, by Mr. Thos. Ingram, Parochial Schoolmaster, Hutton.

The rule for this solution is obtained by an Algebraical process, viz. Divide 48 by 2, and square the quotient. Divide 48 by 5, and the quotient is 9. Multiply 48 by 9, and subtract the result from the square of 24. The square root of the quotient plus 24 is the greater number (36), which subtracted from 48 leaves the less (12). Proof,-48 divided by 36 = 1} and 48 divided by 12 = 4

5 the sum.

Solution of Question 3d, by Mr. W. Weatherhead, Teacher, Swinton.

By the question, the rent of the estate in shillings (allowing one inch to each shilling) is exactly to surround it; hence it is evident, that every acre of the circular estate forms a sector of a circle having 20 inches, the rent in shillings, for its arc on the circumference of the circle, and its vertex in the centre, the radius of which is equal to the radius of the circle of which it is a part; therefore 1584 chains will be the diameter of the circular estate, and 197061.25824 acres its content.

Again, about the given circle describe a square and draw the two diagonals, and we shall have four right-angled triangles, the sides of which are each equal to half the diagonal of the circumscribing square, and the hypothenuse equal to the diameter of the circular estate; then, by a well known property of a circle inscribed in a right-angled triangle, the diameter of the circle is equal to the difference between the hypothenuse and the sum of the two sides; hence the diameter of the small circles, containing each of the sons' portions, is 656.114 chains, and the content of each will be 33810.33753 acres; then, if we join the centres of the circles inscribed in each quarter of the great circle, we shall have a square, from the content of which subtract one of the sons' portion, and we shall have 9238.22056 acres, the granddaughter's portion; lastly, if from the whole estate we subtract the four sons' portions, plus the grand-daughter's portion, and divide the remainder by 4, the quotient (13145.42189 acres) will be each of the daughter's portions.

Mr. Weatherhead has also solved Questions 1st and 2d correctly, and Mr. Ingram, Q. 1st. Nor must we omit recording the receipt of solutions of the whole from Mr. G. Giles, Teacher, Tweedmouth,— which, though by far too elaborate and lengthy for our pages, furnish evidence of indefatigable industry and numerical precision rarely to be met with among the commonalty of his profession.—Mr. Matthew Paxton, of Etal, has been equally successful, and proved himself deeply conversant with the subjects, about which he has employed more care and taste than we had reason to expect.

Want of room compels us to defer, till another occasion, some additional Questions for Solution.

LITERARY GOSSIP AND VARIETIES.

REFORM and Cholera have so effectually frozen up the tide of business, that we need hardly wonder at the slow progress of pencil-creations, during the two past years, from the hands of the artist to the gallery of the connoisseur. At a time of commercial melancholy and political distraction, it is gratifying to observe, that if works of sterling merit are not readily disposed of, they are at least in some sort appreciated. Among The Spectator's notices of pictures, now being exhibited at the gallery of the British Institution, occurs the following, which needs no comment;—Good's vraisemblances of character reconcile us by their sheer truth and force, to the cold sharp light which he throws on all his figures. An old retired Comedian' (11), must be the very man himself; and in 282, the expression both of reader and listener is perfectly real. It is like seeing the persons in a camera, which we think the artist employs, judging from his peculiar style."

Such has been the rapid sale of Mr. Macindoe's little work on Pestilence, that a second edition is expected to appear in a few days, in order to meet the extensive demand.

The weekly sale of Chambers' Edinburgh Journal, which is already familiar as a household word in the mouths of the lieges throughout the united kingdom, amounts to 20,000! Allowing one farthing as the proprietor's share of profit on each copy sold, Mr. William Chambers will realize the handsome sum per week of £20 16s. 8d., or £1083 6s. 8d. yearly! Henceforth, ye men of mighty imaginingsye spendthrifts of pounds-ye despisers of little things, learn to esteem less lightly the fraction of a penny.

Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths.

BIRTHS.

On the 11th ult., in Bryanstone-square, London, the wife of T. W. Beaumont, Esq., M. P. for the county of Northumberland, of a son. At the Parsonage, Lavenham, Suffolk, on the 23d ult., Mrs. Robert Ainslie, of a daughter.

On the 2d inst., the wife of John Grey, Esq., of Milfield Hill, of a daughter.

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