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better, and he hoped soon to be quite well, for they were going on board the ships to sail to the Crimea.

In a few weeks news came of the great battle of the Alma; and, after much fear and anxiety, Sir Edward and his lady were glad to find that Frederick was neither killed nor wounded in that dreadful conflict.

The French and English moved on to the heights above Sebastopol, and many skirmishes took place outside the walls, chiefly by night; and the soldiers suffered much for want of proper food, and clothing, and lodging. At length came the awful morning of the Fifth of November, when the Russians in great force attacked the English camp before daylight, and were driven back with great slaughter. Frederick's regiment was not there, and so he escaped; but he saw the flashing of the guns through the misty darkness, and heard them thundering and roaring, and often wondered how that long struggle would end.

Sir Edward and his lady, hearing how both officers and men were suffering, did all they could to send their brother such things as they thought he needed. Some of them reached him, but many did not; and, like all around him, he had to endure great hardships during the winter. But when spring came the army was better supplied, and both officers and men soon forgot all they had suffered, and were again in better health and spirits.

The Lieutenant took his turn with his regiment in the trenches by day and night, and was often, like all the rest, in great danger. One night he received a slight wound, which laid him aside for a few weeks during the month of June; and so, though his regiment went up to attack the Redan on the 18th, he was not with them, or, like many others, he might have perished in that dreadful and unsuccessful attempt.

At length came the great storming days; and as Frederick was not in the conflicts of Nov. 5th, and June 18th, he volunteered to join the party appointed again to storm the Redan. The night before the attack he sat down in his camp and wrote a letter to his friends and directed it with his own hand, telling them what he was going to do, and how he hoped to cover himself with glory," as soldiers say, and get promoted to a captaincy.

Well: Sebastopol was taken; the news came by telegraph; and in a few more days the mail bags arrived with letters from the camp.

Sir Edward and his lady were anxiously waiting to hear about their brother; for as yet they could get no tidings of him. One morning a letter arrived directed for Sir Edward in the handwriting of Frederick. “Hurrah !" he is alive, shouted Sir Edward, “this is his writing." He sat down in his easy chair, and crossing one leg over the other, began to read, his lady standing by to listen with fear and trembling. Sir Edward read on, but when he got to the end he found a few lines in another hand :-“I regret to state that your gallant relative fell by a gun-shot wound through the breast whilst leading on his company to the attack of the Redan. He was a brave young soldier, and we buried him with due honours the next day."

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Lady F— shrieked, wrung her hands, and would have fainted, had not Sir Edward jumped up and caught her in his arms, and placed her in his chair. It was some time before she recovered; and not one day or night has since passed that she has not fancied she saw her brave young brother lying in the ditch of the Redan, covered not with the vain thing called “glory," but his own blood.

Such is a tale of war; and such a tale may be told in many an English family, for there are more English families in mourning now than have been for many a long year, and all through this sad war. It was begun, this war was, through the wicked ambition of one man, who was soon removed by death—an awful warning to all rulers of nations not to take the first steps in shedding blood. Let us ever pray, "O Lord, scatter thou the men that delight in war."

At the time we are writing this there are attempts making to put an end to this horrid strife. We hope they will succeed. May God direct the hearts of all men to seek after the things which make for peace! It will, we are sure, be the earnest desire of every one who fears God and loves Him who came not to destroy men's lives but to save them, that peace and truth may be in our days, and that soon, all over the earth, that long foretold time may come, when “ The Lord shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more."

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PHILARETE CHASLES,
THE FRENCH BOY PRISONER.

Concluding Notice. My first thought was of death and the tomb. Then this flagrant iniquity gave me courage; and I found that these men, who could so lower themselves as to fear my youth, and throw it into their prison, elevated me to the dignity of a martyr. The conviction of my innocence, the disgust with which this barbarous foolery inspired me, and perhaps the fantastic pleasure of trying at an age so little advanced in

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life-all that life had of the most bitter and poignant-inspired me strangely. I felt that I was about to endure great misery, and that the world could have nothing in store more cruel for me.

We have orders,' said my conductor to me, and I am sorry for it, young man, but we have orders to place you in solitary confinement.'

We had descended many steps through a long corridor; gratings were raised at the entrance of passages, and fell again behind us as we passed through; the third door was the door of my cell.

“There,' said the gaoler, after having raised two massive iron bars, and having thrice turned the enormous key in the lock. The cell was eight feet long by five wide, and about twelve feet high, dark, and the wall dropping with brackish water. In the left hand corner of the cell some bundles of old straw strewed the earth! near the doorway, a wooden trough full of water, and a wooden porringer. I trembled. I was cold. I was frightened. It was the condemned cellthe dungeon in all its horror; it was there they placed me, at my age, me, who was not even suspected.

There they left me. Bread was afterwards broughtprison bread, black bread, which even my hunger dared not attempt, it was so coarse and bitter, and of such a revolting taste.

Will you have the pistole ?' inquired the gaoler. I dried my tears, and he explained to me what the pistole meant: lor 100 francs a month I could hire a bed, have white bread, nourishing food, a table, and a chair. But I was most uneasy

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