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THE sky was darkly overcast, and not a breath of air disturbed the ominous hush of the atmosphere, which always precedes rain, as we started for the greatest battlefield of Europe. We had been shown the house in which the ball was held the night before the battle.

We followed the route taken by Wellington and his suite from Brussels, and, trotting through the forest of Soignies, came upon the little hamlet of Waterloo, situated a short distance from the field.

I have trod many battlefields of ancient and modern glory, but never one with the strange feelings with which I wandered over this; for here the star of Bonaparte set for ever. To understand the description, imagine two slightly-elevated semicircular ridges, or as they might more properly be termed, slopes, curving gently towards each other

like a parenthesis, and you have the position of the two armies. On the summit of one of these slopes was arrayed the French army, and on the other the English. The night of the 17th of June was dark and stormy. The rain fell in torrents, and the two armies lay down in the tall rye, drenched with rain, to wait the morning that was to decide the fate of Europe and of Napoleon. From the ball-room at Brussels many an officer had been summoned in haste to the field, and, shivering and cold, was compelled to pass the night in mud and rain in his elegant attire. The artillery had cut up the ground so that the mud was shoe-deep, while the tall rye lay crushed and matted beneath the feet of the soldiers. The morning of the 18th opened with a drizzling rain; and the two armies, benumbed with cold, and soaking wet, rose from their damp beds to the contest. Eighty thousand French soldiers were seen moving in magnificent array on the crest of the ridge as they took their several positions for the day. Upwards of seventy thousand of the allied forces occupied the ridge or eminences opposite them, formed mostly into squares.

And I was standing on this awful field, waving with grain, just as it did on that mild morning. As my eye rested on this and that spot, where deeds of valour were done, I saw, in imagination, those magnificent armies struggling for a continent, and heard the roar of cannon, the shock of cavalry,

and the rolling fire of infantry; and beheld the waving of plumes and torn banners amid the smoke of battle that curtained them; what wonder is it that, for the moment, I forgot the awful waste of human life in the excitement and grandeur of the scene? Under the moon's reproving light you see flashing swords, and glittering uniforms, and torn plumes, and heaps of mangled men. More than 50,000 cumber the field, while thousands of wounded horses still alive, rend the air with their shrill cries. Ghastly wounds greet the eye at every turn, while ever and anon comes the thunder of distant cannon on the night air, telling where Blucher still continues the work of destruction. Even Wellington, as he slowly rode over the field by moonlight, wept. The heart trained in the camp, and schooled in the life of the soldier, could not endure the sight. As my imagination rested on this picture, I no longer felt sympathy for Napoleon, as he fled a fugitive through the long night, while the roar of cannon behind him told where his empire lay trampled to the earth.

His wild heart sleeps at last, and nature smiles again around Waterloo, and the rich grain waves as carelessly as if nothing had happened. That Providence which never sleeps, fixed the limits of that proud man, and finally left the "desolator desolate," to eat out his own heart on the rock of St. Helena.

The field is covered with monuments to the

dead; a huge pyramid, surmounted by a lion, rises from the centre of the plain. One monument tells where the Scots Greys stood and were cut down, almost to a man; another points to the grave of Shaw, who killed nine Frenchmen before he fell. The little church in the village of Waterloo is filled with tablets. One struck me forcibly. On it was recorded the death of a man belonging to Wellington's suite. He was only eighteen years of age, and this was his twentieth battle.

J. T. HEADLEY.

Waterloo.--A small hamlet in Belgium, at which, on the 18th of June, 1815, was fought the great battle which takes its name from the hamlet.

Forest of Soignies.-A forest lying between Brussels and Waterloo, a remnant of the forest of Ardennes. Like a parenthesis.—Parenthesis ( ) is the name given to a punctuation mark which shuts off from a sentence any words which, though not essential to the sentence, are thrown in by way of explanation.

From the ball-room at Brussels.-The Duchess of Richmond gave a ball in Brussels on the night before the battle. At first it was intended to put off the ball, but Wellington was unwilling to alarm the inhabitants, and insisted that it should go on. It is to this that Byron alludes:

"There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then

Her beauty and her chivalry,” &c.

Childe Harold, canto iii., stanza 21.

Blucher.--The great Prussian commander who came up with his forces when the battle was won, and continued the pursuit.

QUESTIONS:-1. Where is Waterloo? 2. Where was the battle fought? 3. Who were the commanders on each side? 4. What share had the Prussians in the battle? 5. What forest lies between Brussels and Waterloo? 6. What is meant when it is said "the star of Bonaparte set for ever"? 7. Describe the ground. 8. How many soldiers were on each side? 9. What is the reference in the phrase "from the ball-room in Brussels"? 10. Quote Byron's lines on this. 11. Why was the ball not put off? 12. What formation of his troops did Wellington adopt? 13. What was the result of the battle? 14. How did Wellington feel as he rode over the field by moonlight? 15. Who was Blucher? 16. What memorials of the battle exist? 17. What is a pyramid? 18. What are tablets? 19. Where are tablets erected? 20. Who were the Scots Greys? 21. Which tablet impressed the visitor most forcibly? 22. Why?

braced, nerved.

LESSON XIV.

Perseverance.

de-fied', set at nought.
del'-i-cate, fine, not strong.

de-spair', loss of hope, hope-
lessness.

di-vine', imagine, think.

gos'-sips, tattlers, busybodies.
mon'-arch, king.

mood, state of mind, humour.
pon'-dered, thought, deliber-
ated.
pinch, effort.

KING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down,
In a lonely mood to think;

"Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.

For he had been trying to do a great deed,
To make his people glad ;

He had tried and tried, but could not succeed,
And so he became quite sad.

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