a boy run away squealing and squalling when a puppy-dog barks at his heels. Steadiness, selfpossession, and resolution are excellent qualities at all times, but in situations of difficulty and danger they are invaluable.

I CARE not who knows the fact, but I had rather

talk about war for a whole day than engage in it

for a single hour. I hold that to be the worst occupation in the world, wherein a man is required, without provocation, to break another's head, and to cut another's throat. It is a black blot on the forehead of an individual, and of a nation, unnecessarily to go to war. They who can shed blood without remorse, must be content to lose their own without pity.

A friend of mine, who is a most excellent painter, shewed me a capital picture of a battle. There were gallant fellows represented therein dressed in gay regimentals, and mounted on fine horses, cutting down all before them. The painting was full of spirit; you might fancy that you heard the roll of the drums, and the flourish of the trumpets. The sun shone on the field, and the unfurled colours seemed almost

to flap, to and fro, in the battle-blast. "This is a glorious scene," said my friend the painter, "and enough to make one sigh to be a soldier! It is a fine thing to be dressed in scarlet, to gain a victory, and to wear around one's brow a wreath of deathless glory!”

Now, as my friend had treated me with a sight of his valuable painting, I felt disposed to acquit myself of the obligation by shewing him a few sketches of my own. The first was that of a fine young soldier, in gay regimentals, writhing on the field of battle, with a bayonet through his back, and a part of his jaw shot away. The second represented a horse-soldier, lying on the ground, whose head had been cleft by the stroke of a broadsword, and whose mangled face was crushed by the iron hoof of his

own charger. The third exhibited a scene of carnage, where colours, and drums, and trumpets, were more than half hidden by the dead and dying. The fourth was The fourth was a sketch of an

aged woman, oppressed with grief on hearing the tidings of the death of her dear boy in battle. The fifth, the outline of a grey-headed father, cursing, in the frenzy of his affliction, the horrors of cruel war, which had just drained away the life-blood of his only son. And the sixth, a spirited sketch of a recruiting sergeant, gaily dressed, smiling, and holding up a purse of gold, while, in the distance, was seen the weather-beaten figure of an old soldier with a bundle at his back, stumping along on two wooden legs, and a stick in each hand.

"Oh!"

said I to my friend, "these are glorious scenes,