In what, then, consists the prime evil? In the murder, or the meal? Which is the most hideous deed-to kill a man, or to cook and eat the man when killed? But softly, there is no murder in the case. The craft of a man has made a splendid ceremony of homicidehas invested it with dignity. He slaughters with flags flying, drums beating, trumpets braying. He kills according to method, and has worldly honors for his grim handiwork. He does not, like the unchristian savage, carry away with him mortal trophies from the skulls of his enemies. No; the alchemy or magic of authority turns his well-won scalps into epaulets, or hangs them in stars and crosses at his button-hole; and then, the battle over-the dead not eaten, but carefully buried-and the maimed and mangled howling and blaspheming in hospitals-the meek Christian warrior marches to church, and reverently folding his sweet and spotless hands, sings Te Deum. Angels waft his fervent thanks to God, to whose footstool-on his own faith-he has so lately sent his shuddering thousands. And this spirit of destruction working within him is canonized by the craft and ignorance of men, and worshipped as glory!

And this religion of the sword-this dazzling heathenism, that makes a pomp of wickedness-seizes and distracts us, even on the threshold of life. Swords and drums are our baby playthings; the types of violence and destruction are made the pretty pastime of our childhood; and as we grow older, the outward magnificence of the ogre Glory-his trappings and his trumpets, his privileges, and the songs that are shouted in his praise ensnare the bigger baby to his sacrifice. Hence, slaughter becomes an exalted profession; the marked, distinguished employment of what, in the jargon of the world, is called a gentleman.

But for this craft operating upon this ignorance, who -in the name of outraged God-would become the

hireling of the Sword? Hodge, poor fellow, enlists. He wants work; or he is idle, dissolute. Kept, by the injustice of the world, as ignorant as the farin-yard swine, he is the better instrument for the world's craft. His ear is tickled with the fife and drum; or he is drunk; or the sergeant-the lying valet of glory-tells a good tale, and already Hodge is a warrior in the rough. In a fortnight's time you may see him at Chatham; or, indeed, he was one of those we marked in Birdcage Walk. Day by day, the sergeant works at the block ploughman, and chipping and chipping, at length carves out a true, handsome soldier of the line.-What knew Hodge of the responsibility of man? What dreains had he of the self-accountability of the human spirit? He has become the lackey of carnage, the liveried footman, at a few pence per day of fire and blood. The musket-stock which for many an hour he hugs-hugs in sulks and weariness-was no more a party to its present use, than was Hodge. That piece of walnut is the fragment of a tree which might have given shade and fruit for another century; homely rustic people gathering under it. Now, it is the instrument of wrong and violence; the working tool of slaughter. Tree and man, are not their destinies as one?

And is Hodge alone of benighted mind? Is he alone deficient of that knowledge of moral right and wrong which really and truly crowns the man, king of himself? When he surrenders up his nature, a mere machine with human pulses, to do the bidding of war, has he taken counsel with his own reflection-does he know the limit of the sacrifice? He has taken the shilling, and he knows the facings of his uniform.

When the born and bred gentleman, to keep to coined and current terms, pays down his thousand pounds or so, for his commission, what incites to the purchase? It may be the elegant idleness of the calling; it may be the

bullion and glitter of the regimentals; or, devout worshipper, it may be an unquenchable thirst for glory. From the moment that his name stars the Gazette, what does he become? The bond-servant of war. Instantly he ceases to be a judge between moral right and moral injury. It is his duty not to think, but to obey. He has given up, surrendered to another, the freedom of his soul: he has dethroned the majesty of his own will. He must be active in wrong, and see not the injustice; shed blood for craft and usurpation, calling bloodshed valor. He may be made, by the iniquity of those who use him, the burglar and the brigand; but glory calls him pretty names for his prowess, and the wicked weakness of the world shouts and acknowledges them. And is this the true condition of reasonable man? Is it by such means that he best vindicates the greatness of his mission here? Is he, when he most gives up the free motions of his own soul-is he then most glorious?

A few months ago, chance showed us a band of ruffians, who, as it afterwards appeared, were intent upon most desperate mischief. They spread themselves over the country, attacking, robbing, murdering all who fell into their hands. Men, women, and children, all suffered alike. Nor were the villains satisfied with this. In their wanton ruthlesness, they set fire to cottages, and tore up and destroyed plantations. Every footpace of their march was marked with blood and desolation.

Who are these wretches?-you ask. What place did they ravage? Were they not caught, and punished?

tends his wounds, that brings even a cup of water to his burning lips. Granted. But is there not heroism of a grander mould?-The heroism of forbearance? Is not the humanity that refuses to strike, a nobler virtue than the late pity born of violence? Pretty is it to see the victor with salve and lint kneeling at his bloody trophy-a maimed and agonized fellow-man,—but surely it had been better to withhold the blow, than to have been first mischievous, to be afterwards humane.

That nations, professing a belief in Christ, should couple glory with war, is monstrous blasphemy. Their faith, their professing faith, is "love one another:" their practice is to-cut throats; and more, to bribe and hoodwink men to the wickedness, the trade of blood is magnified into a virtue. We pray against battle, and glorify the deeds of death. We say, beautiful are the ways of peace, and then cocker ourselves upon our perfect doings in the art of man-slaying. Let us then cease to pay the sacrifice of admiration to the demonWar; let us not acknowledge him as a mighty and majestic principle, but, at the very best, a grim and melancholy necessity.

But there always has been-there always will be, war. It is inevitable; it is a part of the condition of human society. Man has always made glory to himself from the destruction of his fellow, and so it will continue. It may be very pitiable; would it were otherwise! But so it is, and there is no helping it.

Happily, we are slowly killing this destructive fallacy. A long breathing-time of peace has been fatal to the dread magnificence of glory. Science and philosophy— povera e nuda filosofia !—have made good their claims,

But Glory cannot dazzle Truth. Does it not at times appear no other than a highwayman, with a pistol at a nation's breast? A burglar, with a crow-bar, entering a kingdom. Alas! in this world, there is no Old Bailey for nations. Otherwise, where would have been the crowned heads that divided Poland? Those felon monarchs, anointed to steal? It is true the historian claps the cut-purse conqueror in the dock, and he is tried by the jury of posterity. He is past the verdict, yet is not its damnatory voice lost upon generations. For thus is the world taught-albeit slowly taught-true glory; when that which passed for virtue is truly tested to be vile; when the hero is hauled from the car, and fixed for ever in the pillory.

But war brings forth the heroism of the soul: war tests the magnanimity of man. Sweet is the humanity that spares a fallen foe; gracious the compassion that

ity of his nature otherwise than by perpetrating destruction. He begins to think there is a better glory in the communication of triumphs of mind, than in the clash of steel and roar of artillery. At the present moment, a society, embracing men of distant nations-"natural enemies," as the old, wicked cant of the old patriotism had it-is at work, plucking the plumes from Glory, unbracing his armor, and divesting the ogre of all that dazzled foolish and unthinking men, showing the rascal in his natural hideousness, in all his base deformity. Some, too, are calculating the cost of Glory's table: some showing what an appetite the demon has, devouring at a meal the substance of ten thousand sons of industry-yea, eating up the wealth of kingdoms. And thus, by degrees, are men beginning to look upon this god, Glory, as no more than a finely-trapped Sawney Bean,-a monster and a destroyer-a nuisance; a noisy lie.

is so rich in this respect as la belle France. Having been lately the victim of one of these traditional traps, I will describe it here, in order to warn others against it.

that you are a true child of fortune-a thoroughly lucky man." -I acknowledged the compliment by bowing in silence.-"Yes, you-a bachelor, without cares or anxieties of any kind, enjoying good health and a fine independence-you stand in the very sunshine of fortune; and, therefore, I ask you, in my own name and that of my wife, to stand godfather to our child."

cost me.

One evening, I was comfortably seated in my fauteuil à la Voltaire, perusing one of those papers which are read with as little attention as they are written by the journalists themselves, and which Lamartine has described as cet écho du matin que le soir on oublie, when the bell rang at my door. On opening, I recognized my first-floor neighbor, the amiable M. de Poupart; and after the usual salutations, the following conversation took place between us :

"Excuse me, sir," said M. de Poupart, "for interrupting you at so late an hour; and an apology is, the more necessary, because I am about to commit an indiscretion."

"I am glad to hear it," said I; "for I was afraid at first some misfortune might have happened to madame." "Oh, no, thank you; she is as well as can be expected in her situation; for I have come to say, that since the afternoon I have had the good-fortune to become the father of a most beautiful baby-a chubby, rosy little fellow."

"I am glad to hear it: pray accept for both madame and you my best congratulations and most sincere good wishes."

"A thousand thanks," said my obliging neighbor; "and in connection with that happy event, I have just something very trifling to ask of you. My good wife, as you must be aware, is a little inclined to superstition, and the convent-education she received has not done much towards lessening that disposition. You may imagine with what anxiety she pondered over the future destinies of our expected first-born, and touching them she consulted a famous somnambulist, who predicted that the baby would be very fortunate if it had a happy godfather. We have been on the look-out ever since among our friends and acquaintances for the most prosperous. But this is difficult: one has too many children; another none at all; a third has a cross wife; a fourth has speculated in the funds: in short, there is not one

Roch. There was no time to be lost; and, being thoroughly ignorant of French manners and usages, I applied the next morning to Madame de Grandville, and begged her to tell me what I was to do. She was exceedingly kind; assured me that the invitation was a token of high consideration on the part of M. and Madame de Poupart, and said there was nothing at all to do but to make a few trifling presents. Besides, I was to enjoy the good-fortune of having one of the most elegant and beautiful young ladies of Paris-that is to say, her own dear niece-as partner in the ceremony, for she was to stand godmother. The obliging lady immediately wrote a memorandum of what was wanted, addressed to the director of La Belle Jardinière, a very fashionable establishment of nouveautés, as the Parisians call it. She would look after the rest herself. I returned thanks, took the billet, and drove hastily to the elegant shop.

A very engaging demoiselle de boutique (at home we call her a shop-woman) read the letter, and shewed me at once a charming godchild's basket. It was lovely indeed, but it cost £4. Nothing else would do, said the pretty demoiselle, and so I took it. Then she herself chose a beautiful-box, the perfume of which was exquisite, and filled it gracefully with two dozen pairs of fine gloves, two fans-one a precious antique, and the other an artistic modern one-several phials of essences, and a necklace of Turkish pearls. She handed me at the same time a handsome bill-written on glazed paper, adorned with an engraving in goldand the different items amounting to £17. I did not dare to raise an objection, as this pretty box was destined for my elegant partner, and I took, reluc tantly, I must confess, twenty-one napoleons out of my purse.

I thought this was behaving pretty well, and went triumphantly to Madame de Grandville, who did not look absolutely delighted.

"The box," she remarked, "though not at all rich, is

handsome, and I hope your fair lady will receive it with pleasure. But see, here are the beautiful little presents I have bought for you to give the accouchée: fifty francs worth of bonbons and sweets of the best description, to fill the basket and divide among the guests; a bronze night-lamp by Cain, and a silver bowl engraved by Froment-Meurice-the two for twenty louis: you could not offer less to a lady of fifty thousand francs a year; for the nurse, a cap of real lace, five louis-a mere nothing; for the nursery-maid, this French shawl-that is enough for her. I should have liked to buy something besides for the baby, but we must do things as simply as possible."

I stood amazed. It cost me more than £100, that Madame de Poupart had consulted a somnambulist, and thought me a lucky fellow. And, besides, there lay before me a frightful series of étrennes, to be given every year to my blessed godchild. But what could I do? The pill was bitter indeed, but I was obliged to swallow it with the best grace I could. I had pledged my word, and fallen into the snare.

presents had been thankfully received by the young mother, the nurse, and the nursery-maid, and my good taste was much applauded. In the church, a new series began. Before the child was christened, I had to give a wax-taper to the curé, an offering to the vicaire, pour-boires to the sexton, the choristers, the suisse, the sacristan, the door-keeper, the giver of holywater; besides alms for the poor of the parish, the wants of the church, the missions, the convents, &c. I thought it would never come to an end. At last the baby was duly received into the Christian community, and we went away, the suisse preceding us with great pomp, and striking his cane against the pavement of the holy building in a masterly way. I hung my head, for my purse was empty; and, besides, I had the mortification to see that another name than mine was entered in the parish-register, because I did not belong to the Catholic persuasion, and to hear that my godchild did not even bear my name: for who in France would consent to have a son called Peter? Désiré-Eugène is much prettier and more modern.

SEVERAL years since, two young men stopped at the inn at Montaign, waiting for the coach that was to take them on to Fontenay. One of them, who was dressed in a blouse of unbleached linen, had hanging from a crossed shoulder belt a gourd encased in wicker-work, and a tin box, adapted for holding botanical specimens, while in his hand he carried a geological hammer. His open countenance beamed with health and good humor, while that of his companion was bilious and anxious looking. The latter wore an elegant travelling costume; but a pair of large blue spectacles concealed his eyes, and by no means tended to improve the expression of his face. He had just opened a letter, and was preparing to read it for his friend. "Is it from your cousin, Colonel Leclerc ?" asked the latter.

"From his wife. I will read it for you.

"MY DEAR FRANCIS-As soon as you receive this letter, set out to come to us. The new prefect of La Vendée is to pass a few days here. You know, of course, that his name is Vernon, that he is brother to the minister of justice, and that the place of attorney-general,

which you are seeking, will be infallibly granted on his recommendation. Come, then, and try to meet his approbation. He is a man of quiet, simple habits, who never assumes authority except when he wishes to confer a benefit or to redress a wrong. He is coming to our house in order to enjoy a few days' relaxation. My husband did not forget to put in a good word for you in his last letter; but M. Vernon replied that he must see you and judge for himself. Your success, therefore, will entirely depend on the impression you make on him, and I hope it will be a favorable one.

"Your affectionate cousin,
"LUOY LECLERO.'