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A cuspide corona, should be the soldier's motto: for, even suppose that he is slain, he has acquired the wreath of glory in the grave; that is to say, according to the world's opinion: though, for my own part, I am perfectly well satisfied with the glory of living as long as I can. Iniquissimam pacem justissimo bello antefero. for I never think of fighting, but it reminds me of the story of the late facetious Captain Grose, of antiquarian memory, which ran as follows: “Old Lord Ligonier took the charge of his nephew, when commanding the British forces abroad, and at the commencement of the first engagement he was greatly exasperated at the timidity which was evinced by his elève, who excused himself, on the score of the novelty of the dreadful scene; as the slaughter increased, the young man's fear became less conspicuous, until a musket ball not only levelled to the earth a soldier who was at his side, but splashed his coat with the brains of the deceased. On witnessing this, a visible emotion was depictured on the features of the young soldier, which was noticed by the enraged uncle, who, with a bitter imprecation, vowed that his nephew was a poltron, and only fit to be tied to his mother's apron string. “I beg your pardon, uncle,” replied the nephew, archly, and looking at his bedaubed regimental coat, “I am not afraid, but am only astonished to find that a skull here should be possessed of any brains at all.”

The Irish commander, of whom the following anecdote is related, was, in all probability, one of those fiery hot gentlemen, of whom it may be said, Il sangue del soldato fa grande il capitano.

But to the point in question.

When General O'Kelly was introduced to Louis XIV. soon after the battle of Fontenoy, his Majesty observed, that Clare's regiment behaved well in that engagement. “Sire,” said the general, “they behaved well, it is true; many of them were wounded: but my regiment behaved better, for we were all killed!”

Even the sacred functions of the clerical character have been stained with blood, in despite of the precepts of christianity; for it is related in history, that Richard Cœur de Lion, having taken a fighting bishop prisoner, the Pope claimed him as one of his spiritual sons. When the king jocosely sent the Pope the hacked and bloody armour of the bishop, saying, “Lo, this have I found, now know thou if it be thy son's coat or no!”

Such being the case, we may well exclaim,

No man, surely, reared to that

could bear such an ignoble idea: It is a scandal of such magnitude, that the mere supposition alone is sufficient to make a soldier's cocked hat leap from off his head, or curl the whiskers of an Austrian hussar; it would give animation to the boots of a French chasseur, or blow up a light horseman's leather breeches. In short, there is nothing wonderful that even the bare idea would not effect. La guerra fa i ladri, e la pace glimpicca.

Bravo! Bravissimo! What are rheumatic pains, or the loss of the use of limbs, when put in competition with military glory? To't again: nay, stand up to the neck, and fire away against a flinty wall; 'tis all on the score of honour, which you may thus acquire. A capite ad calcem.

What, witness the taking off a pair of colours! Behold an enemy march away in triumph with half a dozen yards of silk! Zounds and death! Who could submit to such indignity! No; rather lead on the elite of your forces; let it become bellum internecinum, to save the precious stuff, though it only dangles in the wind, slit into shreds and tatters. For, be it remembered,

Delicacies, beyond compare, when seasoned with honour: for what will not a military stomach digest, whose delight is to feast on death, and play with bullets!

Ay; and a very decent recompense too, considering that your single arm may have made twenty widows, and as many orphans, in that day's battle, by sending to the shades so many husbands and fathers as your avant couriers. But it is all perfectly acceptable to military policy: because two potentates, or ministers, have quarrelled, and therefore call upon the multitude to avenge their injured honours.

This is, certainly, rather a cold supper for those who prefer The beginning of a fray to the end of a feast, and affords a striking contrast to the spirited lines of our bard:

A truce to joking: for though the leading stanzas of the bard excited risibility, the sober contemplation of this subject is sufficient to excite the keenest emotions in the breast of sensibility, to behold thousands of men, ranged in battle array, fighting for they know not what, and slaughtering they care not whom; and yet, if the very man who falls had been with his enemy in a pothouse, he would as cordially have drank with him, nor dreamt of enmity. O war! Accursed war! Well may thy fabled deity have been depicted as drawn by terror and fear, led on by discord, and followed by clamour and anger. Well may Bellona rear the bloody whip, brandish the flaming torch, and on her head display snakes, dripping with gore. No picture can be too disgusting, no thought more dreadful: as if Omnipotence created men to murder one another. “Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with 'em?” Were the pangs of the mother felt, and the difficulties she had to encounter in rearing her infant, experienced only to serve as food for cannon? Think of that, ye potentates, and let the contemplation stay your thoughts from bloody extermination: and since the human life is but a span at best, learn to abstain from its curtailment.