War! what miseries are heaped together in the sound!—­What an accumulation of curses is breathed in that one word.  To us, happy in our insular position, we have, within existing memory, known chiefly of war, its pomp and circumstance alone; the gay parade, the glancing arms, the bright colours, the inspiring music—­these are what we see of war in its outset;—­glory, and praise, and badges of honour, these are what appear to us as its result.  The favourite son, the beloved brother, he who, perhaps, is dearer still, returns to the home of his youth or of his heart, having sown danger and reaped renown.  Thus do we look on war.  But ask the inhabitant of a country which has been the seat of war, what is his opinion of it.  He will tell you that he has seen his country ravaged, his home violated, his family ——­ But no! the tongue recoils from speaking the horrors and atrocities of war thus brought into the bosom of a peaceful home.  All the amenities and charities of domestic life are outraged, are annihilated.  All that is dearest to man; all that tends to refine, to soften him—­to make him a noble and a better being—­all these are trampled under foot by a brutal soldiery—­all these are torn from his heart for ever!  He will tell you that he detests war so much that he almost despises its glories; and that he detests it because he has known its evils, and felt how poorly and miserably they are compensated by the fame which is given to the slaughterer and the destroyer, because he is such!

Tales of Passion.

* * * * *

THE NEWSPAPERS.

These square pieces of paper are the Agoras of modern life.  The same skilful division of labour which brings the fowl ready trussed to our doors from the market, brings also an abstract of the

Votum, timor, ira, voluptas,
Gaudia, discursus,

which agitate the great metropolis, and even opinions, ready prepared, to the breakfast tables of our remotest farms, ere the controversial warmth has had time to cool.  In the centre of this square, where you observe the larger character, a public orator, “vias et verba locans,” takes his daily stand.  One makes his speech in the morning, and another reserves his for the evening; a third class, either disposed to take less trouble, or, finding it convenient to construct their speeches from fragments of the daily orations, harangue once in two or three days; while a fourth waylay the people in their road to visit the temples on our hebdomadal festivals.  But cast your eyes to another part of these our artificial forums, and observe the number of small divisions which fill up the space.  There are stalls of merchandize.  The ancient venders must have been noisy, and a frequent cause of annoyance to political speakers; but here the hawkers of wet and dry goods, the hawkers of medicine, the hawkers of personal services,