Now, if we do not greatly mistake, the lesson which this country should learn from the mortifying experience of the English army in the Crimea is not one of exultation over its lamentable and unnecessary errors, but rather of indifference to the insulting criticism of a nation which can so ill afford to be critical, and of determination to profit in every possible way by those blunders which might have been avoided.  The history of all wars, moreover, should teach us that now and then there comes a time when to hold the olive-branch in one hand and the sword in the other, especially if the olive-branch is kept in the foreground and the sword in the background, involves not only a sad waste of energy, but is mistaken kindness to our enemies.

Those who have read—­and who has not?—­the charming story of “Rab and his Friends” will remember the incident which, for the sake of brevity, we reluctantly condense.  A small, thorough-bred terrier, after being rudely interrupted in his encounter with a large shepherd’s-dog, darts off, fatally bent on mischief, to seek a new canine antagonist.  He discovers him in the person of a huge mastiff, quietly sauntering along in a peaceful frame of mind, all unsuspicious of danger.  The angry terrier makes straight at him, and fastens on his throat.  The rest of the story shall be told in the graphic language of the author.  “To our astonishment, the great creature does nothing but stand still, hold himself up, and roar,—­yes, roar:  a long, serious, remonstrative roar.  How is this? He is muzzled!  The bailies had proclaimed a general muzzling, and his master, studying strength and economy mainly, had encompassed his huge jaws in a home-made apparatus, constructed out of the leather of some ancient breeching.  His mouth was open as far as it could; his lips curled up in rage,—­a sort of terrible grin; his teeth gleaming, ready, from out the darkness; the strap across his mouth tense as a bowstring; his whole frame stiff with indignation and surprise; his roar asking us all round, ‘Did you ever see the like of this?’ He looked a statue of anger and astonishment, done in Aberdeen granite.  We soon had a crowd; the chicken held on.  ‘A knife!’ cried Bob; and a cobbler gave him his knife:  you know the kind of knife, worn away obliquely to a point, and always keen.  I put its edge to the tense leather; it ran before it; and then!—­one sudden jerk of that enormous head, a sort of dirty mist about his mouth, no noise,—­and the bright and fierce little fellow is dropped, limp and dead.”

If we draw a useful moral from this homely incident, it will not be the first time that the unerring sagacity of animals has been serviceable to man.  A stealthy, cunning, unscrupulous, desperate, devilish foe has seized the nation by the throat and threatens its life.  The Government is strong, courageous, determined, abundantly able to make a successful resistance, and even to kill the insolent enemy; but—­it