fought and won in every quarter of the world, comprising the captured flags of all the nations with whom the British lion has waged war since James II’s time,—­French, Dutch, East-Indian, Prussian, Russian, Chinese, and American,—­collected together in this consecrated spot, not to symbolize that there shall be no more discord upon earth, but drooping over the aisle in sullen, though peaceable humiliation.  Yes, I said “American” among the rest; for the good old pensioner mistook me for an Englishman, and failed not to point out (and, methought, with an especial emphasis of triumph) some flags that had been taken at Bladensburg and Washington.  I fancied, indeed, that they hung a little higher and drooped a little lower than any of their companions in disgrace.  It is a comfort, however, that their proud devices are already indistinguishable, or nearly so, owing to dust and tatters and the kind offices of the moths, and that they will soon rot from the banner-staves and be swept out in unrecognized fragments from the chapel-door.

It is a good method of teaching a man how imperfectly cosmopolitan he is, to show him his country’s flag occupying a position of dishonor in a foreign land.  But, in truth, the whole system of a people crowing over its military triumphs had far better be dispensed with, both on account of the ill-blood that it helps to keep fermenting among the nations, and because it operates as an accumulative inducement to future generations to aim at a kind of glory, the gain of which has generally proved more ruinous than its loss.  I heartily wish that every trophy of victory might crumble away, and that every reminiscence or tradition of a hero, from the beginning of the world to this day, could pass out of all men’s memories at once and forever.  I might feel very differently, to be sure, if we Northerners had anything especially valuable to lose by the fading of those illuminated names.

I gave the pensioner (but I am afraid there may have been a little affectation in it) a magnificent guerdon of all the silver I had in my. pocket, to requite him for having unintentionally stirred up my patriotic susceptibilities.  He was a meek-looking, kindly old man, with a humble freedom and affability of manner that made it pleasant to converse with him.  Old soldiers, I know not why, seem to be more accostable than old sailors.  One is apt to hear a growl beneath the smoothest courtesy of the latter.  The mild veteran, with his peaceful voice, and gentle, reverend aspect, told me that he had fought at a cannon all through the Battle of Waterloo, and escaped unhurt; he had now been in the hospital four or five years, and was married, but necessarily underwent a separation from his wife, who lived outside of the gates.  To my inquiry whether his fellow-pensioners were comfortable and happy, he answered, with great alacrity, “Oh, yes, Sir!” qualifying his evidence, after a moment’s consideration, by saying, in an undertone,