Hardy ponies, in light calash, dash through the narrow streets, of passengers’ safety regardless; or, tugging at great trucks, strive, in renewed exertion, to vociferous cries and exclamations of the volatile Canadian. How well these Englishmen sit their horses. See that gentleman—with what delicate hand he reins the fiery blood that treads as if on feathers beneath him—and how picturesque appear, amid the motley throng, these red-coated soldiers. Picturesque! I like them not—they indicate a subjugated people. Come! here stands one at the Champ de Mars—how martially he deports himself—his exactly poised musket, and his brazen ornaments—how bright! Inscribed upon his gorget are the actions which have signalized his regiment,—“Badajos”—“Salamanca”—“Vittoria”—“Waterloo.” We will address him. Soldier, your regiment was at Salamanca,—“_S-i-r_.” By the inscription on your gorget, your regiment distinguished itself at Salamanca—“scaled the imminent deadly breach” at “Badajos”—stood the Cuirassiers wild charge amid the sulphurous smoke at Waterloo?—“Don’t know, indeed, s-i-r.” And is this the gallant soldier! Why, for years, under the menace of thy sergeant, thou hast scoured that gorget to regulation brightness—for years hast marched under thy regimental colours emblazoned with those characters, and still in ignorance, need’st a Champoillion to decipher them. ’Tis well. Thou art the machine, indeed, that they require.—Verily, thy daily wage of sixpence, and thy ration, are full compensation for thy service. Listen! The masses hurrying forward in the western hemisphere—whether to happiness and equality,—or furious license and bloody anarchy—with joyous shouts, and cries of freedom, arouse the echo. Dost hear above hoarse cries of “bread,” and mob hurrah’s—confused sounds—low muttering thunder—the rend and clank of chains that o’er the broad Atlantic roll from old Europe? ’Tis the chariot wheels of Liberty, as charging onwards she sweeps away rust-covered chains, and feudal bands, like maze of cobwebs, from her path. Hear! The Nations cry for Constitutions—the monarchs hurrying with ghastly smiles _grant_ their request—the people would _take_ them else. Therefore prepare thee, for wilt thou or thy rulers—the time surely approaches. Expand thy mind—cultivate thy intelligence—study thy God—so that when the hour arrives, in the first wild bounds of freedom, as the desert steed thou dash not thyself to pieces; nor, like the frantic Gaul, bursting from imprisonment of ages, gore thyself with thine own broken fetters, rushing on to deeds of blood and frenzy that cause humanity to shudder. Ponder it, soldier! fare thee well. THE NUN.