delicate music of the Italian lyre: but from all these has breathed the breath of War, that has swept the heart-strings of men in all the thronging generations. And when the youth becomes a man, his country invites his service in war, and holds before his bewildered imagination the prizes of worldly honor. For him the pen of the historian and the verse of the poet. His soul is taught to swell at the thought that he, too, is a soldier,--that his name shall be entered on the list of those who have borne arms for their country; and perhaps he dreams that he, too, may sleep, like the Great Captain of Spain, with a hundred trophies over his grave. The law of the land throws its sanction over this frenzy. The contagion spreads beyond those subject to positive obligation. Peaceful citizens volunteer to appear as soldiers, and affect, in dress, arms, and deportment, what is called the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war." The ear-piercing fife has to-day filled our streets, and we have come to this church, on this National Sabbath, by the thump of drum and with the parade of bristling bayonets. It is not strange, then, that the Spirit of War still finds a home among us, nor that its honors continue to be regarded. All this may seem to illustrate the bitter philosophy of Hobbes, declaring that the natural state of mankind is War, and to sustain the exulting language of the soldier in our own day, when he wrote, "War is the condition of this world. From man to the smallest insect, all are at strife; and the glory of arms, which cannot be obtained without the exercise of honor, fortitude, courage, obedience, modesty, and temperance, excites the brave man's patriotism, and is a chastening corrective for the rich man's pride."[5] This is broad and bold. In madder mood, another British general is reported as saying, "Why, man, do you know that a grenadier is the _greatest character_ in this world,"--and after a moment's pause, with the added emphasis of an oath, "and, I believe, in the next, too."[6] All these spoke in harmony. If one is true, all are true. A French voice has struck another note, chanting nothing less than the divinity of war, hailing it as "divine" in itself,--"divine" in its consequences,--"divine" in mysterious glory and seductive attraction,--"divine" in the manner of its declaration,--"divine" in the results obtained,--"divine" in the undefinable force by which its triumph is determined;[7] and the whole earth, continually imbibing blood, is nothing but an immense altar, where life is immolated without end, without measure, without respite. But this oracle is not saved from rejection even by the magistral style in which it is delivered. [5] Napier, Peninsular War, Book XXIV. ch. 6, Vol. VI. p. 688. [6] Southey, Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society, Coll. VIII., Vol. I. p. 211. [7] Joseph de Maistre, Soirées de Saint-Pétersbourg, Tom. II. pp. 27, 32-35.