IV.—Every man who dies without an issue is the _end of a line_. He is like a thread cut from a weaver’s web, and never joined again, or like a river that perishes in the sands of Africa, and never reaches the ocean. The plan contemplated, therefore, will excite in men a universal desire to propagate their species. Every man will see the folly and criminality of remaining single, and the horrid impiety of exposing his life in war before he has tied himself to some future generations. He will view it as risking the extermination of an endless chain of beings equally important with himself. And when he has become a parent, he will view it still more impious to hazard his life in any way, now become necessary for the preservation and care of his children. V.—Thus the _art of killing_, which has been the main business of nations, will be superceded by that of communicating, preserving and improving life. And in future generations the names of heroes and conquerors will be eternized only by their infamy, as crimes are recorded in law Books, preceded by prohibition and followed by penalty. The ages of war will be regarded as the period of universal destruction, or rather as the _period in which the human race had not yet acquired the use of reason_. Then Philosophers and Philanthropists will be celebrated, and a man will only be considered as great as he is known to be _good_. December, 1840. * * * * * A SOLDIER’S THE LAD FOR ME. BY A. M‘MAKIN. There’s a charm in the fame Of a soldier’s name, With his colors so gay, and his spirits so light; At his bold command, No lass in the land, Can withhold from his prowess her smile so bright,— With his nodding plume, and his manners so free, A soldier—a soldier’s the lad for me. At fete or at ball He is courted by all; His step is the lightest that trips in the dance, With his sword on his thigh, And a smile in his eye, Each belle doth acknowledge his bow and his glance, With his nodding plume, and his manners so free, A soldier—a soldier’s the lad for me. When there’s mischief to pay, He is first in the fray, Nor blanches when death-shots are falling around, With a tear for the foe In the battle laid low, He sheds not till victory his valor hath crown’d; With his nodding plume, and his manners so free, A soldier—a soldier’s the lad for me.