Something about the Turkish Provinces. War, my young friends, is a fiendish sport. It has been said it is a game that, if their subjects were wise, kings could not play at. Its object is—killing on a large scale; mowing down men as if they were fields of corn, and with as little compunction; bringing bristling bayonets, grape and canister-shot, red-hot balls, explosive bombs, and volleys of bullets upon poor humanity; and blowing up into the air, or down into the deep, thousands of poor unfortunate fellows who, perhaps, know no more about the quarrel that produced the war, than so many unhatched chickens. Truly, to read history, one might suppose that the human race, during the last four thousand years at least, must have been a little insane; there seems so little reason for all the bombardments, assaults, battles, and massacres, which have taken place. Well, we thought ourselves getting wiser; the boys and girls that had read “Peter Parley’s Annual” fifteen years ago, had become men and women; and education had made great strides. The drill-sergeant of the German despots was drafted into our schools; and Chelsea children were taught to read by military discipline, with a view to their being made friends of humanity, and lovers of peace. The European kings and potentates were a Holy Alliance of loving brothers, and had pretended that the Christian religion should be their future guide. They said this, after they had received several and sundry sound drubbings from the great Napoleon; and, while rubbing their shoulders and sides, after one cudgelling they had received—and deservedly received, too—said, they would be very good boys. But, as soon as the danger was past, and they had got a little over their various mishaps, they began to lie, rob, cheat, and filch, not only from each other, but from their next-door neighbours, like so many wolves or foxes. At last, one savage old Bear, more savage and more powerful than the rest, makes a grab at a Turkey; whereupon the Turkey, instead of falling a victim, like a goose, blew up his purple nose like a windy sun-rise, and puffed out his feathers, and stretched forth his wings, and came towards the old Bear like a game-cock, and called upon the British Lion and the French Eagle to back him. “But what is all this about?” my young friends inquire. Take a map, and look at it. Find out the Black Sea; and you will see on its northern coast, the Russian Empire stretches down towards the south; and, to the west, you will see certain provinces which belong to Turkey, the principal of which is Moldavia. It is the most northern province of Turkey. It is bounded on the east by Bessarabia—a province which formed part of Turkey until 1812, when it was given up to the great Russian Bear; on the south is Wallachia; and on the west and north, by the provinces of the Austrian Empire. The province forms a compact territory, about 200 miles in length, and 120 in breadth.