1827.] War: its Uses. 57 



Else I might shew you how war makes us rich, in many ways how it 

 makes proctors, with bills five yards long prize-agents, army-agents, 

 commissioners, contractors, stock-jobbers and bankrupts, who are the 

 richest of all people, since they live splendidly on less than nothing, 

 which is much more clever than living on nothing a thing likely to be 

 my case shortly. 



For what do nations go to war ? A foolish question enough ! For 

 what, but that they may fight ; and they fight that they may make peace 

 without which they could not make war again : for, if it was not for 

 that, peace would be a very bad thing. Per-se, it is bad ; but, being 

 accessary to war, it is good. JBellum, pax rursum then war again and 

 so on. 



But this is another matter, in which OLD FIFTEEN is duller now than 

 he was at thirteen. The Romans managed it all without peace. Ah ! 

 those were glorious days ! Now, too, we must find reasons for war ; or, 

 if we cannot find them, we must invent them. That is the curse of sen- 

 timent again, which is the disease of the age. These original noble old 

 thieves never troubled themselves about " reason ;" they made war when 

 they pleased, and left any body else (that pleased) to guess the reason. 



I could tell you a good deal about the Romans ; but it makes me me- 

 lancholy whenever I think of those times. Besides, I have something 

 else to do ; because I must tell you of the reasons for going to war in 

 these degenerate and piping times of reason and justice. " But dinner 

 waits, and I ara tired ;" says your reader, so am I. H. I. 



STANZAS. 

 O HEART ! thou child of sun and shade, 



I value thee but as the shrine, 

 Wherein the sweetest gifts are laid 

 That ever fell from lip, betrayed 

 To thoughts whereof it felt afraid 

 And these are thine ! 



O ! hide thy wealth from worldly eyes 



That fascinate with shame and sin, 

 That seek the things they cannot prize, 

 And ask me where this love-pearl lies, 

 And drain my meanest arteries : 

 It is within. 



Ah ! thou, whose looks my moonlight make, 



Whose truths upon thy tongue lie curled, 

 And now and then with witcheries wake 

 My soul, shall blood of thine e'er slake 

 The thirstings of this human snake ? 

 I dread the world ! 



Can we not launch a spirit-bark 



Until the tide of tears shall cease, 

 And make it as Affection's ark, 

 Where some untired, redeeming spark 

 May find us through the trackless dark 

 A thing of Peace ? 



Or if the moonless wave should bear 



Our hearts where not a hope can fly, 

 There's triumph in such lone despair; 

 And all our mutual lifetime there 

 Shall be a long and pensive prayer 



That we may die ! S.L.B. 



M.M. Afai Seriss VoL.IIL No. 1.3. I 



