the blood that stained her orange-groves. 

 Lodi, Marengo — all these names call up 

 memories of idle carnage, of wasted life. Go 

 over Italy as you will, there is scarcely a 

 spot not crimsoned by the blood of France, 

 scarcely a railway station without its pile of 

 French skulls. You can trace them across 

 to Egypt, to the foot of the Pyramids. You 

 will find them in Germany, — at Ulm and 

 Wagram, at Jena and Leipzig, at Liitzen 

 and Bautzen, at Hohenlinden and at Aus- 

 terlitz. You will find them in Russia, at 

 Moscow; in Belgium, at Waterloo. "A boy 

 can stop a bullet as well as a man," said 

 Napoleon ; and with the rest are the skulls 

 and bones of boys, "ere evening to be trod- 

 den like the grass." " Born to be food for 

 powder" was the grim epigram of the day, 

 summing up the life of the French peasant. 

 Read the dreary record of the glory of 

 France, the slaughter at Waterloo, the 

 wretched failure of Moscow, the miserable 

 deeds of Sedan, the waste of Algiers, the 

 poison of Madagascar, the crimes of Indo- 

 China, the hideous results of barrack vice 

 and its entail of disease and sterility, and 



The 



Human 



Harvest 



[37] 



