"Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-
Man when I'm quite growed up!"

Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head
in a dubious and moral way. "It depends upon
how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to
dewelop your talents, and never to say no more
than you can help to nobody, and there's no
telling at the present time what you may not
come to be fit for." As Young Jerry, thus
encouraged, went on a few yards in advance, to
plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr.
Cruncher added to himself: "Jerry, you honest
tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will yet
be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you
for his mother!"

THE TRACK OF WAR.

ONE moonlight night in the middle of the month
of June in this present year, I found myself on the
top of Mont Cenis, trudging along ahead of the
diligence, in company with a band of extremely
hirsute French soldiers, bound for the Italian
wars. These gentlemen constituted the first
symptoms I had encountered of the strife now
raging in Italy, and it was only on falling into
their company that it occurred to me that I
was now, for the fourth time in my life, without
intending it, on the traces of war.

What upon earth took me to Schleswig-Hol-
stein at, the only time (during the fight with
Denmark) when those provinces could not be
peaceably examined, I cannot remember, but I
have a distinct recollection of learning from
General Willisen that everybody there being
supposed to be " in earnest," it was imperative
that I should either take my musket and fight
for something or other, or evacuate Rendsburg
without delay. As the general's first suggestion
was not even accompanied by the " twenty
scudi," which, combined with the ecstasy of
marching to a popular tune, should, according
to Sergeant Belcore, possess irresistible charms,
I adopted the second alternative. As little
do I remember wherefore I should have se-
lected Varna, and the stagnant pools of
Aladeyn, as an agreeable resort for the hottest
period of ever-memorable eighteen hundred and
fifty-four; nor why I should have absolutely
embarked in the Europa at Suez, last July, with
the fixed intention of proceeding to India, when
every discreet person was coming away, my
project being only defeated by the luckiest acci-
dent in the world.

Thus, as I have said, for the fourth time on
the track of arms, I yield to an inevitable des-
tiny, and move steadily upon Turin, seeing
nothing of military aspect by the way excepting
only a small body of horse artillery at Susa, but
expecting I know not what of excitement and
hostile preparation at the so-lately threatened
capital.

In this I am disappointed. Turin is tranquil-
lity—one might be permitted perhaps to say dul-
ness—itself. It is obviously suffering from the
languor succeeding a period of intense excite-
ment. Scarcely a soldier to be seen! One
wounded Zouave, strolling on the Corso, is so
marked a man that he attracts a crowd, who
follow him in a diminishing tail, terminating
in a small boy with cherries and ballads. The
hotels are half empty, the theatres half closed;
that is to say, open thrice a week (soldiers
and children half-price), and then confining
themselves to purely occasional pieces, whereof
Gli Austriaci in Italia, Commedia, and L'interes-
santissimo Dramma, I due Zuavi, seem the fa-
vourites, while the young poetry of the nation
makes itself heard in chamber recitations, and
the street chorus comes swelling up with pecu-
liar fervour:

Dì di lutto, dì di guai,
Sarà quello, o buon Giulai,
Che in Piemonte arriverai.

Ma già sento un suon di tromba!
II cannone già, rimbomba!
Ah, Giulai!—t'apri la tomba!

Excepting that every third man has a news-
paper, or bulletin, in his hand, there is no visible
token of public anxiety. The wave of war has
rolled away and away to the plains of Lom-
bardy, carrying with it every grain of appre-
hension and uncertainty. This great page of
human story is fairly turned: the results are
for another page. One thing, at least, may be
accepted as certain: the name of Italy is in-
scribed—the God of Nations grant!—for ever in
the records of the free.

Passing one of the hospitals, I meet my friend
Dr. Pound. He has been visiting the wounded
Austrians, who, to the number of three hundred,
are distributed, with French and Sardinians,
among the general hospitals. Most of the former
(Dr. Pound adds) are wounded in the back; but
let that be no reflection on their courage. Their
enemies, to a man, admit that they fought ad-
mirably—"perfectly." They stand well, and
even if broken, can be rallied; but the bewilder-
ing rush of the French infantry is too much for
them. The bayonets once crossed, all is over.
They resist cavalry better. An Austrian square
withstood six desperate home-charges of the
Piedmontese horse, and retired at last in perfect
order, having emptied two hundred of the
assailants' saddles. As for the admitted want of
enthusiasm in the Austrian soldiery, it is no
doubt fully compensated for by that other species
of esprit de corps, which is the result of isolating
each regiment to such a degree as to render it in
some sort the home and family of every man
belonging to it .

To remain in Turin is impossible. A visit or
two, an agreeable evening at the house of the
accomplished gentleman by whose hands—under
seven successive home-governments—British in-
terests have been ably administered here, and
armed with a safe-conduct (due to his good
offices) commending the bearer, " caldamente,"
to every description of protection, I depart by
railway for Novara, frankly warned, by-the-by,
that the said safe-conduct may prove of no
greater service than to prevent my being shot
without the opportunity of preferring a few re-