as if he had a body worth presarvin' and a
sowl worth savin'."

These sentiments he constantly repeated,
after he had obtained his discharge, when he
used to pitch his quarters as near the barracks
as he could get a place to put himself into;
where, on a fine summer's evening, when the
men were off duty, he would gather a knot
round him, as he sat on a log smoking his
pipe, and tell them long stories about "His
R'yal Highness Prince Edward," and the long
list of martinets, which ended "let us hope,
boys, in Mad Jock!"

PEACE AND WAR

Said War, "I pray thee my playthings see:—
   See warriors glittering in the sun;
They're all automatons, moved by me,
   The proudest, the lowliest—every one.
At my beck or nod they rush to death;
   Rush—ay, with frantic cries of joy—
To the cannon's mouth. But, then, above
I strew bits of laurel, by way of decoy."

Said Peace, "I pray thee my playthings see:—
   See harvests ripening under the sun;
List to the shuttle's whirr. With me
   The yeoman's happy battle is won.
Cheered by me, they toil till death,
   While maids and matrons their linen weave;
The earth is not damp'd with their parting breath,
   And I smooth their pillow as they take leave."

Said War, "I pray thee my triumphs see:—
   See now how nobly my chosen fall;
List to the cannon's roar, and their glee,
   When the enemy's blood bespatters them all.
The warrior's head is upturn 'd to the stars;
   The warrior's plume lies soil'd in the dust;
But a halo of glory flits round his scars,
   And with the blood of the enemies shall his sword rust."

Said Peace, "I pray thee my triumphs see:—
   See roses creep up the cottager's wall;
The children crowd round the father's knee;
   The mill-wheel turns, to grind food for all.
I gather his friends round the poor man's bed,
   When Death, 'the lean fellow,' seizes his prey;
I call blessings down on the orphan's head,
   And point to the flowers of the bright May-day."

Said War, " My triumphs arc won with blood,
   The bravest and best with which veins e'er throbb'd."
Said Peace, " I triumph in yielding food
   To the famished widows whom war hath robb'd."
Said War, " I am worshipp'd in every land;
   My trophies bedeck every sacred dome."
Said Peace, "Mine are raised by the small white hand
   Of Truth and I'm honoured in every home."

HOW TO BE IDOLISED.

The hyperbole of being "idolised " was
never, perhaps, made a literal truth in so
striking a manner as is shown in the following
story; for which we are indebted to a French
author.

In 1818, the good ship "Dido" left the
Mauritius, on her voyage to Sumatra. She
had a cargo of French manufactures on
board, which her captain was to barter for
coffee and spice with the nabobs of the Sunda
isles. After a few days' sail, the vessel was
becalmed; and both passengers and crew
were put on short allowance of provisions
and water.

Preserved meats, fruits, chocolate, fine
flour, and live-stock, were all exhausted, with
the exception of one solitary patriarchal
cock, who, perched on the main-yard, was
mourning his devastated harem, like Mourad
Bey after the battle of the Pyramids.

The ship's cook, Neptune, a Madagascar
negro, received orders, one morning, to
prepare this bird for dinner; and, once more, the
hungry denizens of the state-cabin snuffed up
the delicious odour of roast fowl. The captain
took a nap, in order to cheat his appetite until
dinner-time; and the chief mate hovered like
a guardian-angel round the caboose, watching
lest any audacious spoiler should lay violent
hands on the precious dainty.

Suddenly, a cry of terror and despair issued
from the cook's cabin, and Neptune himself
rushed out, the picture of affright, with both
his hands twisted, convulsively, in the sooty
wool that covered his head. What was the
matter? Alas! in an ill-starred hour the
cook had slumbered at his post, and the fowl
was burnt to a cinder.

A fit of rage, exasperated by hunger and a
tropical sun, is a fearful thing. The mate,
uttering a dreadful imprecation, seized a large
knife, and rushed at Neptune. At that
moment, one of the passeugers, named Louis
Bergaz, interposed to ward off the blow. The
negro was saved, but his preserver received
the point of the steel in his wrist, and his
blood flowed freely. With much difficulty
the other passengers succeeded in preventing
him, in his turn, from attacking the mate;
but, at length, peace was restored, the
aggressor having apologised for his violence.
As to poor Neptune, he fell on his knees, and
kissed and embraced the feet of his protector.

In a day or two the breeze sprang up, and
the "Dido" speedily reached Sumatra. Four
years afterwards, it happened, one day, that
Louis Bergaz was dining at the public table
of an English boarding-house at Batavia.
Amongst the guests were two learned men
who had been sent out by the British Government
to inspect the countries lying near the
equator. During dinner, the name of Bergaz
happening to be pronounced distinctly by one
of his acquaintances at the opposite side of
the table, the oldest of the savans looked up
from his plate, and asked, quickly,

"Who owns the name of Bergaz?"

"I do."

"Curious enough," said the savant, " you
bear the same name as a god of Madagascar."

"Have they a god called Bergaz?" asked
Louis, smiling.

"Yes. And if you like, after dinner,