You would wish to see the German review-you think it so noble a sight? Be assured, if you can teach your eyes to look through the spectacles of truth, there cannot be a sadder, a more rueful exhibition- -one reflecting more upon the true dignity of human nature—one more accusatory of the wisdom and goodness of man-than thousands of men dressed and harnessed, and nicely schooled for the destruction of their fellow creatures. All their finery, all their trappings, are to me but the gim-crackery of the father of wickedness. In my time, I have seen thousands of soldiers drawn up, with a bright sky shining above them; and I have thought them a foul mass-a blot—a shame upon the beautiful earth-an affront to the beneficence of Heaven! But then, I have odd thoughts-strange opinions.

You say it will be sweet, the battle over, to solace the wounded. My dear boy, it will be sweeter far not to begin the battle at all. It may be very humane to apply the salve after you have dealt the gash, but surely it would be better wisdom, truer humanity, to inflict no hurt. And, in time, men will learn this truth; they are learning it; and as I would not see you in a profession which I trust is speedily becoming bankrupt, you will never, with my consent, purchase into the army.

Your affectionate friend,
BENJAMIN ALLPEACE.

LETTER XV.

FROM A MAIDEN AUNT TO A NIECE ON THE IMPRUDENCE OF MARRIAGE.

MY DEAR CLARIBEL,—I should ill acquit myself of the duties of an aunt-should show myself wickedly ungrateful for the goodness that has hitherto preserved me from the cares and frivolities of the marriage-state-were I to see you, my sister's child, ready to throw yourself into a bottomless pit, and never so much as scream to save you. It was only yesterday that Doctor Prunes acquainted me with your headstrong passion for an unworthy creature of a man. Although I had grouse for dinner -and you know how I love it!-I never ate so little; and, in the evening, revoked twice in only three rubbers. What with the news of Doctor Prunes and the tooth-ache, I have scarcely slept all night, and at breakfast, instead of buttered toast, absolutely gave chicken to the parrot. May you, even at the twelfth hour, prove worthy of all I suffer for you.

You are only three-and-twenty, and yet, with a forwardness that makes me blush for the true dignity of womanhood, you already think of marriage! I had hoped that my lessons of morality would have taught you better things. I had flattered myself that, strengthened by my principles, you would have risen above the too common weakness that unites a woman to a creature in every way inferior to herself, whatever the said creatures, in the fulness of their impudence, may trumpet to the contrary. I do not dispute that men may be necessary in the world; but, at the best, they are only necessary evils. It is thus that every really sensible woman should consider them. In the vulgar attribute of brutes-mere muscular strength-they are certainly our superiors; but how immeasurably beneath us are they in all that constitutes true greatness-in delicacy, liberality, tenderness, friendship, fortitude, and taciturnity! And, in their hypocrisy, they confess as much; for they call us angels— (though I am proud to say, no man ever so insulted my understanding)—yes, angels, that they may make us slaves. How any woman can read the marriage ceremony without having her eyes opened to the real intentions of the creatures, is to me most wonderful. Love, honour, and obey! My blood burns to think of it! To the ears of a sensible woman every syllable rattles like a dog-chain.

I did think that my own Claribel-taught by my precept and example-would as soon have put her finger into a rat-trap as a wedding-ring. I did believe that you would consider all the fine things that men utter as nothing more than the false notes of a bird-catcher; mere sounds to bring our free minds "from the heaven of high thoughts," as some poet says, and shut 'em up in cages. How women can listen to a jargon of loves and doves, is melancholy to think of. A woman of really strong mind hates Cupids as she hates cockroaches.

Nevertheless, my dear, I can sympathise with human infirmity. Everybody is not born to keep a heart of virgin ice that, pressed as it may be, no pressing can melt. Still, there is nothing like a diversion of thought to cure a hurt. It is wonderful how a wound heals, if we never think of it. Therefore, return his letters to the man who would ensnare you; and, forgetful of the cares and littlenesses of marriage, give up all your thoughts to astronomy. It is a charming study, and presents a more ennobling field for the human mind than the small limits of wedlock. How insignificant seems the wife, studious of the goings-out and comings-in of a mere husband, compared to the nobler woman who knows all about the Great and Little Bear! How petty the noblest house in the noblest square to the House of Jupiter

or Mars-how perplexing the cares of children, to the lofty contemplation of the Via Lactea (known, as Doctor Prunes says, to the lower orders as the Milky Way);—how insulting to the true greatness of the female mind the smallness of the wedding-ring, when the ring of Saturn may be all her own, with no incumbrance of Saturn himself!

Or if, Claribel, you want enthusiasm for the stars, why, is there not geology? Properly considered, can there be a more delightful employment for the female mind than to settle the ages of things that vulgar souls care nothing about? Who would not turn from the cries of a nursery to the elevating sounds of felspar and quartz? What really great woman would study the mere heart of a mere man, when she might discover fossil shrimps and caterpillars in marble? No. Woman will never assert her true dignity till she can wisely choose between the two.

Then, after some ten or fifteen years-for it is a study too rashly submitted to the young-botany may disclose its lovely mysteries. How delightful, what true freedom for the human soul, to be exempt from cares of husband and family, and to know everything about the operations of pollen! But I am incautiously anticipating a subject reserved for your maturer years.

Break, then, the chains with which mere tyrant man would bind you, and-defying the slavery of conjugal life—live like Diana, And your still affectionate Aunt,

LUCRETIA DRAGONMOUTH.

P.S.-Is it true that the wife of Doctor Beetlebrow is really dead? I wouldn't utter a word against the departed; I should hope not, but-is she really dead?

LETTER XVI.

THE NIECE'S ANSWER.

MY DEAR AUNT,-How can I ever express my gratitude to you, how repay the care with which you seek to gather me to that sisterhood of which Lucretia Dragonmouth is the crowning rose? Alas, madam! I feel my unworthiness! I should but bring a scandal on the community by the frivolity of my words and the earthliness of my desires. I have the greatest respect for Diana, but feel it impossible to become lady's-maid to her.

Therefore, dear Aunt, you must even leave me to my headlong fate; and unbroken rest, heartier meals, and successful rubbers, be your continual reward.

It would ill become my inexperience to dispute the sentence you pass upon the other sex. Men are, doubtless, all you say of them therefore, forewarned by your opinion, I shall endeavour to support the necessary evil that may fall to my lot with all the fortitude I may. As for the marriage ceremony, I have read it again and again, and such is the hopeless perversity of my taste-think it the loveliest composition! To my ears, it murmurs the very music of Paradise.

I feel the full force of what you say about astronomy. No doubt, its study might relieve a wounded heart, but then as I feel no wound that is not most delicious, why should I go to the stars to get rid of it? Yes, madam, I can forgive your talking about the stars. You have never seen my Alfred's eyes! No doubt the Great and Little Bear have their attractions; but you never saw my Alfred's moustache !

Geology, too, may be fascinating. It may be musical to talk of felspar and quartz; to seek for fossil bees that made honey for the pre-Adamites; but you never heard my Alfred sing Love in thine eyes-you never felt the pressure of his throbbing hand!

As for botany, I really feel its influence in a manner I never felt before; for I am just now called to choose my bridal wreath of orange flowers, and must therefore abruptly conclude

Your affectionate Niece,

CLARIBEL MAYDEW.

P.S.-It is not true that Mrs. Beetlebrow is dead; though once she was given over by her physicians. Ah, my dear Aunt! how foolish it was of you thirty years ago to quarrel with the dear doctor, and only-as I've heard-for treading on the toes of a nasty little pug!

LETTER XVII.

FROM A GENTLEMAN TO HIS FRIEND, ENTREATING HIM TO
RENOUNCE THE BOTTLE.

MY DEAR PETER,-May I, by a friendship of thirty years' growth, be permitted to address you on your faults, or, rather, your fault? for it is so capacious that it swallows every other error; in the same way that boa constrictors gulp toads and other unsightly creatures of smaller dimensions. May I venturo to remonstrate with you on-well, it must be said—your habitual drunkenness? Alas! my friend, to what a condition has this folly, this wickedness reduced you! This morning only, I saw a full-grown cucumber in a bottle: there is nothing in the object; it is a common-place, to be seen in the windows of every pickle-merchant: and yet did that imprisoned cucumber touch my heart, and bring pathetic moisture into my eyes; for by the tyranny of association, it made me think of my forlorn friend. Yes; looking at that cucumber, trained to grow in its glass prison, did I behold in it the hopeless condition of Peter Rubygill! There he is thought I-there is Peter, and who shall deliver him? And how, alas! does that plethoric gourd fully declare the story of my friend! How, like him, was it insinuated in its green youth-a very sucker—into the bottle's throat; and how, when there, was it made to grow and swell, until far too large to be withdrawn, it possessed the whole of the bottle, and was then cut off for ever from the vine that had cherished it! And is it not thus, Peter, with a doomed drunkard? Does he not enter the bottle in the greenness of his days, and though he may again and again escape from the thing that threatens to inclose him, at length is it not impossible for him to get away? Habit makes him swell, and there is no hope for him; cut off from the genial world, he has no other dwellingplace than a bottle. Verily, Peter Rubygill, Bacchus-like a pickle-merchant-has his bottled cucumbers, and you are of

them!

And yet, Peter, I would fain hope for you. In the name of all that is great and beautiful in the world, why seal your eyes to its grandeur and loveliness, why walk with your drowsy brain in a fog, when, touched by the light of beauty, it might answer the touch with most delicious music? What, in truth,