It is difficult to understand whence the parrot-cry could have arisen that England was not a military nation. Not a military nation! when her annals are illustrated with a catalogue of victories gained over every people in the civilised world—over France, herself the conqueror of Europe; over sturdy Germany, phlegmatic Holland, chivalrous Spain, and the fanatic hosts of India and China. Not a military nation! when her sons have given some of the most eminent proofs of courage, activity, industry, passion for the service, their whole life seeming to breathe for nothing but fame and the glory of the flag they love so well. Not a military nation! when she has produced a Marlborough, a Nelson, a Wellington, and a Clyde, and hundreds of other heroes, so eminent in fame that we may challenge the world with no unjustifiable pride to find their equals. It may more truly be said that England is not a warlike nation. She fights not for ideas, nor for the lust of conquest; she values peace, and bears much and forbears much, to avoid the naked horrors of war; but when once she has girded on the sword in a just cause, woe be to the enemy that dares to meet her steel, for

We not now
Fight for how long, how broad, how great and large
The extent and bounds of the purple Rome shall be,
But to retain what our noble ancestors left us.
So Huzzah! Huzzah! death or victory.

THE WIVES AT HOME.

Hurrah and hurrah for the soldiers that go
With a laugh and a smile o’er the foam!
Hurrah for the glad hearts that leap at the foe,
But alas for the sad hearts at home!
Hurrah for the flash and the crash of the guns,
The clash of the sabres, the madness of strife
Hurrah and hurrah for Britain’s brave sons,
But alas for each mother and wife!
Hurrah for the battle well fought and well won
Hurrah for the vanquished who sleep!
Hurrah for the victors whose life-work is done,
But alas for the widows who weep!

[CHAPTER XI.]

The Great Book—Mysteries of Providence—The Gift of a Bible and what it led to—The Secrets of the Sacred Shrine—Opinions of a Native Hindoo Priest.

THE GREAT BOOK.

Hail, sacred volume of eternal truth,
Thou staff of age, thou guide of wand’ring youth;
Thou art the prize that all who run shall win,
Thou the sole shield against the darts of sin:
Thou giv’st the weary rest, the poor man wealth,
Strength to the weak, and to the dying health.
Lead me, my King, my Saviour, and my God!
Thro’ all those paths Thy sainted servants trod;
Teach me Thy two-fold nature to explore,
Copy the human—the Divine adore;
To wait with patience, live in hope and fear,
And walk between presumption and despair;
Then shall thy blood wash out the stains of guilt,
That not in vain for me, e’en me, was spilt.
Jones.