G42

TL WENTY-FIFTH EVENING.

 

THE PRICE OF A VICTORY.

“ Goop news! great news! glorious news!’ cried
oung Oswald, as he entered his father’s house. “ We
have got a complete victory, and have killed, I don’t
know how many thousands of the enemy; and we
are to have bonfires and illuminations.”’

“ And so,” said his father, “ you think that killing
a great many thousands of human creatures 1s a thing
to be very glad about.”

Os. No—I do not quite think so, neither; but
surely it is right to be glad that our country has
gained a great advantage.

if, No doubt, it is right to wish well to our coun-
try, as far as its prosperity can be promoted without
injuring the rest of mankind. But wars are very
seldom to the real advantage of any nation; and when
they are ever so useful or necessary, so many dreadful
evils attend them, that a humane man will scarcely
vejoice in them, if he consider at all on the subject.

Os. But if our enemies would do us a great deal of
mischief, and we prevent it by beating them, have we
not a right to be glad of it?

#, Alas! we are in general little judges which of
the parties may have had the most mischievous inten-
tions. Generally, they are both in the wrong, and
success will make either of them unjust and unreason-
able. But putting this out of the question, he who
rejoices in the event of a battle, rejoices in the misery
of many thousands of his species; and the thought of
that should make him pause a little. Suppose a
surgeon were to come, with a smiling countenance,
and tell us triumphantly that he had cut off half-a-
dozen legs to day—what would you think of him?

Os. L should think him very hard-hearted.