ance with
Mohammedans, who may be driven back into Asia,--not by Russians, but by
a coalition of the Latin and Gothic races.

It is useless, however, to speculate on the future wars of the world. We
only know that offences must needs come so long as nations and rulers
are governed more by interests and passions than by reason or
philanthropy. When will passions and interests cease to be dominant or
disturbing forces? To these most of the wars which history records are
to be traced. And yet, whatever may be the origin or character
of wars, those who stimulate or engage in them find plausible
excuses,--necessity, patriotism, expediency, self-defence, even religion
and liberty. So long then as men are blinded by their passions and
interests, and palliate or justify their wars by either truth or
sophistry, there is but little hope that they will cease, even with the
advance of civilization. When has there been a long period unmarked by
war? When have wars been more destructive and terrible than within the
memory of this generation? It would indeed seem that when nations shall
learn that their real interests are not antagonistic, that they cannot
afford to go to war with one another, peace would then prevail as a
policy not less than as a principle. This is the hopeful view to take;
but unfortunately it is not the lesson taught by history, nor by that
philosophy which has been generally accepted by Christendom for eighteen
hundred years,--which is that men will not be governed by the loftiest
principles until the religion of Jesus shall have conquered and changed
the heart of the world, or at least of those who rule the world.

The chapter I am about to present is one of war,--cruel, merciless,
relentless war; therefore repulsive, and only interesting from the
magnitude of the issues, fought out, indeed, on a narrow strip of
territory. What matter, whether the battlefield is large or small? There
was as much heroism in the struggles of the Dutch republic as in the
wars of Napoleon; as much in our warfare for independence as in the
suppression of the Southern rebellion; as much among Cromwell's soldiers
as in the Crimean war; as much at Thermopylae as at Plataea. It is the
greatness of a cause which gives to war its only justification. A cause
is sacred from the dignity of its principles. Men are nothing;
principles are everything. Men must die. It is of comparatively little
moment whether they fall like autumn leaves or per