of public affairs."

A la bonne heure. The bond- and share-holders of the Saginaw must look
for loss and depression in times of war. This is one of war's dreadful
taxes and necessities; and all sorts of innocent people must suffer by
the misfortune. The corn was high at Waterloo when a hundred and fifty
thousand men came and trampled it down on a Sabbath morning. There was
no help for that calamity, and the Belgian farmers lost their crops for
the year. Perhaps I am a farmer myself--an innocent colonus; and instead
of being able to get to church with my family, have to see squadrons
of French dragoons thundering upon my barley, and squares of English
infantry forming and trampling all over my oats. (By the way, in writing
of "Panics," an ingenious writer in the Atlantic Magazine says that the
British panics at Waterloo were frequent and notorious.) Well, I am
a Belgian peasant, and I see the British running away and the French
cutting the fugitives down. What have I done that these men should be
kicking down my peaceful harvest for me, on which I counted to pay my
rent, to feed my horses, my household, my children? It is hard. But it
is the fortune of war. But suppose the battle over; the Frenchman says,
"You scoundrel! why did you not take a part with me? and why did you
stand like a double-faced traitor looking on? I should have won the
battle but for you. And I hereby confiscate the farm you stand on, and
you and your family may go to the workhouse."

The New York press holds this argument over English people in terrorem.
"We Americans may be ever so wrong in the matter in dispute, but if you
push us to a war, we will confiscate your English property." Very
good. It is peace now. Confidence of course is restored between us.
Our eighteen hundred peace commissioners have no occasion to open their
mouths; and the little question of confiscation is postponed. Messrs.
Battery, Broadway and Co., of New York, have the kindness to sell
my Saginaws for what they will fetch. I shall lose half my loaf very
likely; but for the sake of a quiet life, let us give up a certain
quantity of farinaceous food; and half a loaf, you know, is better than
no bread at all.

THE NOTCH ON THE AXE.--A STORY A LA MODE.

PART I.

"Every one remembers in the Fourth Book of the immortal poem of your
Blind Bard, (to whose sightless orbs no doubt Glorious Shapes were
apparent, and Visions Celestial,) how Adam discourses to Eve of the
Br