tion; "if the Turk
were not a brave foe, one could not take so much interest in the war."

This last remark silenced me for a time. The view-point of my future
kinsman was so utterly different from mine that I knew not what to
reply. He evidently thought that a plucky foe, worthy of his steel, was
most desirable, while to my mind it appeared obvious that the pluckier
the foe the longer and more resolute would be the resistance, and, as a
consequence, the greater the amount of bloodshed and of suffering to the
women, children, and aged, the heavier the drain on the resources of
both empires, and of addition to the burdens of generations yet unborn.

When, after a considerable time, I put the subject in this light before
Nicholas, he laughed heartily, and said--

"Why, Jeff, at that rate you would knock all the romance out of war."

"That were impossible, Nick," I rejoined quickly, "for there is no
romance whatever in war."

"No romance?" he exclaimed, opening his eyes to their widest, and
raising his black brows to their highest in astonishment.

"No," said I, firmly, "not a scrap. All the romance connected with war
is in spite of it, and by no means the result of it. The heroism
displayed in its wildest sallies is true heroism undoubtedly, but it
would be none the less heroism if it were exercised in the rescue of men
and women from shipwreck or from fire. The romance of the bivouac in
the dark woods or on the moonlit plains of foreign lands, with the
delights of fresh air and life-giving exercise and thrilling adventure,
is not the perquisite of the warrior; it is the privilege, quite as
much, if not more, of the pioneer in the American backwoods and
prairies, and of the hunter in the wilds of Africa. The romance of
unexpected meetings with foreign `fair ones' in out-o''-the-way
circumstances, with broken bones, perhaps, or gunshot wounds, to lend
pathos to the affair, and necessitate nursing, which may lead to
love-making,--all that is equally possible to the Alpine climber and the
chamois-hunter, to the traveller almost anywhere, who chooses to indulge
in reckless sport, regardless of his neck.--Of course," I added, with a
smile, for I did not wish to appear too cynical in my friend's eyes,
"the soldier has a few advantages in which the civilian does not quite
come up to him, such as the glorious brass band, and the red coat, and
the glittering lace."

"Jeff," said Nicholas, somewhat gravely, "would you