Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 425 | Page 9

second time!'
However, Mr Elliston indulged in the fault of procrastination, which in
him often led to results he did not anticipate: he rarely remembered that
excellent maxim, which advises us never to postpone till to-morrow
what can be performed as well to-day. To-morrow came, indeed; but
with it also came an attack of gout, which incapacitated him from
exertion for weeks: and scarcely was he convalescent, when a letter
was put into his hands from the absentee, announcing the marriage of

Major George with a very pretty and charming young lady. Mr Elliston
handed the missive to his niece: she perused it in silence; but her uncle
told Mrs Smith, in strict confidence, that he felt almost sure a tear fell
on the paper. Be that as it might, shortly afterwards, when Mr Elliston
signified his intention of inviting Major George, Major George's young
bride, and the young bride's elder sister, to pay him a visit, Miss
Constantia expressed a desire to return home. Her uncle acquiesced
with rather too much alacrity for conventional politesse, exclaiming as
he did so: 'I only hope, Niece Con, that George's wife won't be a "Dear
me!" or a "Well, I never!" but a hearty, comfortable, chattering woman,
with a will and a way of her own!'
Nor were Mr Elliston's hopes in this instance doomed to
disappointment; for Mrs Major George had not only an actual tongue,
but a way and a will of her own so decided, that ere the expiration of
their visit, she succeeded in bringing about a union between the nabob
and her elder sister. Some folks affirmed, that Mr Elliston came
speedily to endure the flat contradictions of his wife with the humility
of a broken spirit, and to speak with tender regret of his meek and
inoffensive nieces. They, quiet souls, heard of their uncle the nabob's
marriage without surprise, and without expressing emotion of any kind,
beyond the 'Really!' 'Indeed!' and 'Impossible!' appertaining to each, as
her distinguishing characteristic or mark of identity. When we first met
the Misses Bonderlay, with their trinal baskets and squares of
worsted-work, they were preparing a beautiful hearth-rug as a present
for their uncle's wife, to be formed of these identical squares, with
numerous others of a similar construction, and surrounded by a
corresponding handsome border. Since that period, we have been
favoured with exquisite specimens of their united industry; for the
greatest pleasure of their lives consists in bestowing such-like gifts of
handiwork on their friends and acquaintance.
But we have derived another benefit from our intercourse with the
sisters. Whenever we find ourselves at a loss for an inoffensive reply,
or are unwilling to pursue a discussion, we find a safe refuge in
copying their harmless peculiarity; for, after all, the meaning of words
depends very much on intonation: and we have not unfrequently had

confirmed, by our own experience, the theory we have ventured to
promulgate--that there is much virtue in such interjections as Really!
Indeed! and Impossible!

THE GREAT AFGHAN BLUNDER.
Every war is a blunder; every battle a blot of shame upon human nature;
and the greatest wisdom a successful belligerent can shew, even when
he has been forced into the fray by his beaten antagonist, is to get out of
it as fast as he can. But some wars are viewed, not as they ought to be,
as indications of the slow progress of the human race from barbarism,
but through the medium of the lofty and chivalrous feelings of the
resisting party, or the party which takes arms against oppression. Hence,
war and glory have come to be associated in the vulgar mind; and
hence the mere act of fighting is termed honourable, although it is
obvious that, abstractedly, it should excite only feelings of shame. Even
the late Afghan war is looked upon as a calamity, relieved throughout
by flashes of heroism and gleams of success--a war which, rightly
viewed, is either one of the greatest crimes, or one of the most
stupendous blunders recorded in history!
This war, we observe, has already found a chronicler, and one
peculiarly qualified, both by his knowledge and talent, to do justice to
the subject.[1] Although possessing all the essentials of history,
however, the book has something more, and is therefore not strictly a
history, in the conventional sense of the term; the text as well as the
margin being burdened with letters, diaries, and documents of all
kinds--the crude materials which it is the province of the historian to
digest. The author, notwithstanding, has a clear historical head; his
narrative, when he permits it to flow uninterrupted, is animated; his
reflections generally philosophical; his summaries of individual
character acute and distinct; and so peculiar have been his sources of
information, that henceforward no man