to be deducted from the bad numbers; so
that many of those persons of nominally good
numbers are obliged ultimately to go. Sometimes,
however, though rarely, there are offers
of substitution. The Frenchman of twenty-
one, as a rule, does not enlist. There are, it
is true, a number of volunteers in the army,
but they have entered younger. The law,
which in most cases is so jealous of paternal
authority, allows enlistments after
the age of eighteen; and all wild youths, who
cannot have their way, are accustomed to
threaten that they will engage themselves. As
soon as a hopeful young gentleman reaches the
years of depravity, he is pretty sure to
become the autocrat of his household. All
his whims are complied with, all his wishes
satisfied. The mother justifies every indulgence
by the necessity of saving his life, or
preserving him from corruption.

When a young man is admitted to be
in a sufficiently healthy state to serve his
country, he receives what is called a feuille
de route, and is ordered to join a particular
regiment. Perhaps he may have to traverse
the whole of France. We met, on a Saône
steamer, once, a young fellow, who told us
very dismally that he was going to join his
regiment at Carcassonne. This is the first time,
probably, that such a youth has ever been
let loose into the world, beyond parental, or, at
any rate, neighbouring surveillance. He soon
adopts a what-do-I-care sort of look and
manner, and feels praetorian impulses bubble up
within him. On his arrival at his quarters, the
old hands, seeing that he is terribly green, undertake
to polish him up. They begin by making
him spend the money which his mother has
slipped into his hand at parting, and which he
has not disposed of on the way, in wine and
brandy—which they drink; and in tobacco—
which they smoke. They teach him all
manner of new games at cards, especially
those in which the loser is to remain until
fortune turns—which it never does—with his
nose in a split stick. The young conscript
fancies that he is highly honoured. Then
they proceed to show him that this is a. rough
world. He is compelled to learn the sword-
exercise with masters of the art, who, in
spite of the button, contrive to lacerate his
breast and arms. Sometimes, just as if these
French privates had taken lessons of English
Officers, the old hands wake up the new comer
at night, and, before he can well open his eyes
put a wooden sabre in his hand, and order him
to slash away at some terrible dragoon, who
parries at first; but who, if the attack be too
furious, soon shows the young victim that
defence is part of the art of war.

The remark has often been made, that
French soldiers of the line are wonderfully
small, although they are, to a certain extent,
the picked men of the country. The diminutiveness
no doubt arises from the general
poverty absolute want of food. Not only
is the average consumption of meat per head
little above an ounce a day, but in many
provinces the people have never tasted
wheaten bread. They live on barley and
oats, chesnuts, beans, vegetables, often not in
sufficient quantities. When, therefore, the
young conscript is transferred to his regiment,
and fed upon meat, he always becomes
ill: although afterwards, when his system has
accustomed itself to this new kind of food
for two or three years, he finds the rations
insufficient. The tremendous exertion he undergoes
as a preparation for active service
gives him a terrible appetite; and he is ever
looking about, seeking what he may devour.

The people usually speak in a tone of commiseration
of the common soldier, whether
he appear before them in the character of a
tourlourou—the vulgar designation of a young
conscript—or of a piou-piou, regular soldier.
Unless he happen to belong to a family in
easy circumstances, who furnish him with
aid now and then, he has only one sous
per day at his disposal, for tobacco, brandy,
and other enjoyments. He is besides so
common a character, that he has few of the
consolations of a dashing life-guardsman.
Servant-maids do not look up to him with
awe and admiration, although they may now
and then vouchsafe a glance of indulgent pity.
His costume suggests nothing but poverty;
and the long peace has almost dissociated it
from the idea of glory. He is constantly
seen escorting along the crowded streets of
Paris, with all military precaution, a miserable
beggar, a drunken brawler, or a too
eloquent fish-woman. Three men with fixed
bayonets are the fewest required for a service
of this kind. The Eastern war will,
however, probably in a great measure change
all this; for, in spite of every thing, the French
soldier fights nobly. It should be added to
his honour, on the testimony of one who has
had daily opportunities of seeing him in and
about the camp at Boulogne, that he is a
good-humoured, pleasant, well-conducted fellow,
with a vast deal of the true gentleman
in his breast. As to his officers, they are probably
better trained for their work and less
disposed to shirk it or make light of it, than
any class of men in the world.

New Tale by the Author of MARY BARTON, publishing
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By the AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON,
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