The officers are pretty much the same, with this difference
only,--that formerly the King selected them from the
nobility, whereas now they ennoble themselves by zeal and
courage. But a hundred years ago the soldiery, properly so
called, consisted in France of what it now does with
you--the scum of the population. Picked up in low taverns,
between a heap of crown-pieces and a glass of brandy, the
soldier made himself more dreaded by the peasantry than by
the enemy. He seemed to be overpowered beneath the weight of
the scorn of the country at large, the meanness of his
present condition, and the impossibility of future
promotion; and he revenged himself by forays upon the cellar
and the farmyard. He had his place among the scourges which
desolated monarchical France. Hear what La Fontaine says,--
"La faim, les creanciers, _les soldats_, la corvee, Lui font
d'un malheureux la peinture achevee."
You see that your soldiers of 1858 are angels in comparison
with our _soudards_ of the monarchy. If, with all this, you
still find them, not absolutely perfect, try the French
recipe: submit all your citizens to a conscription, in order
that your regiments may not be composed of the refuse of the
nation, Create--"
"Stop!" cried the prelate.
"Monsignore?"
"I stopped you short, my son, because T perceive that you
are getting beyond the real and the possible.
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