their glory;
the heroism of the soldier had no existence until acknowledged by
the proclamation after the battle; the valor of the general wanted
confirmation till sealed by his approval. To fight beneath his eyes was
the greatest glory a regiment could wish for; to win one word from him
was fame itself forever.

If I dwell on these thoughts here, it is because I now felt for the
first time the sad deception I had practised on myself; and how little
could I hope to realize in my soldier's life the treasured aspirations
of my boyhood I Was this, then, indeed the career I had pictured to
my mind,--the chivalrous path of honor? Was this the bold assertion of
freedom I so often dreamed of? How few of that armed host knew anything
of the causes of the war,--how much fewer still cared for them! No
sentiment of patriotism, no devotion to the interests of liberty or
humanity, prompted us on. Yet these were the thoughts first led me to
the career of arms; such ambitious promptings first made my heart glow
with the enthusiasm of a soldier.

This gloomy disappointment made me low-spirited and sad. Nor can I say
where such reflections might not have led me, when suddenly a change
came over my thoughts by seeing a wounded soldier, who had just arrived
from Mortier's division, with news of a fierce encounter they had
sustained against Kutusof's Russians. The poor fellow was carried
past in a litter,--his arm had been amputated that same morning, and a
frightful shot-wound had carried away part of his cheek; still, amid all
his suffering, his eye was brilliant, and a smile of proud meaning was
on his lips.

"Lift it up, Guillaume; let me see it again," said he, as they bore him
along the crowded street.

"What is it he wishes?" said I. "The poor fellow is asking for
something."

"Yes, mon lieutenant. It is the _sabre d'honneur_ the Emperor gave him
this morning. He likes to look at it every now and then; he says he
doesn't mind the pain when he sees that before him. _And it is natural,
too._"

"Such is glory!" said I to myself; "and he who feels this in his heart
has no room for other thoughts."

"Oh, give to me the trumpet's blast, And the champ of the charger
prancing; Or the whiz of the grape-shot flying past, That 'a music meet
for dancing.

"Tralararalal" sang a wild-looking voltigeur, as he capered along the
street, keeping time to his rude song with the tramp of his feet.

"Ha! there goes a fellow from the Faubourg