of military life upon the French, on the contrary, is to elevate and improve their higher faculties, mental, moral, and social. It is not too much to say, that, in respect to these two last, the French privates are superior to the officers of most other countries. Hence, to the nation at large the army is in many ways a great blessing, and benefits the minds, manners, and morals of the people. These soldiers return to their native wilds like missionaries of good, and diffuse over their villages the advantages which the army has bestowed upon them. If it were not for them, these benighted districts would · not receive any enlightenment whatever. Thus the army is, to a certain extent, a liberalizing institution, and the more military power, as it is managed at present, predominates in France, the more widely instruction is extended, and the more intelligent the people become. The warlike reign of Napoleon III. has in this way bestowed upon the people infinitely greater advantages than the peaceful administration of Louis Philippe, and its effects on their minds and manners will be still more powerful hereafter.

Frequently the returned soldier is the only gentleman in the village, and the only person of education, except the priest. He is the "guide, philosopher, and friend" of the villagers. He is not only their great authority in military matters, but their school-teacher, their "chef de la cuisine," and able to give them lessons in dancing, swimming, and fencing, if they wish them. In the lit

tle circle of the village guinguette he utters from behind the smoke of his pipe, like Apollo from his shrine, words of oracular wisdom, which are law and gospel to his hearers. At his nod great reputations are overthrown, former idols bite the dust, and men of slight esteem are placed on high amid the tuneful choir. Thus the Gamaliel at whose feet sit Jeannette and Jeannot and their callow young is often clad in red, baggy pantaloons and white gaiters; and while many thoughts of greater inspiration fall from his lips, they learn also that Waterloo was a mistake, that Voltaire is infinitely superior to Shakspeare, and that "ces Anglais-là · sont des bêtes."

That the warlike spirit of France carries its own renovating and vitalizing influences with it may be seen from the vigor with which the nation has recovered from past disasters, and from the pressure of calamity which she has borne uncrushed. From 1791 to 1815, France furnished, for the wars of Napoleon and the Republic, over four and a half millions of men, all of whom died, mostly in Spain and Russia, of wounds, privation, and imprisonment. Her debt was increased by an amount of two thousand millions of francs, and her territory was less at the end than at the beginning. Could any other nation have borne this without at least a century of prostration and decay?

There is a striking resemblance between the management and instruction of the French troops and those of ancient Rome. As we are informed

by Vegetius, whose works Gibbon has quoted, "The Roman exercises comprehended whatever could add strength to the body, activity to the limbs, or grace to the motions. The soldiers were diligently instructed to march, to run, to leap, to swim, to carry heavy burdens, to handle any species of arms that were used either for offence or for defence, either in a distant engagement or in a closer onset, to perform a variety of evolutions, and to move to the sound of flutes in the Pyrrhic or martial dance. In the midst of peace, the Roman troops familiarized themselves with the practice of war. Regular pay, occasional donatives, and a stated recompense after the appointed time of service, alleviated the hardships of military life, whilst, on the other hand, it was impossible for cowardice or disobedience to escape the severest punishment. Their attachment to their standard was inspired by the united influence of religion and honor. The golden eagle, which glittered in the front of the legion, was the object of their fondest devotion; nor was it esteemed less impious than it was ignominious to abandon that sacred ensign in the hour of danger. The peasant or mechanic imbibed the useful prejudice that he was advanced to the more dignified profession of arms, in which his rank and reputation would depend on his own valor; and that, although the prowess of the private soldier must often escape the notice of fame, his own behavior might sometimes confer glory or disgrace on the company, the legion, or even the army, to whose honors he was associated."

This was the discipline which made the Roman soldiers the first in the world; and a similar training, with added excellences, has led the French to the same proud position. And thus it seems becoming that these, having followed the steps of the former to fame, should watch over their ashes for a time; and that they who have borne the standard of France to the remotest parts of the earth should guard the scene of "the trebly hundred triumphs of Rome.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE LETHARGY OF ROME.

ROME is the city of silence. It is the eldest of cities in the embrace of the eldest of things. In the midst of its broad and desolate Campagna, it bears the aspect of a necropolis in the desert. Its people, in their deep tranquillity and apathy, seem like dwellers amongst the tombs. Not more oppressive are the waves of the Dead Sea, as they enshroud the cities of the plain, than are the billows of silence which envelop every hour of Rome, and heavily roll over the soul of the solitary stranger; the Pyramids are not more quiet in the majesty of their repose amid the usurping sands of Egypt, than are the Pan. theon and the Baths of Caracalla. Within its walls there is no hum of industry, no lively accents of busy voices. All the natural vivacity of Italy has fled; and not even a street-cry breaks upon the ear, unless, perhaps, at long intervals, one hears the sad tones of some wandering Jew, whose voice sounds like a lost echo strayed from a distant land. Even the mirth of the Carnival appears forced and unnatural; the afternoon animation of the Pincian Hill seems a roving revel, where each acts an incongruous part. Both fade away, like the laugh of a spectre,