h,
to think that it were better to attach myself to the world by even the
interests of a crime than to live on thus, separated and apart from
all sympathy. In humble life, he who retreats from association with his
fellows must look to be severely judged. The very lightest allegation
against him will be a charge of pride; and even this is no slight
offence before such a tribunal. Vague rumors of worse will gain
currency, and far weightier derelictions be whispered about him. His
own rejection of the world now recoils upon himself, and he comes to
discover that he has neglected to cultivate the sympathies which are
not alone the ties of brotherhood between men, but the strong appeals to
mercy when mercy is needed.

By much reflection on these things, I was led to feel at last that
nothing but a strong effort could raise me from the deep depression I
had fallen into; that I should force myself to some pursuit which might
awaken zeal or ambition within me; and that, at any cost, I should throw
off the hopeless, listless lethargy of my present life. While I was yet
hesitating what course to adopt, my attention was attracted one morning
to a large placard affixed to the walls of the Hotel de Ville, and which
set forth the tidings that "all men who had not served as soldiers, and
were between the ages of fifteen and thirty, were to present themselves
at the Prefecture at a certain hour of a certain day." The consternation
this terrible announcement called forth may easily be imagined; for
although only a very limited number of these would be drafted, yet each
felt that the evil lot might be his own.

I really read the announcement with a sense of pleasure, It seemed to
me as though fate no longer ignored my very existence, but had at length
agreed to reckon me as one amongst the wide family of men. Nor was it
that the life of a soldier held out any prize to my ambition; I had
never at any time felt such. It was the simple fact that I should be
recognized by others, and no longer accounted a mere waif upon the shore
of existence.

The conscription is a stern ordinance. Whatever its necessities, there
is something painfully afflicting in every detail of its execution. The
disruption of a home, and the awful terrors of a dark future, are sad
elements to spread themselves over the peaceful monotony of a village
life. Nor does a war contain anything more heart-rending in all its
cruel history than the tender episodes of these se