or sympathy. Others
were the most offensive personages in the world, gaped at us as if we
had been baboons, sought to evangelise us to their rustic, northern
religion, as though we had been savages, or tortured us with
intelligence of disasters to the arms of France. Good, bad, and
indifferent, there was one alleviation to the annoyance of these
visitors; for it was the practice of almost all to purchase some
specimen of our rude handiwork. This led, amongst the prisoners, to a
strong spirit of competition. Some were neat of hand, and (the genius
of the French being always distinguished) could place upon sale little
miracles of dexterity and taste. Some had a more engaging appearance;
fine features were found to do as well as fine merchandise, and an air
of youth in particular (as it appealed to the sentiment of pity in our
visitors) to be a source of profit. Others, again, enjoyed some
acquaintance with the language, and were able to recommend the more
agreeably to purchasers such trifles as they had to sell. To the first
of these advantages I could lay no claim, for my fingers were all
thumbs. Some at least of the others I possessed; and finding much
entertainment in our commerce, I did not suffer my advantages to rust. I
have never despised the social arts, in which it is a national boast
that every Frenchman should excel. For the approach of particular sorts
of visitors I had a particular manner of address, and even of
appearance, which I could readily assume and change on the occasion
rising. I never lost an opportunity to flatter either the person of my
visitor, if it should be a lady, or, if it should be a man, the
greatness of his country in war. And in case my compliments should miss
their aim, I was always ready to cover my retreat with some agreeable
pleasantry, which would often earn me the name of an "oddity" or a
"droll fellow." In this way, although I was so left-handed a toy-maker,
I made out to be rather a successful merchant; and found means to
procure many little delicacies and alleviations, such as children or
prisoners desire.

I am scarcely drawing the portrait of a very melancholy man. It is not
indeed my character; and I had, in a comparison with my comrades, many
reasons for content. In the first place, I had no family: I was an
orphan and a bachelor; neither wife nor child awaited me in France. In
the second, I had never wholly forgot the emotions with which I first
found myself a prisoner; an