otes over their uniforms. One, however, had his coat partly
open, and I could see the blue and silver beneath, which, tarnished and
worn as it was, had to my eyes all the brilliancy of a splendid uniform.
He was an old man, and by his position in advance of the others, showed
that he was the chief of the staff. This was General Lacoste, at that
time "en mission" from the army of the Rhine, and now sent by the
Convention to report upon the state of events among the troops. Slowly
passing along the line, the old general halted before each gun,
pointing, out to his staff certain minutiae, which, from his gestures and
manner, it was easy to see were not the subject of eulogy. Many of the
pieces were ill slung, and badly balanced on the trucks; the wheels, in
some cases, were carelessly put on, their tires worn, and the iron
shoeing defective. The harnessing, too, was patched and mended in a
slovenly fashion; the horses lean and out of condition; the drivers
awkward and inexperienced.

"This is all bad, gentlemen," said he, addressing the officers, but in a
tone to be easily heard all around him; "and reflects but little credit
upon the state of your discipline in the capital. We have been now
seventeen months in the field before the enemy, and not idle either; and
yet I would take shame to myself if the worst battery in our artillery
were not better equipped, better horsed, better driven, and better
served, than any I see here."

One, who seemed a superior officer, here appeared to interpose some
explanation or excuse, but the general would not listen to him, and
continued his way along the line, passing around which he now entered
the space between the guns and the caissons. At last he stopped directly
in front of where I was, and fixed his dark and penetrating eyes
steadily on me. Such was their fascination, that I could not look from
him, but continued to stare as fixedly at him.

"Look here, for instance," cried he, as he pointed to me with his sword,
"is that 'gamin' yonder like an artillery-driver? or is it to a
drummer-boy you intrust the caisson of an eight-pounder gun? Dismount,
sirrah, and come hither," cried he to me, in a voice that sounded like
an order for instant execution. "This popinjay dress of yours must have
been the fancy of some worthy shop-keeper of the 'Quai Lepelletier;' it
never could belong to any regular corps. Who are you?"

"Maurice Tiernay, sir," said I, bringing my hand to my cap in milita