" It would be so in spite of all our books and all our exclamations. To show you that I am not alone in my opinion, I will relate to you the story of one of my companions in misfortune : he was a Frenchman. One evening, this young man reached the bivouac indisposed; he fell into a lethargy during the night, and was dragged in the morning to the pile with the other corpses. The soldiers left him for a moment to fetch some more dead, so as to place them all on the fire together. He had been thrown, clothed as he was, upon his back, his face turned towards the sky; while thus lying, he breathed, and even understood what passed around him, for consciousness had returned, but he still could not give any signs of life. A young woman, struck with the beautiful features and the touching expression of the supposed dead man's face, approached him, and discovered that he yet lived; she sought help, had him removed, nursed and finally restored the stranger. He returned to France several years after his captivity ; but he also has not written his memoirs."
"But you, sir, an educated and independent man — why do not you write yours ? Facts of this character, well vouched, would have interested the whole world."
;' I doubt it: the world is composed of men so occupied with themselves, that the sufferings of unknown parties little move them. Besides, I have a family, and a situation; I depend upon