CHAPTER XXI.

The next day broke calm and fair. The robins sang remorselessly in the

apple-tree, and were answered by bobolink, oriole, and a whole tribe of

ignorant little bits of feathered happiness that danced among the

leaves. Golden and glorious unclosed those purple eyelids of the East,

and regally came up the sun; and the treacherous sea broke into ten

thousand smiles, laughing and dancing with every ripple, as

unconsciously as if no form dear to human hearts had gone down beneath

it. Oh! treacherous, deceiving beauty of outward things! beauty, wherein

throbs not one answering nerve to human pain!

Mary rose early and was about her morning work. Her education was that

of the soldier, who must know himself no more, whom no personal pain

must swerve from the slightest minutiae of duty. So she was there, at

her usual hour, dressed with the same cool neatness, her brown hair

parted in satin bands, and only the colorless cheek and lip differing

from the Mary of yesterday.

How strange this external habit of living! One thinks how to stick in a

pin, and how to tie a string,--one busies one's self with folding robes,

and putting away napkins, the day after some stroke that has cut the

inner life in two, with the heart's blood dropping quietly at every

step.

Yet it is better so! Happy those whom stern principle or long habit or

hard necessity calls from the darkened room, the languid trance of pain,

in which the wearied heart longs to indulge, and gives this trite prose

of common life, at which our weak and wearied appetites so revolt! Mary

never thought of such a thing as self-indulgence;--this daughter of the

Puritans had her seed within her. Aërial in her delicacy, as the

blue-eyed flax-flower with which they sowed their fields, she had yet

its strong fibre, which no stroke of the flail could break; bruising and

hackling only made it fitter for uses of homely utility. Mary,

therefore, opened the kitchen-door at dawn, and, after standing one

moment to breathe the freshness, began spreading the cloth for an early

breakfast. Mrs. Scudder, the mean while, was kneading the bread that had

been set to rise over-night; and the oven was crackling and roaring with

a large-throated, honest garrulousness.

But, ever and anon, as the mother worked, she followed the motions of

her child anxiously.

"Mary, my dear," she said, "the eggs are giving out; hadn't you better

run to the barn and get a few?"

Most mothers are instinctive philosophers. No treatise on the laws of

nervous fluids could have taught Mrs. Scudder a better _rôle_ for this

morning, than her tender gravity, and her constant expedients to break

and ripple, by changing employments, that deep, deadly under-current of

thoughts which she feared might undermine her child's life.

Mary went into the barn, stopped a moment, and took out a handful of

corn to throw to her hens, who had a habit of running towards her and

cocking an expectant eye to her little hand, whenever she appeared. All

came at once flying towards her,--speckled, white, and gleamy with hues

between of tawny orange-gold,--the cocks, magnificent with the bladelike

waving of their tails,--and, as they chattered and cackled and pressed

and crowded about her, pecking the corn, even where it lodged in the

edge of her little shoes, she said, "Poor things, I am glad they enjoy

it!"--and even this one little act of love to the ignorant fellowship

below her carried away some of the choking pain which seemed all the

while suffocating her heart. Then, climbing into the hay, she sought the

nest and filled her little basket with eggs, warm, translucent,

pinky-white in their freshness. She felt, for a moment, the customary

animation in surveying her new treasures; but suddenly, like a vision

rising before her, came a remembrance of once when she and James were

children together and had been seeking eggs just there. He flashed

before her eyes, the bright boy with the long black lashes, the dimpled

cheeks, the merry eyes, just as he stood and threw the hay over her when

they tumbled and laughed together,--and she sat down with a sick

faintness, and then turned and walked wearily in.

[To be continued.]

ROBA DI ROMA.

[Continued.]

CHAPTER III.

BEGGARS IN ROME.

Directly above the Piazza di Spagna and opposite to the Via di Condotti,

rise the double towers of the Trinità de' Monti. The ascent to them is

over one hundred and thirty-five steps, planned with considerable skill,

so as to mask the steepness of the Pincian, and forming the chief

feature of the Piazza. Various landings and dividing walls break up

their monotony; and a red granite obelisk, found in the gardens of

Sallust, crowns the upper terrace in front of the church. All day long,

these steps are flooded with sunshine, in which, stretched at length, or

gathered in picturesque groups, models of every age and both sexes bask

away the hours when they are free from employment in the studios. Here,

in a rusty old coat and long white beard and hair, is the _Padre

Eterno_, so called from his constantly standing as model for the First

Person of the Trinity in religious pictures. Here is the ferocious

bandit, with his thick black beard and conical hat, now off duty, and

sitting with his legs wide apart, munching in alternate bites an onion,

which he holds in one hand, and a lump of bread, which he holds in the

other. Here is the _contadina_, who is always praying at a shrine with

upcast eyes, or lifting to the Virgin the little child, among whose dark

curls, now lying tangled in her lap, she is on a vigorous hunt for the

animal whose name denotes love. Here is the invariable pilgrim, with his

scallop-shell, who has been journeying to St. Peter's and reposing by

the way near aqueducts or broken columns so long that the memory of man

runneth not to the contrary, and who is now fast asleep on his back,

with his hat pulled over his eyes. When the _forestieri_ come along, the

little ones run up and thrust out their hands for _baiocchi_; and so

pretty are they, with their large, black, lustrous eyes, and their

quaint, gay dresses, that new comers always find something in their

pockets for them. Sometimes a group of artists, passing by, will pause

and steadily examine one of these models, turn him about, pose him,

point out his defects and excellences, give him a _baiocco_, and pass

on. It is, in fact, the model's exchange. [Footnote: During this last

winter, the government have prohibited the models, for I know not what

reason, from gathering upon these steps; and they now congregate at the

corner of the Via Sistina and Capo le Case, near the Pizzicheria, from

which they supply themselves with groceries.]

All this is on the lower steps, close to the Piazza di Spagna; but as

one ascends to the last platform, before reaching the upper piazza in

front of the Trinità de' Monti, a curious squat figure, with two

withered and crumpled legs, spread out at right angles and clothed in

long stockings, comes shuffling along on his knees and hands, which are

protected by clogs. As it approaches, it turns suddenly up from its

quadrupedal position, takes off its hat, shows a broad, stout, legless

_torso_, with a vigorous chest and a ruddy face, as of a person who has

come half-way up from below the steps through a trap-door, and with a

smile whose breadth is equalled only by the cunning which lurks round

the corners of the eyes, says, in the blandest and most patronizing

tones, with a rising inflection, "_Buon giorno, Signore! Oggi fa bel

tempo_," or "_fa cattivo tempo_," as the case may be. This is no less a

person than Beppo, King of the Beggars, and permanent bore of the Scale

di Spagna. He is better known to travellers than the Belvedere Torso of

Hercules at the Vatican, and has all the advantage over that wonderful

work, of having an admirable head and a good digestion. Hans Christian

Andersen has celebrated him in "The Improvvisatore," and unfairly

attributed to him an infamous character and life; but this account is

purely fictitious, and is neither _vero_ nor _ben trovato_. Beppo, like

other distinguished personages, is not without a history. The Romans say

of him, "_Era un Signore in paese suo_"--"He was a gentleman in his own

country,"--and this belief is borne out by a certain courtesy and style

in his bearing which would not shame the first gentleman in the land. He

was undoubtedly of a good family in the provinces, and came to Rome,

while yet young, to seek his fortune. His crippled condition cut him off

from any active employment, and he adopted the profession of a

mendicant, as being the most lucrative and requiring the least exertion.

Remembering Belisarius, he probably thought it not beneath his own

dignity to ask for an _obolus_. Should he be above doing what a general

had done? However this may be, he certainly became a mendicant, after

changing his name,--and, steadily pursuing this profession for more than

a quarter of a century, by dint of his fair words, his bland smiles, and

his constant "_Fa buon tempo_" and "_Fa cattivo tempo_," which, together

with his withered legs, were his sole stock in starting, he has finally

amassed a very respectable little fortune. He is now about fifty-five

years of age, has a wife and several children; and a few years ago, on

the marriage of a daughter to a very respectable tradesman, he was able

to give her what was considered in Rome a more than respectable dowry.

The other day, a friend of mine met a tradesman of his acquaintance

running up the Spanish steps.

"_Dove andate in una tanta affretta?_" he inquired.

"_Al Banchiere mio._"

"_Al Banchiere? Ma quale Banchiere sta in su le scale?_"

"_Ma Beppo_," was the grave answer. "_Ho bisogna di sessanta scudi, e

lui mele presterà senza difficoltà._"

"_Da vero?_" said my friend.

"_Eh sicuro, come gli pare_," said the other, as he went on to his

banker. [Footnote: "Where are you going in such haste?"]

"To my banker."

"To your banker? But what banker is there above the steps?"

"Only Beppo. I want sixty _scudi_, and he can lend them to ma without

difficulty."

"Really?"

"Of course."

Beppo hires his bank--which is the upper platform of the steps--of the

government, at a small rent _per annum_; and woe to any poor devil of

his profession who dares to invade his premises! Hither, every fair day,

at about noon, he comes mounted on his donkey and accompanied by his

valet, a little boy, who, though not lame exactly, wears a couple of

crutches as a sort of livery,--and as soon as twilight begins to thicken

and the sun is gone, he closes his bank, (it is purely a bank of

deposit,) crawls up the steps, mounts a stone post, and there

majestically waits for his valet to bring the donkey. But he no more

solicits deposits. His day is done; his bank is closed; and from his

post he looks around, with a patronizing superiority, upon the poorer

members of his profession, who are soliciting, with small success, the

various passers by, as a king smiles down upon his subjects. The donkey

being brought, he shuffles on to its crupper and makes a joyous and

triumphant passage down through the streets of the city to his home. The

bland business smile is gone. The wheedling subserviency of the day is

over. The cunning eye opens largely. He is calm, dignified, and

self-possessed. He mentions no more the state of the weather. What's

Hecuba to him, at this free moment of his return? It is the large style

in which all this is done that convinces me that Beppo was a "_Signore

in paese suo_." He has a bank, and so has Sir Francis Baring. What of

that? He is a gentleman still. The robber knights and barons demanded

toll of those who passed their castles, with violence and threats, and

at the bloody point of their swords. Whoso passes Beppo's castle is

prayed in courtesy to leave a remembrance, and receives the blandest bow

and thanks in return. Shall we, then, say, the former are nobles and

gentlemen,--the other is a miserable beggar? Is it worse to ask than to

seize? Is it meaner to thank than to threaten? If he who is supported by

the public is a beggar, our kings are beggars, our pensions are charity.

Did not the Princess Royal hold out her hand, the other day, to the

House of Commons? and does any one think the worse of her for it? We are

all, in measure, beggars; but Beppo, in the large style of kings and

robber-barons, asks for his _baiocco_, and, like the merchant-princes,

keeps his bank. I see dukes and _guardie nobili_, in shining helmets,

spurs, and gigantic boots, ride daily through the streets on horseback,

and hurry to their palaces; but Beppo, erectly mounted on his donkey in

his short-jacket, (for he disdains the tailored skirts of a fashionable

coat, though at times over his broad shoulders a great blue cloak is

grandly thrown, after the manner of the ancient emperors,) is far more

impressive, far more princely, as he slowly and majestically moves at

nightfall towards his august abode. The shadows close around him as he

passes along; salutations greet him from the damp shops; and darkness at

last swallows up for a time the great square _torso_ of the "King of the

Beggars."

Begging, in Rome, is as much a profession as praying and shop-keeping.

Happy is he who is born _stroppiato_, with a withered limb, or to whom

Fortune sends the present of a hideous accident or malady; it is a stock

to set up trade upon. St. Vitus's dance is worth its hundreds of _scudi_

annually; epileptic fits are also a prize; and a distorted leg and

hare-lip have a considerable market value. Thenceforth the creature who

has the luck to have them is absolved from labor. He stands or lies in

the sun, or wanders through the Piazza, and sings his whining,

lamentable strophe of, "_Signore, povero stroppiato, datemi qualche cosa

per amor di Dio!_"--and when the _baiocco_ falls into his hat, like ripe

fruit from the tree of the stranger, he chants the antistrophe, "_Dio la

benedica, la Madonna e tutti santi!_" [Footnote: Signore, a poor

cripple; "give me something, for the love of God!--May God bless you,

the Madonna, and all the saints!"] No refusal but one does he recognize

as final,--and that is given, not by word of mouth, but by elevating the

fore-finger of the right hand, and slowly wagging it to and fro. When

this finger goes up he resigns all hope, as those who pass the gate of

the Inferno, replaces his hat and lapses into silence, or turns away to

some new group of sunny-haired foreigners. The recipe to avoid beggars

is, to be black-haired, to wear a full beard, to smoke in the streets,

speak only Italian, and shake the fore-finger of the right hand when

besieged for charity. Let it not be supposed from this that the Romans

give nothing to the beggars, but pass them by on the other side. This is

quite a mistake. On the contrary, they give more than the foreigners;

and the poorest class, out of their little, will always find something

to drop into their hats for charity.

The ingenuity which the beggars sometimes display in asking for alms is

often humoristic and satirical. Many a woman on the cold side of thirty

is wheedled out of a _baiocco_ by being addressed as _Signorina._ Many a

half-suppressed exclamation of admiration, or a prefix of _Bella_,

softens the hearts of those to whom compliments on their beauty come

rarely. The other day, as I came out of the city gate of Siena, a ragged

wretch, sitting, with one stump of a leg thrust obtrusively forward, in

the dust of the road, called out, "_Una buona passeggiata, Signorino

mio!_" (and this although my little girl, of thirteen years, accompanied

me.) Seeing, however, that I was too old a bird for that chaff, he

immediately added, "_Ma prima pensi alia conservazione dell' anima

sua._" [Footnote: "A pleasant walk, young gentleman!"--"But first pay

heed to the salvation of your soul."] A great many _baiocchi_ are also

caught, from green travellers of the middle class, by the titles which

are lavishly squandered by these poor fellows. _Illustrissimo,

Eccellenza, Altezza_, will sometimes open the purse, when plain

"_Mosshoe_" will not.

The profession of a beggar is by no means an unprofitable one. A great

many drops finally make a stream. The cost of living is almost nothing

to them, and they frequently lay up money enough to make themselves very

comfortable in their old age. A Roman friend of mine, Conte C., speaking

of them one day, told me this illustrative anecdote:--

"I had occasion," he said, "a few years ago, to reduce my family," (the

servants are called, in Rome, the family,) "and having no need of the

services of one under-servant, named Pietro, I dismissed him. About a

year after, as I was returning to my house, after nightfall, I was

solicited by a beggar, who whiningly asked me for charity. There was

something in the voice which struck me as familiar, and, turning round

to examine the man more closely, I found it was my old servant, Pietro.

'Is that you, Pietro?' I said; 'you begging here in the streets! what

has brought you to this wretched trade?' He gave me, however, no very

clear account of himself, but evidently desired to avoid me when he

recognized who I was. But, shocked to find him in so pitiable a

condition, I pressed my questions, and finally told him I could not bear

to see any one who had been in my service reduced to beggary; and though

I had no actual need of his services, yet, rather than see him thus, he

might return to his old position as servant in my house, and be paid the

same wages as he had before. He hesitated, was much embarrassed, and,

after a pause, said,--'A thousand thanks, your Excellency, for your

kindness; but I cannot accept your proposal, because, to tell you the

truth, I make more money by this trade of begging.'"

But though the beggars often lay by considerable sums of money, so that

they might, if they chose, live with a certain degree of comfort, yet

they cannot leave off the habit of begging after having indulged it for

many years. They get to be avaricious, and cannot bring their minds to

spend the money they have. The other day, an old beggar, who used to

frequent the steps of the Gesù, when about to die, ordered the hem of

her garment to be ripped up, saying that there was money in it. In fact,

about a thousand _scudi_ were found there, three hundred of which she

ordered to be laid out upon her funeral, and the remainder to be

appropriated to masses for her soul. This was accordingly done, and her

squalid life ended in a pompous procession to the grave.

The great holidays of the beggars are the country _festas_. Thronging

out of the city, they spread along the highways, and drag, drive, roll,

shuffle, hobble, as they can, towards the festive little town.

Everywhere along the road they are to be met,--perched on a rock, seated

on a bank, squatted beneath a wall or hedge, and screaming, with

outstretched hand, from the moment a carriage comes in sight until it is

utterly passed by. As one approaches the town where the _festa_ is held,

they grow thicker and thicker. They crop up along the road like

toadstools. They hold up every hideous kind of withered arm, distorted

leg, and unsightly stump. They glare at you out of horrible eyes, that

look like cranberries. You are requested to look at horrors, all without

a name, and too terrible to be seen. All their accomplishments are also

brought out. They fall into improvised fits; they shake with sudden

palsies; and all the while keep up a chorus, half whine, half scream,

which suffers you to listen to nothing else. It is hopeless to attempt

to buy them all off, for they are legion in number, and to pay one

doubles the chorus of the others. The clever scamps, too, show the

utmost skill in selecting their places of attack. Wherever there is a

sudden rise in the road, or any obstacle which will reduce the gait of

the horses to a walk, there is sure to be a beggar. But do not imagine

that he relies on his own powers of scream and hideousness alone,--not

he! He has a friend, an ambassador, to recommend him to your notice, and

to expatiate on his misfortunes. Though he himself can scarcely move,

his friend, who is often a little ragged boy or girl, light of weight

and made for a chase, pursues the carriage and prolongs the whine,

repeating, with a mechanical iteration, "_Signore! Signore! datemi

qualche cosa, Signore!_" until his legs, breath, and resolution give out

at last; or, what is still commoner, your patience is wearied out or

your sympathy touched, and you are glad to purchase the blessing of

silence for the small sum of a _baiocco_. When his whining fails, he

tries to amuse you; and often resorts to the oddest freaks to attract

your notice. Sometimes the little rascal flings himself heels over head

into the dust, and executes somersets without number, as if they had

some hidden influence on the sentiment of compassion. Then, running by

the side of the carriage, he will play upon his lips with both hands,

making a rattling noise, to excite your curiosity. If you laugh, you are

lost, and he knows it.

As you reach the gates of the town, the row becomes furious. There are

scores of beggars on either side the road, screaming in chorus. No

matter how far the town be from the city, there is not a wretched,

maimed cripple of your acquaintance, not one of the old stumps who have

dodged you round a Roman corner, not a ragged baron who has levied toll

for passage through the public squares, a privileged robber who has shut

up for you a pleasant street or waylaid you at an interesting church,

but he is sure to be there. How they got there is as inexplicable as how

the apples got into the dumplings in Peter Pindar's poem. But at the

first ring of a _festa_-bell, they start up from under ground, (those

who are legless getting only half-way up,) like Roderick Dhu's men, and

level their crutches at you as the others did their arrows. An English

lady, a short time since, after wintering at Rome, went to take the

baths at Siena in the summer. On going out for a walk, on the first

morning after her arrival, whom should she meet but King Beppo, whom she

had just left in Rome! He had come with the rest of the nobility for

recreation and bathing, and of course had brought his profession with

him.

Owing to a great variety of causes, the number of beggars in Rome is

very large. They grow here as noxious weeds in a hot-bed. The government

neither favors commerce nor stimulates industry. Its policy is averse to

change of any kind, even though it be for the development of its own

resources or of the energies of the people. The Church is Brahmanic,

contemplating only its own navel. Its influence is specially restrictive

in Rome, because it is also the State there. It restrains not only

trade, but education; it conserves exploded ideas and usages; it prefers

not to grow, and looks with abhorrence upon change.

Literature may be said to be dead in Rome. There is not only no free

press there, but no press at all. The "Diario Romano" contains about as

much news as the "Acta Diurna" of the ancient Romans, and perhaps less.

I doubt whether at present such facts as those given by Petronius, in an

extract from the latter, would now be permitted to be published.

However, we know that Augustus prohibited the "Acta Diurna,"--and the

"Diario Romano" exists still; so that some progress has been made. And

it must be confessed that Tuscany is scarcely in advance of Rome in this

respect; and Naples is behind both. Even the introduction of foreign

works is so strictly watched and the censorship so severe, that few

liberal books pass the cordon. The arguments in favor of a censorship

are very plain, but not very conclusive. The more compressed the

energies and desires of a people, the more danger of their bursting into

revolution. There is no safety-valve to passions and desires like the

utterance of them,--no better corrective to false ideas than the free

expression of them. Freedom of thought can never be suppressed, and

ideas kept too long pent up in the bosom, when heated by some sudden

crisis of passion, will explode into license and fury. Let me put a

column from Milton here into my own weak plaster; the words are well

known, but cannot be too well known. "Though all the winds of doctrine,"

he says, "were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the

field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her

strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the

worse in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest

suppressing." Here in Rome genius rots. The saddest words I almost ever

heard were from a young Italian of ability and _esprit_.

"Why," said I, in conversation with him, one day, "do you not devote

your talents to some worthy object, instead of frittering them away in

dancing, chatting, fencing, and morning-calls?"

"What would you have me do?" he answered.

"Devote yourself to some course of study. Write something."

"_Mio caro_" was his reply, "it is useless. How can I write what I

think? How can I publish what I write? I have now manuscript works begun

in my desk, which it would be better to burn. Our only way to be happy

is to be idle and ignorant. The more we know, the unhappier we must be.

There is but one avenue for ambition,--the Church. I was not made for

that."

This restrictive policy of the Church makes itself felt everywhere, high

and low; and by long habit the people have become indolent and supine.

The splendid robes of ecclesiastical Rome have a draggled fringe of

beggary and vice. What a change there might be, if the energies of the

Italians, instead of rotting in idleness, could have a free scope!

Industry is the only purification of a nation; and as the fertile and

luxuriant Campagna stagnates into malaria, because of its want of

ventilation and movement, so does this grand and noble people. The

government makes what use it can, however, of the classes it exploits by

its system; but things go in a vicious circle. The people, kept at a

stand-still, become idle and poor; idleness and poverty engender vice

and crime; crime fills the prisons; and the prisons afford a body of

cheap slaves to the government.

To-day, as I am writing, some hundreds of _forçats_, in their striped

brown uniforms, are tugging at their winches and ropes to drag the

column of the Immaculate Virgin to its pedestal on the Piazza di Spagna.

By the same system of compulsory labor, the government, despite its

limited financial resources, is enabled to carry out public projects

which, with well-paid workmen, would be too expensive to be feasible. In

this manner, for instance, for an incredibly small sum, was built the

magnificent viaduct which spans with its triple tier of arches the

beautiful Val di L'Arriccia. But, for my own part, I cannot look upon

this system as being other than very bad, in every respect. And when,

examining into the prisons themselves, I find that the support of these

poor criminal slaves is farmed out by the government to some responsible

person at the lowest rate that is offered, generally for five or six

_baiocchi_ apiece _per diem_, and often refarmed by him at a still lower

rate, until the poor wretches are reduced to the very minimum of

necessary food as to quantity and quality, I confess that I cannot look

with pleasure on the noble viaduct at L'Arriccia, or the rich column to

the Immaculate Virgin, erected by the labor of their hands.

Within a few years the government seemed to become conscious of the

great number of beggars in Rome, and of the reproach they offered to the

wise and paternal regulations of the priestcraft. Accordingly, for a

short time, they carried on a move in the right direction, which had

been begun by the Triumvirate of 1849, during their short career. Some

hundreds of the beggars were hired at the rate of a few _baiocchi_ a day

to carry on excavations in the Forum and in the Baths of Caracalla. The

selection was most appropriate. Only the old, decrepit, and broken-down

were taken,--the younger and sturdier were left. Ruined men were in

harmony with the ruined temples. Such a set of laborers was never before

seen. Falstaff's ragged regiment was a joke to them. Each had a

wheelbarrow, a spade, or pick, and a cloak; but the last was the most

important part of their equipment. Some of them picked at the earth with

a gravity that was equalled only by the feebleness of the effort and the

poverty of the result. Three strokes so wearied them that they were

forced to pause and gather strength, while others carried away the

ant-hills which the first dug up. It seemed an endless task to fill the

wheelbarrows. Fill, did I say? They were never filled. After a bucketful

of earth had been slowly shovelled in, the laborer paused, laid down his

spade carefully on the little heap, sighed profoundly, looked as if to

receive congratulations on his enormous success, then, flinging, with a

grand sweep, the tattered old cloak over his left shoulder, lifted his

wheelbarrow-shafts with dignity, and marched slowly and measuredly

forward towards the heap of deposit, as Belisarius might have moved at a

funeral in the intervals of asking for _oboli_. But reduced gentlemen,

who have been accustomed to carry round the hat as an occupation, always

have a certain air of condescension when they work for pay, and, by

their dignity of deportment, make you sensible of their former superior

state. Occasionally, in case a _forestiere_ was near, the older, idler,

and more gentlemanlike profession would be resumed for a moment, (as by

parenthesis,) and if without success, a sadder dignity would be seen in

the subsequent march. Very properly for persons who had been reduced

from beggary to work, they seemed to be anxious both for their health

and their appearance in public, and accordingly a vast deal more time

was spent in the arrangement of the cloak than in any other part of the

business. It was grand in effect, to see these figures, incumbered in

their heavy draperies, guiding their wheelbarrows through the great

arches of Caracalla's Baths or along the Via Sacra. It often reminded me

of modern _bassi-rilievi_ and portrait statues, in which gentlemen

looking sideways with very modern faces, and both hands full of swords,

pens, or books, stand impotently swaddled up in ancient togas or the

folds of similar enormous cloaks. The antique treatment with the modern

subject was evident in both. If sometimes, with a foolish spirit of

innovation, one felt inclined to ask what purpose in either case these

heroic mantles subserved, and whether, in fact, they could not be

dispensed with to advantage, he was soon made to know that his inquiry

indicated ignorance, and a desire to debase in the one case Man, in the

other Art.

It would, however, be a grievous mistake to suppose that all the beggars

in the streets of Rome are Romans. In point of fact, the greater number

are strangers, who congregate in Rome during the winter from every

quarter. Naples and Tuscany send them by thousands. Every little country

town of the Abruzzi Mountains yields its contribution. From north,

south, east, and west they flock here as to a centre where good pickings

may be had of the crumbs that fall from the rich men's tables. In the

summer season they return to their homes with their earnings, and not

one in five of those who haunted the churches and streets in the winter

is to be seen.

It is but justice to the Roman government to say that its charities are

very large. If, on the one hand, it does not encourage commerce and

industry, on the other, it liberally provides for the poor. In

proportion to its means, no government does more, if so much. Every

church has its _Cassa dei Poveri_. Numerous societies, such as the

_Sacconi_, and other confraternities, employ themselves in accumulating

contributions for the relief of the poor and wretched. Well-endowed

hospitals exist for the care of the sick and unfortunate; and there are

various establishments for the charge and education of poor orphans. A

few figures will show how ample are these charities. The revenue of

these institutions is no less than eight hundred and forty thousand

_scudi_ annually, of which three hundred thousand are contributed by the

Papal treasury, forty thousand of which are a tax upon the Lottery. The

hospitals, altogether, accommodate about four thousand patients, the

average number annually received amounting to about twelve thousand; and

the foundling hospitals alone are capable of receiving upwards of three

thousand children annually. Besides the hospitals for the sick, there is

also a hospital for poor convalescents at Sta Trinità dei Pellegrini, a

lunatic asylum containing about four hundred patients, one for

incurables at San Giacomo, a lying-in hospital at San Rocco, and a

hospital of education and industry at San Michele. There are also

thirteen societies for bestowing dowries on poor young girls on their

marriage; and from the public purse, for the same object, are expended

every year no less than thirty-two thousand _scudi_. In addition to

these charities, are the sums collected and administered by the various

confraternities, as well as the sum of one hundred and seventy-two

thousand _scudi_ distributed to the poor by the commission of subsidies.

But though so much money is thus expended, it cannot be said that it is

well administered. The proportion of deaths at the hospitals is very

large; and among the foundlings, it amounted, between the years 1829 and

1833, to no less than seventy-two _per cent_.

The arrangements at these institutions were very much improved during

the career of the Triumvirate, and, under the auspices of the Princess

Belgiojoso, cleanliness, order, and system were introduced. The heroism

of this noble-hearted woman during the trying days of the Roman siege

deserves a better record than I can give. She gave her whole heart and

body to the regeneration of the hospitals, and the personal care of the

sick and wounded. Her head-quarters were at the Hospital _dei

Pellegrini_. Day after day and night after night she was at her post,

never moving from her chair, except to visit the various wards, and to

comfort with tender words the sufferers in their beds. Their faces,

contorted with pain, smoothed at her approach; and her hand and voice

carried consolation wherever she went. Many a scene have I witnessed

there more affecting than any tragedy, in which I knew not which most to

admire, the heroism of the sufferers or the tender humanity of the

consoler and nurse. In all her arrangements she showed that masterly

administrative faculty in which women are far superior to men. When she

came to the Pellegrini, all was in disorder; but a few days sufficed to

reduce a chaotic confusion to exact and admirable system. Hers was the

brain that regulated all the hospitals. Always calm, she distributed her

orders with perfect tact and precision, and with a determination of

purpose and clearness of perception which commanded the minds of all

about her. The care, fatigue, and labor which she underwent would have

broken down a less determined spirit. Nothing moved except from her

touch. In a little damp cell, a pallet of straw was laid on the brick

floor, and there, when utterly overcome, she threw herself down to sleep

for a couple of hours,--no more; all the rest of the time she sat at her

desk, writing orders, giving directions, and supervising the new

machinery which owed its existence to her.

With the return of the Papal government came the old system. Certain it

is that _that_ system does not work well. Despite the enormous sums

expended in charity, the people are poor, the mortality in the hospitals

is very large. "Something is rotten in the state of" Rome.

There is one noble exception not to be forgotten. To the Hospital of San

Michele Cardinal Tosti has given a new life and vigor, and set an

example worthy of his elevated position in the Church. This foundation

was formerly an asylum for poor children and infirm and aged persons;

but of late years an industrial and educational system has been

ingrafted upon it, until it has become one of the most enlarged and

liberal institutions that can anywhere be found. It now embraces not

only an asylum for the aged, a house of correction for juvenile

offenders and women, and a house of industry for children of both sexes,

but also a school of arts, in which music, painting, drawing,

architecture, and sculpture are taught gratuitously to the poor, and a

considerable number of looms, at which from eight hundred to one

thousand persons are employed for the weaving of woollen fabrics for the

government. A stimulus has thus been given to education and to industry,

and particularly to improvements in machinery and manufacture. Once a

year, during the holy week, religious dramas and operas, founded on some

Biblical subject, are creditably performed by the pupils in a private

theatre connected with the establishment. I was never present but at one

of these representations, when the tragical story of Shadrach, Meshach,

and Ahednego was performed. Honor to Cardinal Tosti for his successful

efforts in this liberal direction!

At many of the convents in Rome, it is the custom at noon to distribute,

gratis, at the door, a quantity of soup, and any poor person may receive

a bowlful on demand. Many of the beggars thus become pensioners of the

convents, and may be seen daily at the appointed hour gathering round

the door with their bowl and wooden spoon, in expectation of the _Frate_

with the soup. This is generally made so thick with cabbage that it

might be called a cabbage-stew; but Soyer himself never made a dish more

acceptable to the palate of the guests than this. No nightingales'

tongues at a banquet of Tiberius, no edible birds-nests at a Chinese

feast, were ever relished with more gusto. The figures and actions of

these poor wretches, after they have obtained their soup, make one sigh

for human nature. Each, grasping his portion as if it were a treasure,

separates himself immediately from his brothers, flees selfishly to a

corner, if he can find one empty, or, if not, goes to a distance, turns

his back on his friends, and, glancing anxiously at intervals all

around, as if in fear of a surprise, gobbles up his cabbage, wipes out

his bowl, and then returns to companionship or disappears. The idea of

sharing his portion with those who are portionless occurs to him only as

the idea of a robber to the mind of a miser.

Any account of the beggars of Rome without mention of the Capuchins and

Franciscans would be like performing the "Merchant of Venice" with no

Shylock; for these orders are founded in beggary and supported by

charity. The priests do not beg; but their ambassadors, the

lay-brothers, clad in their long, brown serge, a cord around their

waist, and a basket on their arm, may be seen shuffling along at any

hour and in every street, in dirty sandalled feet, to levy contributions

from shops and houses. Here they get a loaf of bread, there a pound of

flour or rice, in one place fruit or cheese, in another a bit of meat,

until their basket is filled. Sometimes money is given, but generally

they are paid in articles of food. There is another set of these

brothers who enter your studio or ring at your bell and present a little

tin box with a slit in it, into which you are requested to drop any sum

you please, for the holidays, for masses, for wax candles, etc. As a big

piece of copper makes more ring than gold, it is generally given, and

always gratefully received. Sometimes they will enter into conversation,

and are always pleased to have a little chat about the weather. They are

very poor, very good-natured, and very dirty. It is a pity they do not

baptize themselves a little more with the material water of this world.

But they seem to have a hydrophobia. Whatever the inside of the platter

may be, the outside is far from clean. They walk by day and they sleep

by night in the same old snuffy robe, which is not kept from contact

with the skin by any luxury of linen, until it is worn out. Dirt and

piety seem to them synonymous. Sometimes I have deemed, foolishly

perhaps, but after the manner of my nation, that their goodness would

not wash off with the soil of the skin,--that it was more than

skin-deep; but as this matter is above reason, in better moods I have

faith that it would. Still, in disbelieving moments, I cannot help

applying to them Charles Lamb's famous speech,--"If dirt were trumps,

what a hand they would have of it!" Yet, beggars as they are, they have

the reputation at Rome of being the most inoffensive of all the

conventual orders, and are looked upon by the common people with

kindliness, as being thoroughly sincere in their religious professions.

They are, at least, consistent in many respects in their professions and

practice. They really mortify the flesh by penance, fasting, and

wretched fare, as well as by dirt. They do not proclaim the virtues and

charms of poverty, while they roll about in gilded coaches dressed in

"purple and fine linen," or gloat over the luxuries of the table. Their

vices are not the cardinal ones, whatever their virtues may be. The

"Miracles of St. Peter," as the common people call the palaces of Rome,

are not wrought for them. Their table is mean and scantily provided with

the most ordinary food. Three days in the week they eat no meat; and

during the year they keep three _Quaresime_. But, good as they are,

their sour, thin wine, on empty, craving stomachs, sometimes does a mad

work; and these brothers in dirt and piety have occasionally violent

rows and disputes in their refectories over their earthen bottles. It is

only a short time since that my old friends the Capuchins got furious

together over their wine, and ended by knocking each other about the

ears with their earthen jars, after they had emptied them. Several were

wounded, and had time to repent and wash in their cells. But one should

not be too hard on them. The temper will not withstand too much fasting.

A good dinner puts one at peace with the world, but an empty stomach is

the habitation often of the Devil, who amuses himself there with pulling

all the nerve-wires that reach up into the brain. I doubt whether even

St. Simeon Stylites always kept his temper as well as he did his fast.

As I see them walking up and down the alleys of their vegetable garden,

and under the sunny wall where oranges glow and roses bloom, without the

least asceticism, during the whole winter, I do not believe in their

doctrine, nor envy them their life. And I cannot but think that the one

hundred and fifty thousand _Frati_ who are in the Roman States would do

quite as good service to God and man, if they were an army of laborers

on the Campagna, or elsewhere, as in their present life of beggary and

self-contemplation. I often wonder, as I look at them, hearty and stout

as they are, despite their mode of life, what brought them to this pass,

what induced them to enter this order,--and recall, in this connection,

a little anecdote current here in Rome, to the following effect:--A

young fellow, from whom Fortune had withheld her gifts, having become

desperate, at last declared to a friend that he meant to throw himself

into the Tiber, and end a life which was worse than useless. "No, no,"

said his friend, "don't do that. If your affairs are so desperate,

retire into a convent, become a Capuchin." _"Ah, non!_" was the

indignant answer; "I am desperate; but I have not yet arrived at such a

pitch of desperation."

Though the Franciscans live upon charity, they have almost always a

garden connected with their convent, where they raise multitudes of

cabbages, cauliflowers, _finocchi_, peas, beans, artichokes, and

lettuce. Indeed, there is one kind of the latter which is named after

them,--_capuccini_. But their gardens they do not till themselves; they

hire gardeners, who work for them. Now I cannot but think that working

in a garden is just as pious an employment as begging about the streets,

though perhaps scarcely as profitable. The opinion, that, in some

respects, it would be better for them to attend to this work themselves,

was forced upon my mind by a little farce I happened to see enacted

among their cabbages, the other day, as I was looking down out of my

window. My attention was first attracted by hearing a window open from a

little three-story-high _loggia_, opposite, hanging over their garden. A

woman came forth, and, from amid the flower-pots which half-concealed

her, she dropped a long cord to the ground. "_Pst, Pst_," she cried to

the gardener at work below. He looked up, executed a curious pantomime,

shrugged his shoulders, shook his fore-finger, and motioned with his

head and elbow sideways to a figure, visible to me, but not to her, of a

brown Franciscan, who was amusing himself in gathering some _finocchi_,

just round the corner of the wall. The woman, who was fishing for the

cabbages, immediately understood the predicament, drew up her cord,

disappeared from the _loggia_, and the curtain fell upon the little

farce. The gardener, however, evidently had a little soliloquy after she

had gone. He ceased working, and gazed at the unconscious Franciscan for

some time, with a curious grimace, as if he were not quite satisfied at

thus losing his little perquisite.

These brown-cowled gentlemen are not the only ones who carry the tin

box. Along the curbstones of the public walks, and on the steps of the

churches, sit blind old creatures, and shake at you a tin box, outside

of which is a figure of the Madonna, and inside of which are two or

three _baiocchi_, as a rattling accompaniment to an unending invocation

of aid. Their dismal chant is protracted for hours and hours, increasing

in loudness whenever the steps of a passer-by are heard. It is the old

strophe and antistrophe of begging and blessing, and the singers are so

wretched that one is often softened into charity. Those who are not

blind have often a new _Diario_ or _Lunario_ to sell towards the end of

the year, and at other times they vary the occupation of shaking the box

by selling lives of the saints, which are sometimes wonderful enough.

One sad old woman, who sits near the Quattro Fontane, and says her

prayers and rattles her box, always touches my heart, there is such an

air of forlornness and sweetness about her. As I was returning, last

night, from a mass at San Giovanni in Laterano, an old man glared at us

through great green goggles,--to which Jealousy's would have yielded in

size and color,--and shook his box for a _baiocco_. "And where does this

money go?" I asked. "To say masses for the souls of those who die over

opposite," said he, pointing to the Hospital of San Giovanni, through

the open doors of which we could see the patients lying in their beds.

Nor are these the only friends of the box. Often in walking the streets

one is suddenly shaken in your ear, and, turning round, you are startled

to see a figure entirely clothed in white from head to foot, a rope

round his waist, and a white _capuccio_ drawn over his head and face,

and showing, through two round holes, a pair of sharp black eyes behind

them. He says nothing, but shakes his box at you, often threateningly,

and always with an air of mystery. This is a penitent _Saccone_; and as

this _confraternità_ is composed solely of noblemen, he may be one of

the first princes or cardinals in Rome, performing penance in expiation

of his sins; or, for all you can see, it may be one of your intimate

friends. The money thus collected goes to various charities. They always

go in couples,--one taking one side of the street, the other the

opposite,--never losing sight of each other, and never speaking. Clothed

thus in secresy, these _Sacconi_ can test the generosity of any one they

please with complete impunity, and they often amuse themselves with

startling foreigners. Many a group of English girls, convoyed by their

mother, and staring into some mosaic or cameo shop, is scared into a

scream by the sudden jingle of the box, and the apparition of the

spectre in white who shakes it. And many a simple old lady retains to

the end of her life a confused impression, derived therefrom, of

Inquisitions, stilettos, tortures, and banditti, from which it is vain

to attempt to dispossess her mind. The stout old gentleman, with a bald

forehead and an irascibly rosy face, takes it often in another

way,--confounds the fellows for their impertinence, has serious notions,

first, of knocking them down on the spot, and then of calling the

police, but finally concludes to take no notice of them, as they are

nothing but _Eye_-talians, who cannot be expected to know how to behave

themselves in a rational manner. Sometimes a _santa elemosina_ is

demanded after the oddest fashion. It was only yesterday that I met one

of the _confraternità_, dressed in a shabby red suit, coming up the

street, with the invariable oblong tin begging-box in his hand,--a

picture of Christ on one side, and of the Madonna on the other. He went

straight to a door, opening into a large, dark room, where there was a

full cistern of running water, at which several poor women were washing

clothes, and singing and chatting as they worked. My red acquaintance

suddenly opens the door, letting in a stream of light upon this

Rembrandtish interior, and, lifting his box with the most wheedling of

smiles, he says, with a rising inflection of voice, as if asking a

question,--"_Prezioso sangue di Gesù Christo?_"--( Precious blood of

Jesus Christ?)

The last, but by no means the meanest, of the tribe of pensioners whom I

shall mention, is my old friend, "Beefsteak,"--now, alas! gone to the

shades of his fathers. He was a good dog,--a mongrel, a Pole by

birth,--who accompanied his master on a visit to Rome, where he became

so enamored of the place that he could not be persuaded to return to his

native home. Bravely he cast himself on the world, determined to live,

like many of his two-legged countrymen, upon his wits. He was a dog of

genius, and his confidence in the world was rewarded by its

appreciation. He had a sympathy for the arts. The crowd of artists who

daily and nightly flocked to the Lepre and the Caffè Greco attracted his

notice. He introduced himself to them, and visited them at their studios

and rooms. A friendship was struck between them and him, and he became

their constant visitor and their most attached ally. Every day, at the

hour of lunch, or at the more serious hour of dinner, he lounged into

the Lepre, seated himself in a chair, and awaited his friends, confident

of his reception. His presence was always hailed with a welcome, and to

every new comer he was formally presented. His bearing became, at last,

not only assured, but patronizing. He received the gift of a

chicken-bone or a delicate titbit as if he conferred a favor. He became

an epicure, a _gourmet_. He did not eat much; he ate well. With what a

calm superiority and gentle contempt he declined the refuse bits a

stranger offered from his plate! His glance, and upturned nose, and

quiet refusal, seemed to say,--"Ignoramus! know you not I am Beefsteak?"

His dinner finished, he descended gravely, and proceeded to the Caffè

Greco, there to listen to the discussions of the artists, and to partake

of a little coffee and sugar, of which he was very fond. At night, he

accompanied some one or other of his friends to his room, and slept upon

the rug. He knew his friends, and valued them; but perhaps his most

remarkable quality was his impartiality. He dispensed his favors with an

even hand. He had few favorites, and called no man master. He never

outstayed his welcome "and told the jest without the smile," never

remaining with one person for more than two or three days at most. A

calmer character, a more balanced judgment, a better temper, a more

admirable self-respect,--in a word, a profounder sense of what belongs

to a gentleman, was never known in any dog. But Beefsteak is now no

more. Just after the agitations of the Revolution of '48, with which he

had little sympathy,--he was a conservative by disposition,--he

disappeared. He had always been accustomed to make a _villegratura_ at

L'Arriccia during a portion of the summer months, returning only now and

then to look after his affairs in Rome. On such visits he would often

arrive towards midnight, and rap at the door of a friend to claim his

hospitality, barking a most intelligible answer to the universal Roman

inquiry of "_Chi è_?" "One morn we missed him at the accustomed" place,

and thenceforth he was never seen. Whether a sudden homesickness for his

native land overcame him, or a fatal accident befell him, is not known.

Peace to his manes! There "rests his head upon the lap of earth" no

better dog.

In the Roman studio of one of his friends and admirers, Mr. Mason, I had

the pleasure, a few days since, to see, among several admirable and very

spirited pictures of Campagna life and incidents, a very striking

portrait of Beefsteak. He was sitting in a straw-bottomed chair, as we

have so often seen him in the Lepre, calm, dignified in his deportment,

and somewhat obese. The full brain, the narrow, fastidious nose, the

sagacious eye, were so perfectly given, that I seemed to feel the actual

presence of my old friend. So admirable a portrait of so distinguished a

person should not be lost to the world. It should be engraved, or at

least photographed.

ENCELADUS.

Under Mount Etna he lies;

It is slumber, it is not death;

For he struggles at times to arise,

And above him the lurid skies

Are hot with his fiery breath.

The crags are piled on his breast,

The earth is heaped on his head;

But the groans of his wild unrest,

Though smothered and half suppressed,

Are heard, and he is not dead.

And the nations far away

Are watching with eager eyes;

They talk together and say,

"To-morrow, perhaps to-day,

Enceladus will arise!"

And the old gods, the austere

Oppressors in their strength,

Stand aghast and white with fear,

At the ominous sounds they hear,

And tremble, and mutter, "At length!"

Ah, me! for the land that is sown

With the harvest of despair!

Where the burning cinders, blown

From the lips of the overthrown

Enceladus, fill the air!

Where ashes are heaped in drifts

Over vineyard and field and town,

Whenever he starts and lifts

His head through the blackened rifts

Of the crags that keep him down!

See, see! the red light shines!

'Tis the glare of his awful eyes!

And the storm-wind shouts through the pines

Of Alps and of Apennines,

"Enceladus, arise!"

THE ZOUAVES.

The decree of October 1, 1830, approved by a royal ordinance, March 21,

1831, created two battalions of Zouaves. To perceive the necessity for

this body of troops, to understand the nature of the service required of

them, and to obtain a just notion of their important position in African

affairs, it will be necessary to glance, for a moment, at the previous

history of Algeria under the Deys, and especially at the history of that

Turkish militia which they were to replace,--a body of irresponsible

tyrants, which, since 1516, had exercised the greatest power in Africa,

and had rendered their name hated and feared by the most distant tribes.

Algeria was settled in 1492, by Moors driven from Spain. They recognized

a kind of allegiance to the Sultan of Turkey, which was, however, only

nominal; he appointed their Emirs, but further than this there was no

restraint on their actions. Hard pressed by the Spaniards in 1509, the

Emirs sent in haste to Turkey for aid; and Barbarossa, a noted pirate,

sailed to their help, drove out the Christians, but fixed upon the Moors

the yoke of Turkish sovereignty. In 1516, he declared himself Sultan, or

Dey, of Algiers; and his brother succeeding him, the Ottoman power was

firmly established in the Northwest of Africa. Hated by the people of

this great territory, both Moors and Arabs, menaced not only by their

dissensions, but frequently attacked by the Christians from the North,

there was but one method by which the Dey could maintain his power. He

formed a large body of mercenary soldiers, drawn entirely from Turkey,

united with himself and each other by a feeling of mutual dependence and

common danger, and bound by no feeling of interest or affection to the

inhabitants of the soil. Brave they were, as they proved in 1541,

against Charles the Fifth, whose forces they defeated and nearly

destroyed at Haratsch,--in 1565, at the siege of Malta,--in 1572, in the

seafight of Lepanto,--in many smaller combats at different times,

defending their land triumphantly in 1775 against the Spaniards under

O'Reilly and Castejon. Hardy and ready they were, from the very

necessity of the case; for they were hated and dreaded beyond measure by

the Arabs, and theirs was a life of constant exertion. Other than united

they could not be; for they were in continual warfare of offence or of

defence; they suppressed rebellion and anarchy,--for without a leader

and union they had been cut off by the restless foe, whose piercing eyes

watched, and whose daggers waited only _for the time_. In constant

danger, they could not sink into that sloth that eats out the heart of

Eastern and Southern nations; for it was only in unrest that safety

lay;--he who slumbered on those burning plains, no less than the sleeper

on Siberian ice, was lost utterly and without remedy.

This body of troops, called the _Odjack_, elected or deposed Deys at

pleasure; the Dey, nominally their ruler, was in reality their tool. In

one period of twenty years there were six Deys, of whom four were

decapitated, one abdicated through fear, and one died peacefully in the

exercise of his governing functions. [Footnote: _Voyage pour la

Rédemption des Captifs aux Royaumes d'Alger et de Tunis, fait en 1720._

Paris, 1721.] In 1629, they declared the kingdom free from the

domination of Turkey; soon after, they expelled the Koulouglis, or

half-breed Turks, and enslaved the Moors. Admitting some of the latter

to service in the militia, they never allowed them to hope for

advancement in the State, or, what was the same thing, the army. Only

Turks, or in some instances renegade Christians, could lead the

soldiers, whom thus no feeling of local patriotism mollified in their

course of savage cruelty, grinding the face of the poor natives till

spirit and hope were lost and resistance ceased to be a settled idea in

their minds.

Now when the French navy came up to the port of Algiers, June 12, 1830,

the unity between the soldiers and their master, Hussein Pacha, was

tottering on the verge of dissolution; a plot against his life had just

been discovered, he had punished the ringleaders with death, and many

who had been concerned in the conspiracy felt that there was no safety

for them with him. Beaten constantly in every skirmish or battle, they

conceived a high respect for the military genius of the invaders, and,

ere the close of the summer campaign, offered their services in a body

to General Clausel; this offer he promptly declined, and they thereupon

withdrew, carrying their swords to the aid of other powers less

scrupulous.

The news, however, that the terrible Odjack had offered themselves to

serve under the French spread a lively terror through the Arab tribes,

who, believing themselves about to suffer an aggravation of their

already intolerable oppression, experienced a sensation of relief and an

elevation of spirit no less marked, on hearing that the newly formed

government had rejected their services. Perceiving the fear in which

these Algerine Praetorians were held by the tribes, Marshal Clausel

conceived the plan of replacing them by a corps of light infantry,

consisting of two battalions, to perform the services of household

troops, and to receive some name as significant as that held by their

predecessors under the old _régime_. Consequently, after some

consideration, the newly constituted body was called by the name of

_Zouaves_, from the Arabic word _Zouaoua_.

The Zouaoua are a tribe, or rather a confederation of tribes, of the

Kabyles, who inhabit the gorges of the Jurjura Mountains, the boundary

of Algeria on the east, separating it from the province of Constantine.

They are a brave, fierce, laborious people, whose submission to the

Turks was never more than nominal; yet they were well known in the city

of Algiers, whither they came frequently to exchange the products of

their industry for the luxuries of comparative civilization. As they had

the reputation of being the best soldiers in the Regency, and had

occasionally lent their services to the Algerine princes, their name was

given to the new military force; while, to give it the character of a

French corps, the number of native soldiers received into its ranks was

limited, and all its officers, from the highest to the lowest grade,

were required to be native-born Frenchmen. The service in this corps was

altogether voluntary, none being appointed to the Zouaves who did not

seek the place; but there were found enough young and daring spirits who

embraced with enthusiasm this life, so harassing, so full of privation,

of rude labor, of constant peril. The first battalion was commanded by

Major Maumet; the second by Captain Duvivier, (since General,) who died

in Paris, 1848, of wounds received in the African service. Levaillant,

(since General of Division,) Verge, (now General of Brigade,) and

Mollière, who died Colonel, of wounds received at the siege of Rome,

were officers in these first two battalions.

Scarcely six weeks had elapsed since their formation, when the Zouaves

took the field under Marshal Clausel, marching against Medeah, an

important station in the heart of Western Algeria. On the hill of

Mouzaïa they fought their first battle, in which they were completely

successful. They remained two months as a garrison in Medeah. Here they

showed proofs of a valor and patience most extraordinary. Left alone in

a frontier post, constantly in the vicinity of a savage foe, watching

and fighting night and day, leaving the gun only to take up the spade,

compelled to create everything they needed, reduced to the last

extremities for food, cut off from all communications,--it was a rough

trial for this little handful of new soldiers. The place was often

attacked; they were always at their posts; till in the last days of

April they were recalled, and the fortress yielded up to the feeble Bey

whom the French had decided to establish there. In June, troubles having

again arisen, General Berthezène conducted some troops of the regular

army to Medeah, to which was added the second battalion of Zouaves,

under its gallant captain, Duvivier. On his return, the troops were

attacked with fury on the hill of Mouzaïa, the spot where the Zouaves

had in February of the same year received their baptism of fire. Wearied

with the long night-march, borne down by insupportable heat, stretched

in a long straggling line through mountain-passes, the commander of the

van severely wounded at the first discharge, they themselves separated,

without chiefs, and surrounded by enemies, the French troops recoiled;

when Duvivier, seeing the peril that menaced the army, advanced with his

battalion. Shouting their war-cry, they rushed on the Kabyles, supported

by the Volunteers of the Chart, or French Zouaves, thundering forth the

Marseillaise; turning the pursuers into pursued, they covered the

retreat of their associates to the farm of Mouzaïa, where the army

rallied and proceeded without further loss to Algiers. This retreat, and

its attendant circumstances, made the Zouaves, before regarded, if not

with contempt, at least with dislike, _free of the camp_.

But now the losses sustained by the two battalions began to be seriously

felt,--for the growing hostility of the Arabs rendered it difficult to

recruit from native sources; and an ordinance of the king, dated March

7,1833, united the two battalions into one, consisting of ten companies,

eight of which were to be exclusively European, and two to be _not_

exclusively Algerine,--it being required that in each native company

there should be at least twelve Frenchmen. Duvivier was called to

Bougie; Maumet was compelled by his wounds to return to Paris; Captain

Lamoricière was, therefore, appointed chief of the united battalion,

having given proof of his capacity in every way,--whether as soldier,

linguist, or negotiator,--being a wise and prudent man. It is to the

training the Zouaves received under this remarkable man that much of

their subsequent success must be ascribed. In his dealings with the

Arabs he had shown himself the first who could treat with them by other

means than the rifle or bayonet. [Footnote: _Annales Algériennes_, Tom.

ii. p. 72.] In his capacity of Lieutenant-Colonel of Zouaves he showed

talents of a high order. He infused into them the spirit, the activity,

the boldness and impetuosity which he himself so remarkably possessed,

with a certain independence of character which demanded from those who

commanded them a resolute firmness on essential, and a dignified

indulgence on unessential points. [Footnote: _Conquête d'Alger_. Par A.

Nettement. p. 546.] To the course of discipline used by him, and still

maintained in this arm of the service, are due their tremendous working

power, their tirelessness, their self-dependence, and all their

qualities differing from those of other soldiers; so that by his means

one of the most irregular species of warfare has produced a body of

irresistible regular soldiers, and border combats have given rise to the

most rigid discipline in the world.

The post of Dely Ibrahim was assigned to the Zouaves. At this place they

were obliged to work laboriously, making for themselves whatever was

needed; whether as masons, ditchers, blacksmiths, carpenters, or

farmers,--whatever business was to be performed, they were, or learned

to be, sufficient for it. No idlers in that camp,--each must earn his

daily bread. What time was not devoted to labor was given to the

practice of arms and the acquisition of instruction in all departments

of military science; so that many a soldier was there fitted for the

position he afterwards acquired, of officer, colonel, or general. To

fence with the mounted bayonet, to wrestle, to leap, to climb, to run

for miles, to swim, to make and to destroy temporary bridges, to throw

up earth-walls, to carry great weights, to do, in short, what Indians

learn to do, and much that they do not learn,--these served as the

relaxations of the unwearied Zouaves. To vary the monotony of such a

life, there was enough adventure to be found for the seeking,--now an

incursion into the Sahel, or into the plains of Mitidja, or a wild foray

through the northern gorges of the Atlas. Day by day progress appeared;

they learned to march rapidly and long, to sustain the extremes of

hunger, thirst, and weather, and to manoeuvre with intelligent

precision; diligently fitting themselves, in industry, discipline, and

warlike education, for the position they had to fill. Their costume and

equipment were brought near perfection; they wore the Turkish dress,

slightly modified,--a dress perfectly suited to the changes of that

climate, and without which their movements would have been cramped and

constrained. Only the officers retained the uniform of the hussars,

which is rich and easy to wear. The cost of a suitable Turkish uniform

would have been too heavy for them, besides that the dress of a Turk of

rank is somewhat ridiculous. Certain officers on the march used,

however, to wear the _fez_, or, as the Arabs called it, the _chechia_.

Lamoricière was known in Algeria as _Bou Chechia_, or _Papa with the

Cap_,--as he was known later in Oran as _Bou Araoua, Papa with the

Stick_. One finds, however, nothing of Orientalism in the regulations of

this body of troops; not the least negligence or slovenliness is allowed

in the most trifling detail. In fine, the care, and that descending to

note the smallest minutiae, which brought this race of soldiers to such

a pitch of perfection, leaving them their gayety and sprightliness, and,

notwithstanding the rigidness of the discipline, giving solidity and

precision to irregular troops, was rewarded by success unparalleled in

history. It was the best practical school for soldiers and officers; and

many of the best generals in the French army began their military career

in the wild guerrilla combats or the patient camp-life of this band of

heroes.

Nearly two years had passed away in this training, when Marshal Clausel

returned to Africa, and led the Zouaves, whose fitness for the service

he well knew, into Oran. Here they added fresh laurels to those already

acquired. In the expedition of Mascara, where they fought under the eye

of the Duke of Orléans, they covered themselves with glory; insomuch

that on his return to Paris he procured a decree, 1835, constituting the

First Regiment of Zouaves, of two battalions, of six companies each,

and, should occasion justify the measure, of ten companies. Lamoricière

continued in command.

In 1836 the Zouaves again took the hill of Mouzaïa. This time they razed

its fortifications even with the ground, and returned to Algiers, where

they remained during General Clausel's first and unfortunate expedition

into Constantine, the eastern province of French Africa. In 1837 the

second expedition was made, and in this the Zouaves took part. One of

the divisions of the army was under the command of the Duke of Némours.

In this division were the Zouaves under Lamoricière, who here showed

themselves worthy of their renown. Fighting by the side of the most

excellent soldiers in the regular army, they proved themselves bravest

where all were brave. They were placed at the head of the first column

of attack. Lamoricière was the first officer on the breach, and carried

all before him. The soldiers whom he had trained supported him nobly;

but when they had won the day, they found that many companies were

decimated, some nearly annihilated; numbers of their officers were dead

in the breach, "Those who are not mortally wounded rejoice at this great

success," said an officer to the Duke; and it was a significant

sentence. [Footnote: Verbal report of Colonel Combes to the Duke of

Némours,--conclusion.]

To form some notion of those troops, among whom the Zouaves showed

themselves like the gods in the war of Troy, one anecdote will suffice,

chosen from many which prove the valor of the army my generally. The

rear-guard at Mansourah was under the command of Changarnier; it was

reduced to three hundred men; he halted this little troop and said,

"Come, my men, look these fellows in the face; they are six thousand,

you are three hundred; surely the match is even." This speech was

sufficient. The Frenchmen awaited the onset till the enemy was within

pistol-shot; then, after a murderous volley, they charged on the Arabs,

who broke and fled in dismay. During the remainder of the day they would

not approach this band nearer than long rifle range. [Footnote:

_Moniteur_, December 16, 1833; report of Marshal Clausel.]

The siege of Constantine may properly be said to have ended the war of

occupation in Africa. Hitherto we have seen the Zouaves only in time of

active war, or in the defence of hill-forts, obliged to unity through

fear of an ever-menacing foe, and laboring for their own preservation or

comfort only; but now commenced a new training for them, no less severe

and dangerous, in which they showed themselves equally willing and

competent,--a war against stubborn Nature in all her most forbidding

aspects. Under the blazing suns of that tropical climate they

recommenced at Coleah the work already begun at Dely Ibrahim; ditches

were to be dug, works thrown up, roads made, draining accomplished,

farms tended, all that was necessary for the establishment of those

permanent colonies which France was so anxious to settle in Algeria was

to be done by the Zouaves; yet, despite that terrible labor, the danger

and hardship, the sickness and death, the ranks of the regiment filled

up rapidly; and, joined by the wrecks of the battalion of Mechouar, they

were kept full to overflowing. This battalion of Mechouar was a troop

left by Clausel in the _mechouar_, or citadel, of Tlemcen, in the West

of Oran, under the command of Captain Cavaignac; on the conclusion of

the war, in 1837, they, of course, returned to their regiment at Coleah.

This deceitful peace lasted only till 1839. In this year the vigilant

colonel of Zouaves perceived in his native troops alarming symptoms of

mutiny, and learned, to his surprise, that they were in a ripe condition

for revolt. Wild Santons of the desert, emissaries, doubtless, of

Abd-el-Kader, held secret meetings near the camp; many soldiers attended

them, and were seduced by artfully prepared inflammatory harangues and

prophecies. In the month of December, 1839, at the raising of the

standard of Islam, the natives flocked in vast numbers to rid the land

of the Christians; and most of the native Zouaves deserted to join the

fortunes of the prince whom they reverenced as a prophet. Old soldiers,

trained in the French service to a thorough acquaintance with European

tactics, and gray with battling long for Lamoricière, suddenly left him,

and by their knowledge of the art of war gave great advantage to the

Arab force. In their combats with the Sultan, the Zouaves not

infrequently found that a sharp resistance or a masterly retreat on the

part of the enemy was executed under the direction of one of their

former comrades in arms. It was a critical moment for the Zouaves; but

at the announcement of the renewal of hostilities volunteers flowed in

on all sides, whether of young men full of ardor and excitement, or, as

in many instances, of old soldiers who had already served their time.

After a winter of petty skirmishing and reestablishing in Algeria the

semblance of security, the Duke of Orléans led the army, considerably

reinforced, in a raid against the Arabs under Abd-el-Kader in their own

territory. The Zouaves accompanied this expedition, and whether in their

charges against the mountaineers, who, with the aid of the Arab

regulars, defended each pass, or sustaining the shock of the provincial

cavalry, or even standing unmoved before the attack of Abd-el-Kader's

terrible "Reds," [Footnote: The mounted body-guard of Abd-el-Kader, so

called by the French from their complete red uniform.] they maintained

their character of rapid, intrepid, and successful soldiers. What names

we find in this regiment! Lamoricière, Regnault, Renault, (now General

of Division,) Cavaignac, Leflô, (now General of Brigade,) and St.

Arnaud, who died Marshal of France two days after the victory of the

Alma.

A singular instance of the _handiness_ of the Zouaves is found in the

notice of their forced march on this campaign, undertaken May 20th, to

support the retreating Seventeenth Light Infantry. Their cartridges were

fired away, the regulars of Abd-el-Kader were upon them, and nothing

seemed to remain but an heroic death, when, "Comrades," cried one, "see,

here are stones!" Not a word more; each caught the hint, and, with

simultaneous volleys of stones, drove off the charging enemy, and broke

their way to where the remains of the Seventeenth rallied under Colonel

Bedeau, after a retreat more properly to be called a continual attack!

Hard at work during the winter of 1840-41, General Bugeaud found these

indefatigable soldiers in perfect condition to take the field again,

when he landed in April. There had been sharp fighting during the past

year at Mouzaïa, in which the Zouaves always led the van, and were, as

in every engagement they ever fought, covered with honor. "The Second,

electrified by the example of its officers, and led by Colonel

Changarnier, flung itself on the intrenchments; the redoubts were

carried, etc. At the same time, in the other column, Lamoricière led the

way with his Zouaves, followed by the other troops. The Zouaves

surmounted the almost impassable cliffs, attacked and carried two lines

of intrenchment, and, in the teeth of a murderous fire, forced a third;

a few moments later the two columns joined, and, rushing up the

acclivity, planted the flag of France on the highest peak of the Atlas."

[Footnote: Report of Marshal Valée: _Moniteur_.] Little variation is

found in the reports of generals concerning the Zouaves at this time;

they say of these troops always, "The First," or "The Second, was

covered with glory."

But now, with the arrival of Bugeaud, the war in Africa was changed;

hitherto it had been a mere war of occupation,--a holding of the ground

already French against the attacking Arabs; now it was to be a duel, a

war of devastation; thus only could France hope to tame the

indefatigable Abd-el-Kader, and permanently hold her own. The trouble

was not so much to fight him as to get near enough to fight him; for he

pursued a truly Fabian policy, and being lighter armed, was consequently

swifter than the invaders. Under Marshal Clausel, the French, drawing

with them the heavy wagons and munitions of European warfare, were

obliged to follow the high-roads, and the Arabs could never be taken by

surprise; scouts gave information of their numbers, and after harassing

marches they would find that the foe had either retreated to unknown

fastnesses or assembled on the spot in prodigious force. Now Lamoricière

proposed a plan, in the execution of which he was eminently successful.

Bugeaud's design was, to follow the Arabs into the desert, to climb the

steep mountains, to plunge into their chasms, to storm every hill-fort,

and to drive, step by step, the swift Abd-el-Kader far from the land

which his presence so troubled; but how? for swift troops are

light-armed, carry no luggage, and but little provision; and to follow

without food the Arabs who concealed food in _silos_, _caches_ in the

ground, seemed hopeless. Lamoricière required but his Zouaves, who

carried only four days' provisions, and no baggage of any sort; when

they drew near any of these _silos_, which were always, of course, in

the vicinity of the deserted villages, he spread out his troops in a

long crescent, and they advanced slowly, rooting up the ground with

their bayonets till some one struck on the stone or pebbles covering the

precious deposit. Thus, without wagons, trained to tireless activity,

they could follow the Arabs from _douar_ to _douar_ with little delay,

and with fatal effect.

Great reinforcements were sent to Africa, and the Zouaves were not

forgotten; for, in the royal ordinance of September 8th, 1841, the

regiment was raised to three battalions of nine companies; only one of

the nine, however, could receive natives, so that but three native

companies now existed, and few Algerines were found even in these. The

reasons seem to have been threefold: first, the danger from mutiny;

second, the evils arising from the mixture of the two races, which had

augmented their vices, without a corresponding improvement in their good

qualities; third, and perhaps most important of all, the discontent very

properly felt by the French Zouaves, who were compelled to work at the

trenches, to dig, to plant, etc., while the Mussulmans utterly refused

to take part in this, to their mind, degrading toil. The Gordian knot

was cut, and all difficulty done away, by making the regiment, in

effect, exclusively European. Thus reorganized and reinforced, the

regiment, on receiving the standard sent it by the king, immediately

separated,--one battalion marching for Oran, one for Constantine, while

the other remained at Blidah, in Algeria.

The year 1842 was full of great results; the new system worked well,

great numbers of tribes laid down their arms and swore fealty to France,

and the provinces were more than nominally in the hands of the French.

Still many of the more distant and powerful tribes held to their

allegiance to the Prophet Sultan. The war gradually took on itself the

form of a civil contest, and mutual animosities gave rise to many

occasions for sanguinary combats; one of these, in the valley of the

Cheliff, September, 1842, lasted unintermittingly for thirty-six hours!

In this battle, and that of Oued Foddah, and, in fact, in almost every

battle of those years, the Zouaves took an honorable part. In mountain

fights, long marches over burning sands, repulses of cavalry, at

Jurjura, Ouarsanis, among the Beni Menasser, at the Smalah, in the

struggles of Bedeau with the Moroccan cavalry, and in the memorable

battle of Isly, they did good service; their history was but a narrative

of brilliant exploits. In many of their hill fights, the deserters of

1839 gave much trouble. In a skirmish, 1844, on the south side of the

Aurès, in which Captain Espinasse (died General of Division, Magenta,

June 6th, 1859) was concerned, and wounded four times, an old native

Zouave commanded the Kabyles, and defended their principal position with

much skill.

In fine, to recount the hundredth part of their deeds,--to make out a

list of their soldiers, sub-officers, or officers who have been since

promoted to high honors,--to trace minutely each step by which they

mounted to their present position, would be to write, not an article,

but a book. In 1842 the natives disappeared finally from their ranks;

the best and bravest soldiers of the African army eagerly sought their

places, attracted by the uniform, the manner of life, the constant

danger and no less constant excitement, the liberty allowed, the glory

ever open to all. As their numbers were decimated by the continual

warfare, the ranks were immediately filled by the descendants of those

brave Gauls who once said, "If the heavens fall, what care we? We will

support them on the points of our lances!" In 1848, the Zouaves received

a large accession from Paris; the _gamins_ of the Revolution were sent

to them in great numbers; out of this unpromising, rebellious material,

some of the finest of these admirable troops have been made. And now,

when the entry into this regiment was longed for by so many, as a

species of promotion, on the 13th of February, 1852, Louis Napoleon,

then President of the Republic, decreed that three regiments of Zouaves

be formed, each on one of the three battalions as a nucleus, taking the

number of the battalion as its own. Thus the first regiment was formed

at Blidah, in Algiers; the second at Oran, in Oran; the third at

Constantine, in the province of Constantine. Officers of the corps of

infantry were eligible to the new regiments, holding the same grade; the

men were to be drawn from any infantry corps in the army, on their own

application, if the Minister of War saw proper. None were accepted but

men physically and morally in excellent condition; the officers had, for

the most part, already served with credit; the under-officers and

soldiers had been many years in the service; and even many corporals,

and not a few ensigns and lieutenants, voluntarily relinquished their

positions to serve in the rank-and-file of the new corps. So, occupied

in pacificating and securing the three provinces, the regiments lost

nothing of their former renown; obedient to orders, and fearless of

danger, it was no idle compliment paid them by Louis Napoleon, when, in

the winter of 1853-4, be said, "If the war break out, we must show our

Zouaves to the Russians." They were a body trained in the school of a

terrible experience of twenty-four years; they had learned, like the

lion-hunter, Gerard, to take death by the mane, and look into his fiery

eyes without blenching; they were fit for this service, which demanded

the best nerve of the two most powerful nations of the world. What they

did there is known to all; at the battle of the Alma, Marshal St. Arnaud

was unable to repress his admiration, calling them "the bravest soldiers

in the world." All Europe, at first wondering at these strange troops,

with their wild dress, their half-savage manners, and strange method of

warfare, found speedy cause to admire their courage and success; France

was proud of their renown, and they became immensely popular in Paris,

sure proof of their remarkable qualities. Their oddities, their courage,

their imperfect knowledge of the distinctions of _meum_ and _tuum_,

their wondering, childlike simplicity, furnished themes for endless

songs and caricatures; the comedy of "Les Zouaves" met with great

success; and the cant name for them, "Zouzou," is to be heard at any

time in the streets. In 1855, the Fourth Zouaves was created, consisting

of but two battalions, and enrolled in the Imperial Guard; they are

distinguished from the others by wearing a white turban, while that of

the other regiments is green; since the formation of this regiment, no

new corps have been added. The peace with Russia, in 1856, was not peace

for the Zouaves, who returned, desiring nothing better, to Africa,

where, in the continued war, they found congenial employment till the

final submission of the last tribes, July 15, 1857, dissolved the army

of Kabylia, and made them, perforce, peaceful, till the 26th of April of

this year brought them to win fresh laurels on a new field.

Vague reports, assertions without proof, have been not infrequently

made, to the effect that the Zouaves are in character cruel, dissolute,

and excessively given to hard drinking. That they are absolutely free

from the first charge I shall not attempt to deny; that they are more so

than other men, in like circumstances, there is no proof; there is even

good reason to state the contrary, if we may judge by instances, of

which, for want of space, one shall suffice here. The Zouaves were in

the van of the army, on their march toward the Tell; in their charge was

a large body of prisoners, wounded, and helpless women, old men, and

children, whom they were conducting to the Tell, to restore them to

their homes. The weather was intensely hot, even for Africa; the nearest

well was eleven leagues distant; and the sufferings of the poor people

must have been dreadful indeed. Mothers flung down their infants on the

burning sand, and pressed madly on to save themselves from the most

horrible of deaths; old men and boys sunk exhausted, panting, declaring

they could go no farther. "Then it was," says an eyewitness, "that the

Zouaves behaved like very Sisters of Charity, rather than rough bearded

soldiers; they divided their last morsel with these unfortunates, gave

them drink from their own scanty stores, and, putting their canteens to

the mouths of the dying, revived them with the precious draught. They

raised the screaming infants, overturned and held ewes, that they might

suckle the poor creatures, abandoned in despair by their mothers, and,

in many instances, carried them the whole distance in their arms. At

night they ate nothing, giving their food to the helpless prisoners,

whose lives they thus saved at the risk of their own." If in war they

"imitate the action of the tiger," we have every reason to believe that

in peace they are, to say the least, not less humane than others.

The author of "Recollections of an Officer" [Footnote: _Souvenirs d'un

Officier du 2me de Zouaves_. Paris, 1859.] sums up the character of the

Zouaves in a few words which clear them from the other two charges,

those of dissoluteness and drunkenness. He says,--"Beside the condition

of success resulting from the first organization, it must be said, that,

somewhat later, the happy idea came to be adopted, of giving to the

Zouaves destined to fight in the light-armed troops the costume of

_Chasseurs-à-pied_. The recruitment added also not a little to the

reputation which the Zouaves so rapidly acquired; the soldiers are all

drawn, not from conscripts, but from applicants for the service. Many

are Parisians, or, at all events, inhabitants of the other great French

cities; most have already served,--are therefore inured to the

work,--accustomed to privations, which they undergo gayly,--to fatigues,

at which they joke,--to dangers in battle, which they treat as mere

play. They are proud of their uniform, which does not resemble that of

any other corps,--proud of that name, _Zouave_, of mysterious

origin,--proud of the splendid actions with which each succeeding day

enriches the history of their troops,--happy in the liberty they

experience, both in garrison and on expeditions. It is said that the

Zouaves love wine; it is true; but they are rarely seen intoxicated;

they seek the pleasures of conviviality, not the imbrutement of

drunkenness. These regiments count in their ranks officers, who,

_ennuied_ by a lazy life, have taken up the musket and the

_chechia_,--under-officers, who, having already served, brave, even

rash, seek to win their epaulettes anew in this hard service, and gain

either a glorious position or a glorious death,--old officers of the

_garde mobile_,--broad-shouldered marines, who have served their time on

shipboard, accustomed to cannon and the thunderings of the

tempest,--young men of family, desirous to replace with the red ribbon

of the Legion of Honor, bought and colored with their blood, the

dishonor of a life gaped wearily away on the pavements of Paris.

"Composed of such elements, one can scarcely imagine the body of Zouaves

other than brilliant in the field of battle. The officers are generally

chosen from the regiments of the line, men remarkable for strength,

courage, and prudence; full of energy, pushing the love of their colors

to its last limit, always ready to confront death and to run up to meet

danger, they seek glory rather than promotion. To train up their

soldiers, to give them an example, in their own persons, of all the

military virtues,--such are their only cares. Our ancestors said,

'_Noblesse, oblige_'; these choose the same motto. _Their_ nobility is

not that of old family-titles, but the uniform in which they are

clothed, the title of officer of Zouaves. _Esprit de corps_, that

religion of the soldier, is carried by the Zouaves to its highest pitch;

the common soldiers would not consent to change their turban for the

epaulettes of an ensign in the other service; and many an ensign, and

not a few captains, have preferred to await their advancement in the

Zouaves rather than immediately obtain it by entering other regiments.

There exists, moreover, between the soldiers and officers, a military

fraternity, which, far from destroying discipline, tends rather to draw

more closely its bonds. The officer sees in his men rather companions in

danger and in glory than inferiors; he willingly attends to their

complaints, and strives to spare them all unnecessary privations. Where

they are exposed to difficulties, he does not hesitate to employ all the

means in his power to aid them. In return, the soldier professes for his

officer an affection, a devotion, a sort of filial respect. Discipline,

he knows, must be severe, and he does not grumble at its penalties. In

battle, he does not abandon his chief; he watches over him, will die for

his safety, will not let him fall into the hands of the enemy if

wounded. At the bivouac he makes the officer's fire, though his own

should die for want of fuel; cares for his horse, arranges his

furniture; if any delicacy in the way of food can be procured, he brings

it to the chief. Convinced of the desire of their master that the

soldiers shall be well fed, the Zouaves often insist that a part of

their pay be expended for procuring the provisions of the tribe.

[Footnote: In accordance with Arab customs, the Zouaves, who (to use the

ordinary expression) "live in common," compose a circle to which they

give the name of _tribe_. In the tribe, each one has his allotted task:

one attends to making the fires and procuring wood; another draws water

and does the cooking; another makes the coffee and arranges the camp,

etc.] The colonel is the man most venerated by these soldiers, who look

upon him as the father of the family. They are proud of the colonel's

success, and happy to have contributed to his honor or advancement. When

an order comes directly from him, be sure it will be religiously obeyed.

'When _papa_ says anything,' they repeat, one to another, 'it must be

done. Papa knows it is _already_ done; be wants us to be the best

children possible.' In critical moments, the colonel can use the

severest Draconian code, without having anything to fear from the

disapprobation of his men."

MY PSALM.