I could tell many more stories about the army; but as, from having been a soldier myself, all my sympathies are in the ranks, no doubt my tales would be pronounced to be of an immoral tendency, and I had best, therefore, be brief.  Fancy my surprise while in this depot, when one day a well-known voice saluted my ear, and I heard a meagre young gentleman, who was brought in by a couple of troopers and received a few cuts across the shoulders from one of them, say in the best English, ’You infernal WASCAL, I’ll be wevenged for this.  I’ll wite to my ambassador, as sure as my name’s Fakenham of Fakenham.’  I burst out laughing at this:  it was my old acquaintance in my corporal’s coat.  Lischen had sworn stoutly, that he was really and truly the private, and the poor fellow had been drafted off, and was to be made one of us.  But I bear no malice, and having made the whole room roar with the story of the way in which I had tricked the poor lad, I gave him a piece of advice, which procured him his liberty.  ‘Go to the inspecting officer,’ said I; ’if they once get you into Prussia it is all over with you, and they will never give you up.  Go now to the commandant of the depot, promise him a hundred—­five hundred guineas to set you free; say that the crimping captain has your papers and portfolio’ (this was true); ’above all, show him that you have the means of paying him the promised money, and I will warrant you are set free.’  He did as I advised, and when we were put on the march Mr. Fakenham found means to be allowed to go into hospital, and while in hospital the matter was arranged as I had recommended.  He had nearly, however, missed his freedom by his own stinginess in bargaining for it, and never showed the least gratitude towards me his benefactor.

I am not going to give any romantic narrative of the Seven Years’ War.  At the close of it, the Prussian army, so renowned for its disciplined valour, was officered and under-officered by native Prussians, it is true; but was composed for the most part of men hired or stolen, like myself, from almost every nation in Europe.  The deserting to and fro was prodigious.  In my regiment (Bulow’s) alone before the war, there had been no less than 600 Frenchmen, and as they marched out of Berlin for the campaign, one of the fellows had an old fiddle on which he was flaying a French tune, and his comrades danced almost, rather than walked, after him, singing, ‘Nous allons en France.’  Two years after, when they returned to Berlin, there were only six of these men left; the rest had fled or were killed in action.  The life the private soldier led was a frightful one to any but men of iron courage and endurance.  There was a corporal to every three men, marching behind them, and pitilessly using the cane; so much so that it used to be said that in action there was a front rank of privates and a second rank of sergeants and corporals to drive them on.  Many men would give way to the most frightful acts of despair under these