It seldom happens that more than one-half of the men of the battalion are sober.

Fortunately, the cold of the night air sobers them.

Between eight and nine in the evening there is a gathering in the tent.

A circle is formed in it round a single candle, and whilst the flasks go round tale succeeds to song, and song to tale, until at length all fall asleep, and are only interrupted in their slumbers until morning by the corporal, who, once every hour, enters and calls out the names of those who are to go on the watch.

The abuse of strong drink makes shameful ravages in our ranks, and is productive of serious disorder.