In holes and caves on the heaths and commons, in
huts made of brushwood, they bivouacked for months, and these men
who lived like prairie dogs in such apparent misery were merry over
their houseless, wild existence. As a matter of fact they
experienced no actual want, as there was work for every one who
could and would labor. The rewards were splendid, and the
proletariat found that its only possession, viz., the strength of
its muscles, was worth more than ever before. The workingman talked
loudly, and held his head high. Was it the result of having served
in one or more campaigns? Had he in the background of his mind a
vision of dying men and desolate villages, seen so often on the
battlefield? However it was, he became violent and quarrelsome,
indifferent alike to wounding and death, and learned to make use of
the knife like any cutthroat townsman.
With this return to barbarism (an unfailing result with the soldier
after every time of war) went a degree of animal spirits, which made
one ask whether the workman had learned something of epicurean
philosophy. He had the same excited love of tattling as a
thoughtless girl, and the animal love of enjoyment of a sailor after
a long voyage. His ordinary life seemed to him so uninteresting, so
dull, that he tried to give color and charm to it by taking as many
holidays as possible, and making his work more agreeable with
gambling and drinking, and going for loafing excursions about the
neighborhood.
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