lant veteran.

"Among us soldiers," said he, "there is neither first nor last." He
demanded, as the sole recompense of his services, to be sent to join
his old brothers-in-arms, to fight once more with them, not as the
_first_, but as the _oldest_, soldier of the Republic.

His death was like his life, glorious; for he fell on the field of
battle at Neubourg, in 1800, mourned by the whole army, who devoted a
day's pay to the purchase of an urn to preserve his heart, for a niche
in the Pantheon.

Another distinction, not less touching, was accorded to his memory by
the regiment in which he served. The sergeant, in calling his names in
the muster of his company, always called Latour d'Auvergne, and the
corporal answered--"_Mort au champ d'honneur_." If the history of this
hero excited the warm admiration of those opposed to him in arms, the
effect of its representation on his compatriots may be more easily
imagined than described. Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm it excited
in their minds. Men, women, and children, seemed electrified by it.

There is a chord in the hearts of the French that responds
instantaneously, and with vivid emotion, to any appeal made to their
national glory; and this susceptibility constitutes the germ so easily
fructified by those who know how to cultivate it.

Enthusiasm, if it sometimes leads to error, or commits its votaries
into the ridiculous, also prompts and accomplishes the most glorious
achievements; and it is impossible not to feel a sympathy with its
unsophisticated demonstrations thus evinced _en masse_. Civilization,
more than aught else, tends to discourage enthusiasm; and where it is
pushed to the utmost degree of perfection, there will this prompter of
great deeds, this darer of impossibilities and instigator of heroic
actions, be most rarely found.

Drove yesterday to see the villa of the Duchesse de Montmorency, which
is to be let. The grounds are very pretty, and a portion of them opens
by iron rails to the Bois de Boulogne, which is a great advantage. But
neither the villa nor the grounds are to be compared to the beautiful
ones in the neighbourhood of London, where, as an old French gentleman
once observed to me, "the trees seem to take a peculiar pride and
pleasure in growing."

I have seen nothing to be compared with the tasteful villas on green
velvet lawns sloping down to the limpid Thames, near Richmond, with
umbrageous trees bending their leafy branches to th