ast to the young men of the Napoleonite party, who,
infatuated by the glorious successes of their chief, deemed the
career of arms alone honorable. St. Cyr and the Polytechnique were the
nurseries of these,--the principles instilled there were perpetuated
in after life; and however exaggerated their ideas of France and her
destiny, their undoubted heroism and devotion might well have palliated
even heavier errors.

It was in ruminating thus over the different characters of the few I
had ever known intimately, that I came to think seriously on my own
condition, which, for many a day before, I had rather avoided than
sought to reflect on. I felt,--as how many must have done!--that the
bond of a common country, the inborn patriotism of the native of the
soil, is the great resource on which men fall back when they devote
themselves to the career of arms; that the alien's position, disguise it
how he will, is that of the mere mercenary. How can he identify himself
with interests on which he is but half-informed, or feel attachment to
a land wherein he has neither hearth nor home? In the very glory he wins
he can scarce participate. In a word, his is a false position, which no
events nor accidents of fortune can turn to good account, and he must
rest satisfied with a life of isolation and estrangement.

I felt how readily, if I had been a Frenchman born, I could have excused
and palliated to my conscience many things which now were matters of
reproach. Aggressive war had lost its horrors in the glory of enlarged
dominions; the greatness of France and the honor of her arms had made
me readily forget the miseries entailed on other nations by her lust of
conquest. But I--the stranger, the alien--had no part in the inheritance
of glory; and personal ambition,--what means it, save to stand high
amongst those we once looked up to as superiors? For me there were
no traditions of a childhood passed amid great names, revered and
worshipped; no early teachings of illustrious examples beside the
paternal hearth. And yet there was one, although lost to me forever,
before whose eyes I would gladly seem to hold a high place. Yes! could
I but think that she had not forgotten me,--would hear my name with
interest, or feel one throb of pleasure if I were spoken of with
honor,--I asked no more!

"A letter, Monsieur le Capitaine," said my servant, as he deposited
a package on my table. Supposing it was the epistle of which Tascher
spoke, I p