The distinction accorded so readily to Latour d’Auvergne by the First Consul, himself a hero, who could better than any other contemporary among his countrymen appreciate the glory he was called on by Carnot to reward, was refused by the gallant 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 the earth and water; or to the colonnaded mansions peeping forth from the well-wooded grounds of Roehampton and its vicinage.