and stormy career elicited even from those who suffered long and deeply in his behalf, is not one of the least singular circumstances which this portion of history displays.  While the rigours of the conscription had invaded every family in France, from Normandie to La Vendee—­while the untilled fields, the ruined granaries, the half-deserted villages, all attested the depopulation of the land, those talismanic words, “l’Empereur et la gloire,” by some magic mechanism seemed all-sufficient not only to repress regret and suffering, but even stimulate pride, and nourish valour; and even yet, when it might be supposed that like the brilliant glass of a magic lantern, the gaudy pageant had passed away, leaving only the darkness and desolation behind it—­the memory of those days under the empire survives untarnished and unimpaired, and every sacrifice of friends or fortune is accounted but little in the balance when the honour of La Belle France, and the triumphs of the grand “armee,” are weighted against them.  The infatuated and enthusiastic followers of this great man would seem, in some respects, to resemble the drunkard in the “Vaudeville,” who alleged as his excuse for drinking, that whenever he was sober his poverty disgusted him.  “My cabin,” said he, “is a cell, my wife a mass of old rags, my child a wretched object of misery and malady.  But give me brandy; let me only have that, and then my hut is a palace, my wife is a princess, and my child the very picture of health and happiness;” so with these people—­intoxicated with the triumphs of their nation, “tete monte” with victory—­they cannot exist in the horror of sobriety which peace necessarily enforces; and whenever the subject turns in conversation upon the distresses of the time or the evil prospects of the country, they call out, not like the drunkard, for brandy, but in the same spirit they say—­“Ah, if you would again see France flourishing and happy, let us once more have our croix d’honneur, our epaulettes, our voluntary contributions, our Murillos, our Velasquez, our spoils from Venice, and our increased territories to rule over.”  This is the language of the Buonapartiste every where, and at all seasons; and the mass of the nation is wonderfully disposed to participate in the sentiment.  The empire was the Aeneid of the nation, and Napoleon the only hero they now believe in.  You may satisfy yourself of this easily.  Every cafe will give evidence of it, every society bears its testimony to it, and even the most wretched Vaudeville, however, trivial the interest —­however meagre the story, and poor the diction, let the emperor but have his “role”—­let him be as laconic as possible, carry his hands behind his back, wear the well-known low cocked-hat, and the “redingote gris”—­the success is certain—­every sentence he utters is applauded, and not a single allusion to the Pyramids, the sun of Austerlitz, l’honneur, et al vieille garde, but is sure to bring down thunders of acclamation.  But I am forgetting myself, and