There, while explaining that a marble tablet (to which our attention had been attracted, and on which were inscribed the names of the owner of Gross-Aspern, who had been killed on the third day) was the sole compensation ever given to the family, he said, in a tone of deep sadness: "It was a time of great misery, and of great hopes; but now are the days of forgetfulness." The saying seemed to me sublime in its simplicity; but when I came to reflect upon the matter, I felt there was some justification for the apparent ingratitude of the House of Austria.Neither nations nor kings are wealthy enough to reward all the devotions to which these tragic struggles give rise.Let those who serve a cause with a secret expectation of recompense, set a price upon their blood and become mercenaries.Those who wield either sword or pen for their country's good ought to think of nothing but of DOING THEIR

BEST, as our fathers used to say, and expect nothing, not even glory, except as a happy accident.

It was in rushing to retake this famous cemetery for the third time that Massena, wounded and carried in the box of a cabriolet, made this splendid harangue to his soldiers: "What! you rascally curs, who have only five sous a day while I have forty thousand, do you let me go ahead of you?" All the world knows the order which the Emperor sent to his lieutenant by M.de Sainte-Croix, who swam the Danube three times: "Die or retake the village; it is a question of saving the army; the bridges are destroyed."

The Author.

Now, I must tell you that the Comtesse de Montcornet is a fragile, timid, delicate little woman.What do you think of such a marriage as that? To those who know society such things are common enough; a well-

assorted marriage is the exception.Nevertheless, I have come to see how it is that this slender little creature handles her bobbins in a way to lead this heavy, solid, stolid general precisely as he himself used to lead his cuirassiers.

If Montcornet begins to bluster before his Virginie, Madame lays a finger on her lips and he is silent.He smokes his pipes and his cigars in a kiosk fifty feet from the chateau, and airs himself before he returns to the house.Proud of his subjection, he turns to her, like a bear drunk on grapes, and says, when anything is proposed, "If Madame approves." When he comes to his wife's room, with that heavy step which makes the tiles creak as though they were boards, and she, not wanting him, calls out: "Don't come in!" he performs a military volte-face and says humbly: "You will let me know when I can see you?"

--in the very tones with which he shouted to his cuirassiers on the banks of the Danube: "Men, we must die, and die well, since there's nothing else we can do!" I have heard him say, speaking of his wife, "Not only do I love her, but I venerate her." When he flies into a passion which defies all restraint and bursts all bonds, the little woman retires into her own room and leaves him to shout.But four or five hours later she will say: "Don't get into a passion, my dear, you might break a blood-vessel; and besides, you hurt me." Then the lion of Essling retreats out of sight to wipe his eyes.Sometimes he comes into the salon when she and I are talking, and if she says: "Don't disturb us, he is reading to me," he leaves us without a word.