not given to his farm or his guests. I never entered it without finding
him at his desk, with his pen or a book in hand. His correspondence was
so extensive that he was always obliged to keep a secretary, though a
large portion of his letters were written with his own hand. He wrote
rapidly in fact, though not rapidly to the eye; and you were surprised,
in seeing his hand move over the paper, to find how soon it reached the
bottom of the sheet, and how closely it filled it up. His handwriting
was clear and distinct, neither decidedly French nor decidedly
English,--like all his habits and opinions, formed early and never
changed. I have letters of his to my grandfather, written during the
Revolution, and letters of his to myself, written fifty years after it,
in which it is almost impossible to trace the difference between the old
man and the young one. English he seemed to write as readily as French,
although a strong Gallicism would every now and then slip from his pen,
as it slipped from his tongue. "I had to learn in a hurry," said he,
giving me one day the history of his English studies. "I began on my
passage out, as soon as I got over my sea-sickness, and picked up the
rest in camp. I was compelled to write and talk, and so I learned to
write and talk. The officers were very kind and never laughed at me.
After the peace, Colonel Tarleton came over to Paris, and was presented
to the King one day when I happened to be at Court. The King asked him
how I spoke English. 'I cannot say how he speaks it, Sire,' said the
Colonel, 'but I occasionally had the good-luck to pick up some of his
letters that were going the wrong way, and I can assure your Majesty
that they were very well written.'"

His valet was an old soldier, who had served through the Peninsular War,
and who moved about with the orderly gait and quiet air of a man who had
passed his heyday under the forming influences of camp discipline.
He was a most respectable-looking man, as well as a most respectful