ball or Mrs. B——­’s lawn-tennis, is far from dreaming of the irresistible De Lauzun, the gallant De Fersen, a fugitive from the love of a queen, but destined to serve her as lackey in her need, the two handsome Viosmenils, the baron Cromot du Bourg, the duc de Deux-Ponts, or any of the brilliant cortege of a bygone day.  But what memories the mere enumeration of their names brings up!  Rank and valor were the heritage of all of them, an heroic but unhappy end the fate of most.  Who can say that the aroma of their presence does not still linger round the old town, up and down the narrow streets where they passed with gay jests and clanking sword, or in the quaint mansions, still peeping out from behind century-old hedges, where they left the record of their graces in the heart of their host and of their loves on his window-pane?  What can be pleasanter than for the American pen to linger over the page of history that chronicles the generous sympathy which brought this fine flower of France to our shores?  Where is the heart, even in our cynical nineteenth century, which holds enthusiasm an anachronism, that does not thrill at the recollection of the chivalry that quitted the luxury and revels of Versailles to dare the dangers of an ocean-voyage (then no ten-day pleasure-trip) for a cause that still hung in the balances of success?  Viewed practically, the help offered was even more deserving of praise.  The French are not an adventurous nation:  they are not fond of travelling.  Hugo says Paris is the world, and to the average Frenchman it embodies the world it comprises:  it is the world.  Expatriated, he would rather dwell, like the poet, on a barren island within sight of the shores of France than seek or find new worlds to conquer.  It must therefore be conceded that the sentiment which brought us our allies in 1780 was a hearty one, nor had they encouragement from the example of others; for, although La Fayette, young and full of ardor, had fired the hearts of his compatriots, and made it the fashion to help us even before the alliance in 1778, yet the expedition of that year under the comte d’Estaing had been an utter failure.  There was, however, a strong incentive which brought the young nobles of the time to us, and that was the one which the old philosopher declared to be at the bottom of every case—­a woman.  In this particular instance the prestige was heightened by the fact that she was also a queen.  Marie Antoinette was then at the zenith of her beauty and power.  The timid, shrinking dauphiness, forced to the arms of an unwilling husband, himself a mere cipher, had expanded into a fascinating woman, reigning triumphantly over the court and the affections of her vacillating spouse.  The birth, after years of wedlock, of several children completed her conquest and gave her the dominion she craved, and she now threw her influence unreservedly into the balance for the American colonies, little dreaming she was therein laying the first stone toward her own ruin.