I remember Mr. Seward telling me one day, when we met in Washington, that it was contrary to etiquette for a foreigner to wear the livery of his royal master or mistress in the United States. Soon afterwards I saw at table a colonel in full uniform of the French infantry; but, on inquiry, I learned he was in command of a New York regiment composed of his exiled compatriots; and a very gallant regiment--in spite of its Anglophobia, loudly expressed during the Trent affair--it proved itself. Even here let me tell a story. When the colonel in question, who had been for many years a journalist in New York, appeared in Washington, after getting his commission, he repaired to the house of an astute and witty diplomatist, with whom he had an ancient intimacy. “Ah! my dear colonel,” exclaimed the Minister, “by accepting the command of your regiment, you have cut short the friendship of ten years.” “How is that, Excellence?” “Why, how can we ever meet again as of yore? I cannot dine with you; for how dare I present myself in your camp?” “Why not, Excellence?” “Why, my dear friend, do you think I could ever get my hair dressed well enough to please the five hundred French coiffeurs in your regiment?” “But, at all events, my dear Minister, I can come and dine with you!” “Impossible, my friend! How could I venture to ask a man to dinner who has under his orders five hundred French cooks!” More snow. The landlord is rather impressed with the news that the Union army is positively about to march on Richmond at once; and, indeed, it is only the sceptical mind, with some knowledge of facts, that can resist the effect of the constant iteration of falsehoods in the American papers, which never loses its influence on the American mind.