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E is fallen! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, which towered among us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted s Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptered hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality so ie

A mind, bold, independent, and decisive -a will, despotic in its dictates-an energy that distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary character-the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell se se

Flung into life, in the midst of a revolution that quickened every energy of a people who acknowledged no superior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity! With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the lists where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fled from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no motive but interesthe acknowledged no criterion but success he worshiped no God but ambition, and with an Eastern devotion he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. Subsidiary to this, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate: in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the crescent; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the Cross: the orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the Republic; and with a paricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and the tribune, he reared the throne of despotism.

A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the pope; a pretended patriot, he impoverished the country; and in the name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, the diademofthe Cæsars!

Through this pantomime of his policy, fortune played the clown to his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories took the color of his whim, and all that was venerable, and all that was

novel, changed places with the rapidity of a drama. Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of victory-his flight from Egypt confirmed his destinyruin itself only elevated him to empire.

But if this fortune was great, his genius was transcendent; decision flashed upon his counsels; and it was the same to decide and to perform. To inferior intellects, his combinations appeared perfectly impossible, his plans perfectly impracticable; but, in his hands, simplicity marked their development, and success vindicated their adoption.

His person partook the character of his mind—if the one never yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in the field.

Nature had no obstacles that he did not surmount-space no opposition that he did not spurn; and whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or polar snows, he seemed proof against peril, and empowered with ubiquity! The whole continent of Europe trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. Skepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance; romance assumed the air of history; nor was there aught too incredible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity became common places in his contemplation; kings were his people -nations were his outposts; and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabinets, as if they were the titular dignitaries of the chessboard! ❤

Amid all these changes he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered little whether in the field or the drawing-room -with the mob or the levee-wearing the jacobin bonnet or the iron crownbanishing a Braganza, or espousing a Hapsburg-dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic he was still the same military despot! Cradled in the camp, he was to the last hour the darling of the army; and whether in the camp or the cabinet, he never forsook a friend or forgot a favor.

Of all his soldiers, not one abandoned him, till affection was useless; and their first stipulation was for the safety of their favorite

and a Tyrant-a Christian and an Infidel -he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, inflexible original -the same mysterious, incomprehensible self-the man without a model, and without a shadow.

His fall, like his life, baffled all specula

They knew well, if he was lavish of them,
he was prodigal of himself; and that if he
exposed them to peril, he repaid them
with plunder. For
the soldier, he sub-
sidized every peo-
ple; to the people
he made even pride
pay tributes The
victorious veteran
glittered with his
gains; and the capi-
tal, gorgeous with
the spoils of art,
became the minia-
ture metropolis of
the universe. In this
wonderful combi-
nation, his affecta-
tion of literature
must not be omit-
ted The jailer of
the Press, he affect-
ed the patronage
of letters-the pro-
scriber of books, he
encouraged philos-
ophy-the perse-
cutor of authors,
and the murderer
of printers, he yet
pretended to the
protection of learn-
ing!-the assassin
of Palm, the silen-
cer of De Stael, and
the denouncer of
Kotzebue, he was
the friend of David,
the benefactor of
De Lille, and sent

I write. He sits beside my chair,

And scribbles, too, in hushed delight,
He dips his pen, in charmed air:

What is it he pretends to write?

He toils and toils; the paper gives
No clue to aught he thinks. What then?
His little heart is glad; he lives

The poems that he can not pen.

Strange fancies throng that baby brain,
What grave, sweet looks! What earnest
eyes!

He stops-reflects—and now again
His unrecording pen he plies.

It seems a satire on myself,

These dreamy nothings scrawled in air,
This thought, this work! Oh, tricksy elf,
Wouldst drive the father to despair?

Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind

Presists in hoping-schemes and strives
That there may linger with our kind

Some memory of our little lives.

Beneath his rock in the early world

Smiling the naked hunter lay,
And sketched on horn the spear he hurled
The urus which he made his prey.

Like him I strive in hope my rhymes

May keep my name a little while-
O child, who knows how many times
We two have made the angels smile!
"A New Poet," by William Canton

his academic prize to the philosopher of England &

Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such an individual consistency, were never united in the same character. A Royalist-a Republican and an Emperor-a Mohammedan-a Catholic and a Patron of the Synagogue-a Subaltern and a Sovereign-a Traitor

tion. In short, his whole history was like a dream to the world, and no man can tell how or why he was awakened from the reverie.

Such is a faint and feeble picture of Napoleon Bonaparte, the first (and it is to be hoped the last) emperor of the French. That he has done much evil there is little doubt; that he has been the origin of much good there is just as little. Through his means, intentional or not, Spain, Portugal, and France

have arisen to the blessings of a free constitution;superstition has found her grave in the ruins of the Inquisition and the feudal system, with its whole train of tyrannic satellites, has fled forever s Kings may learn from him that their safest study, as well as their noblest, is the interest of the people; the people are taught by him that there is no despotism, so stupendous against which they have not a resource; and to those who would rise upon the ruins of both, he is a living lesson, that if ambition can raise them from the lowest station, it can also prostrate them from the highest. Charles Phillips.

AM inclined to believe that the intention of the Sacred Scriptures is to give to mankind the information necessary for their salvation. But I do not hold it necessary to believe that the same God who has endowed us with senses, with speech, with intellect, intended that we should neglect the use of these, and seek by other means for knowledge which these are sufficient to procure for us; especially in a science like astronomy, of which so little notice is taken by the Scriptures that none of the planets, except the sun and moon and once or twice only Venus, by the name of Lucifer, are so much as named at all.

This therefore being granted, methinks that in the discussion of natural problems we ought not to begin at the authority of texts of Scriptures, but at sensible experiments and necessary demonstrations.-Galileo.

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HEREVER one goes one immediately comes upon this incorrigible mob of humanity. It exists everywhere in legions; crowding and soiling everything, like flies in summer. Hence the numberless bad books, those rank weeds of literature which extract nourishment from the corn, and choke it. They monopolize the time, money and attention which really belongs to good books and their noble aims; they are written merely with a view to making money or procuring places. They are not only useless, but they do positive harm. Nine-tenths of the whole of our present literature aims solely at taking a few shillings out of the public's pocket, and to accomplish this, author, publisher and reviewer have joined forces.-Schopenhauer.

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the other night, late at night, a light in a cottage-window, and heard the loom busily at work, the shuttle flying rapidly. It ought to have a cheerful sound, but it is at work near midnight, when there is care upon the brow of the workmanlest he should not be able to secure that which will maintain his wife and children -then there is a foretaste of what is meant by the word "famine." Oh, if these men who made the Corn Laws, if these men who step in between the Creator and His creatures, could for only one short twelvemonth-I would inflict upon them no harder punishment for their guilt-if they for one single twelvemonth might sit at the loom and throw the shuttle! I will not ask that they should have the rest of the evils; I will not ask that they shall be torn by the harrowing feelings which must exist when a beloved wife and helpless children are suffering the horrors which these Corn Laws have inflicted upon millions. -John Bright.

O know the mighty works of God;

to comprehend His wisdom and majesty and power; to appreciate, in degree, the wonderful working of His laws, surely all this must be a pleasing and acceptable mode of worship to the Most High, to whom ignorance can not be more grateful than knowledge.

-Copernicus.

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HERE are two great forces which seem sheer inspiration and nothing else I mean Shakespeare and Burns. This is not the place or the time to speak of the miracle called Shakespeare, but one must say a word of the miracle called

Burns

Try and reconstruct Burns as he was a peasant born in a cottage that no sanitary inspector in these days would tolerate for a moment; struggling with desperate effort against pauperism, almost in vain; snatching at scraps of learning in the intervals of toil, as it were, with his teeth; a heavy, silent lad proud of his plow.

All of a sudden, without preface or warning, he breaks out into exquisite song like a nightingale from the brushwood, and continues singing as sweetly, in nightingale pauses, till he dies. The nightingalesings because he can not help it; he can only sing exquisitely, because he knows no other So it was with Burns. What

mere selfish tenderness for his own family for he loved all mankind, except the cruel and base-nay, we may go further and say that he placed all creation, especially the suffering and depressed part of it, under his protection. The oppressor in every shape, even in the comparatively innocent embodi

We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be,
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Here, where the world is quiet,

Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter

ment of the factor and the sportsman, he regarded with direct and personal hostility But, above all, hesawthe charm of the home. He recognized it as the basis of all society. He honored it in its humblest form, for he knew, as few know, how sincerely the family in the cottage is welded by mutual love and esteem.

His verses, then, go straight to the heart of every home, they appeal to every father and mother; but that is only the beginning, perhapsthefoundation, of his sympathy. There is something for everybody in Burns. He has a heart even for vermin; he has pity even for the arch-enemy of mankind. And his universality makes his poems a treasurehouse in which all may find what they want. Every wayfarer in the journey of life may pluck strength and courage from it as he pauses. The sore, the weary, the wounded will all find something to heal and soothe. For this great master is the universal Samaritan. Where the priest and the Levite may have passed by in vain this eternal heart will still afford resource.

For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
"The Garden of Prosperine,"

is this but inspiration? One can no more
measure or reason about it than measure
or reason about Niagara; and remember,
the poetry is only a fragment of Burns.
Amazing as it may seem, all contemporary
testimony is unanimous that the man was
far more wonderful than his works
If his talents were universal, his sympa-
thy was not less so. His tenderness was no

by A. C. Swinburne

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His was a soul bathed in crystals He hurried to avow everything. There was no reticence in him. The only obscure passage in his life is the love-passage with Highland Mary, and as to that he was silent not from shame, but because it was a sealed and sacred episode se "What a flattering idea," he once wrote, world to come. There shall I with speechless agony or rapture recognize my lost, my ever dear Mary, whose bosom was fraught with truth, honor, constancy and love." But he had, as the French say, the defects of his qualities. His imagination was a supreme and celestial gift, but his imagination often led him wrong and never more than with woman. The chivalry that made Don Quixote see the heroic in all the common events of life made Burns (as his brother tells us) see a goddess in every girl he approached; hence many love affairs, and some guilty ones, but even these must be judged with reference to time and circumstances. This much is certain: had he been devoid of genius they would not have attracted attention. It is Burn's pedestal that affords a target. And why, one may ask, is not the same treatment measured out to Burns as to others?.

......

Mankind is helped in its progress almost as much by the study of imperfection as by the contemplation of perfection. Had we nothing before us in our futile and halting lives but saints and the ideal, we might well fail altogether. We grope blindly along the catacombs of the world, we climb the dark ladder of life, we feel our way to futurity, but we can scarcely see an inch around or before us se We stumble and falter and fall, our hands and knees are bruised and sore, and we look up for light and guidance. Could we see nothing but distant, unapproachable impeccability we might well sink prostrate in the hopelessness of emulation, and the weariness of despair. Is it not then, when all seems blank and lightless, when strength and courage flag, and when perfection seems remote as a star, is it not then that imperfection helps us? When we see that the greatest and choicest images of God have had their weaknesses like ours, their temptations, their hour of

darkness, their bloody sweat, are we not encouraged by their lapses and catastrophes to find energy for one more effort, one more struggle? Where they failed, we feel it a less dishonor to fail; their errors and sorrows make, as it were, an easier ascent from infinite imperfection to infinite perfection.

Man, after all, is not ripened by virtue alone. Were it so, this world were a paradise of angels. No. Like the growth of the earth, he is the fruit of all seasons, the accident of a thousand accidents, a living mystery moving through the seen to the unseen; he is sown in dishonor; he is matured under all the varieties of heat and cold, in mists and wrath, in snow and vapors, in the melancholy of autumn, in the torpor of winter as well as in the rapture and fragrance of summer, or the bamly affluence of spring, its breath, its sunshine; at the end he is reaped, the product not of one climate but of all, not of good alone but of sorrow, perhaps mellowed and ripened, perhaps stricken and withered and sour. How, then, shall we judge any one? How, at any rate, shall we judge a giant, great in gifts and great in temptation; great in strength, and great in weakness? Let us glory in his strength and be comforted in his weakness; and when we thank heaven for the inestimable gift of Burns, we do not need to remember wherein he was imperfect; we can not bring ourselves to regret that he was made of the same clay as ourselves. Rosebery.

HE country life is to be preferred, for there we see the works of God; but in cities, little else but the works of men; and the one makes a better subject for our contemplation than the other......

The country is both the philosopher's garden and library, in which he reads and contemplates the power, wisdom, and goodness of God.-William Penn.

I congratulate poor young men upon being born to that ancient and honorable degree which renders it necessary that they should devote themselves to hard work. Andrew Carnegie.

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