sisted in refusing the proffered services of the best English physicians, while he complained of being "left to struggle with the attacks of disease, having had for two years, chronic hepatatis." Antommarchi and the two priests sent from Europe by his friends, did not relieve Napoleon's physical or mental disorders. The sight of Antommarchi became hateful to him. The medical attendant could not endure the reproaches of his patient, and he petitioned the governor to be sent to Europe, alledging that "he could not bear the temper of the Emperor.' Separated from a part of his followers, the fallen hero is doomed to see his remaining companions waiting to be released from obedience to a capricious master, whose favoritism had provoked among themselves, jealousy and mortal hatred. Las Cases had been sent from the island, for a flagrant violation of the restrictions which he had promised to obey. General Gourgaud had challenged Montholon to deadly combat, and sailed for Europe, in avowed disgust with the whole Longwood company. The traitor O'Meara, the first physician of Napoleon, had been sent away for numerous offenses. Madam Montholon had escaped the jealousy of her rival, Countess Bertrand, by a voyage to England. There remained of the original company of exiles only Montholon and the Bertrands. In the bosom of this miserable family of profane and infidel counts, with a medical attendant who was unfit for his calling, and a ghostly comforter who could neither read nor write, the last scenes of Napoleon's life drew rapidly to a close. "The stage darkened ere the curtain fell." The increase of the malady, which betokened a fatal result, destroyed the exile's hope of being able again to control the affairs of Europe. With the decay of this expectation, there came no relenting, no reparation, no submission to the decrees of heaven. That invincible will which in its pride had taken no account of impossibilities, defies the inflictions of Divine power and turns from its consolations. Weak and suffering, the conqueror of the world summons his remaining strength and resources, and expends them in fretting against the barriers of a hopeless bondage, or in provoking his military guardians. In the paroxysm of his disgusts with all mankind, he refuses the kind offices of his companions and drives them from his presence. As his mental and bodily anguish increases, he hides in the deepest gloom of his apartment, crouching in dark corners or burying himself in the folds of his bed, muttering curses on his enemies.

He bequeaths "the horrors and opprobrium of his last moments to all the reigning monarchs in Europe," and for a codicil to his last will and testament, 10,000 francs to the wretch

who attempted to assassinate the Duke of Wellington. In the same instrument he endeavors to justify the crime by declaring that "Cantallon had as much right to murder that oligarchist as the latter had to send me to perish on the rock of St. Helena." Is this the illustrious exile, the imperial sage, the magnanimous sufferer, Napoleon the great, "second only to one human being in moral grandeur !" Is this the man who "opposed to his persecutions the most perfect serenity," who claimed in his own name honors from posterity for his dig nified submission to the ills of life, and in whose behalf we hear his obsequious follower exclaim, "the sight of a great man struggling with adversity is the sublimest of spectacles!" We do not venture upon the dying scene. It has often received a touch of the sublime from abler pens than ours.

The anatomy of the corpse demonstrated for the relief of the climate of St. Helena, the medical gentlemen, and the poisoning committee generally, that Napoleon died of cancer of the stomach, an hereditary malady which had been fatal to his father. The attempt of Antommarchi, therefore, to establish a chronic disease in the liver of his illustrious patient, as proof of harsh treatment and bad air, proved a failure.

The funeral ceremony befitted the occasion. The corpse of the great chieftain after reposing in state, was borne with all the honors of war, to the place of interment, a secluded spot under some willows, by a fountain. "The priest, Vignali, performed the last rite, and as the body was lowered into the earth, three volleys of musketry, and discharges of cannon over the grave, thundered the requiem of Napoleon."

Napoleon is dead. The long drawn labors of his American biographer, we hope, are ended. The island, the sepulcher, the willow trees, are crumbling memorials of the conqueror who has found at last a mausoleum on the banks of the Seine. Peace to his remains-may they never be disturbed again. For the repose of his soul we are not permitted to pray.

ART. III.-ANALYSIS OF CONSCIENCE.

[We take much pleasure in communicating to the readers of the New Eng lander the following lucid and instructive discussion of a subject which is often made obscure by imperfect analysis. To many of our most constant readers, the cogent simplicity of the argument, and the perfect transparency of the diction-so unlike what now passes for intellectual and moral philosophy in some quarters-will sufficiently indicate the author; and they will see, with a filial joy, that in his venerable age, his intellectual eye is not dim, nor his natural force abated.]

THERE have been various opinions, and animated discussions, respecting the nature and province of conscience. There is reason to believe, that much of this diversity of views is owing to the fact that conscience, as the word is commonly used, is complex, including several elements; and that the meaning varies according as a greater or less number of these are included in the term. It becomes important, therefore, to analyze, as far as practicable, this complex subject; and to discriminate between the different elements which enter into its composition.

Of these there is one which is essential to every correct account of conscience-a notice of the distinction between right and wrong, a distinction which is different from every other; different, for instance, from the distinction between truth and error, or between past and future, or between happiness and misery. A being that has no faculty of distinguishing between right and wrong can have no conscience.

The inquiry is often made, whether this is a distinct faculty of the mind; different from the understanding or intellect. This, I think, is primarily a question of classification. All correct classification is founded on real or supposed resemblances and differences. Objects which nearly resemble each other are placed in the same class. Those which differ greatly are commonly considered as belonging to different classes. But as there is an endless variety of differences and resemblances, it would be impracticable, as well as needless, to make a distinct denomination for every diversity of objects. There is abundant room for the exercise of sound judgment, in selecting the resemblances according to which separate classes may be formed, so as best to answer the purposes for which they are constituted. "Nature gives the similitude," says Mr. Locke, "man makes the species. Different classifications of the same objects are made for different purposes of science, or practical business.

The mental powers are distributed into classes according to the several states and operations of the mind. To place every variety of acts under a distinct head would multiply faculties far beyond the enumeration of phrenologists. We should have one for arithmetic, another for geometry; one for history, another for geography, &c. In a judicious arrangement of classes, the most prominent diversities are alone to be regarded. On this principle the power of deciding between right and wrong may very properly be considered a distinct faculty; for there is no distinction more important than that between right and wrong. This faculty has been denominated by Shaftsbury, Hutcheson and others the moral sense. It is with more propriety called a moral faculty, and in its simplest exercise, moral intuition, moral judgment, or moral discernment. If it be claimed that the assertion, that benevolence is right and malevolence wrong, is a truth, and therefore a decision of the intellect; yet as it is different from all other truths, and one of the highest importance, it is proper to give to the faculty which discerns it a distinct appellation.

But all moral intuition is not conscience. The dictates of a man's conscience refer to the acts or states of his own mind; not to the operations of other minds. Yet the decisions of the moral faculty may relate to the conduct of others, as well as of ourselves. I may be convinced that my neighbor does wrong; but I do not suffer remorse of conscience for his actions, unless my own conduct has some influence over his; and even then my remorse is on account of mine own acts, and not for his.

The simple elements of moral intuition, although they may be properly considered as distinct from intellectual operations, yet are never exercised except in connection with the intellect. When one decides that his own acts are right or wrong, he must be conscious of those acts. Consciousness is necessary to bring into view the mental operations and states which are to be approved or condemned. A man does not reproach or applaud himself for acts of which he has no knowledge.

The decision of conscience frequently relates to our past conduct. Here memory is the intellectual faculty which brings into view the acts upon which a sentence of approval or condemnation is to be passed.

Again, the conduct upon which the moral faculty is called upon to decide, may be our treatment of others. Here perception is necessary to give us a knowledge of the existence of those whom we have aided or injured. A man cannot love his neighbor as himself, if he knows of no one whom he can call his neighbor.

Once more, a process of reasoning is often implied in the determinations of conscience. To obey the will of God is always right. But to know what the will of God is, in a particular case, may require a course of intellectual investigation.

A question for the exercise of moral judgment may sometimes be presented by the imagination. A man may be apprehensive that he is liable to be brought, at a future time, into circumstances of special temptation; and he may decide beforehand how he ought to act on the occasion.

Thus every exercise of conscience carries with it consciousness, memory, perception, reasoning, imagination, or some other intellectual operation. And this is not all. There are also various emotions included under the complex term. One of these is a feeling of alarm. An apprehension of danger accompanies a conviction of wrong doing. The terrors of a guilty conscience haunt the steps of the assassin. This is what is principally regarded, in pathetic addresses intended to rouse the slumbering consciences of the hearers. A sense of ill-desert awakens the dread of punishment. Though these are so intimately associated, yet they are distinct; the one necessarily preceding the other. For until the moral faculty has pronounced its sentence of guilt, there is no ground for alarm."

Though the fear of punishment arises from an apprehension of guilt, yet there may be a painful sense of ill desert where the danger of suffering the merited penalty is removed. The criminal may be pardoned, and may still retain a deep feeling of unworthiness, and shame for his offense. There is basen ess and degradation in all criminality. The reality of ill desert is not removed by acts of forgiveness. These two emotions, a sense of unworthiness and a dread of retribution, commonly enter into the composition of what is termed remorse of conscience.

There is still another kind of emotions which, in the case of the good man, accompanies the decisions of conscience, the love of right, and hatred of wrong. If he were perfect, he would invariably choose the good, and avoid the evil. These feelings in the case of the upright man, are so intimately blended with the decisions of the moral faculty, that they are frequently considered as identical. What the good man loves, it is said, must be right, and what he hates must be wrong. But it ought to be considered that he loves the one because it is right, and because he has already decided that it is right, and hates the other because he has decided it to be wrong. His feelings, so far as they are what they should be, may be taken as the criterian of right, not because they constitute the distinction between right and wrong, but because they coincide with it.