ard, in terror, will plunge into the ocean, to avoid shame, defeat, and death. In fact, he was already, in his own eyes, a deity upon earth. Writing to his brother, the King of Holland, he says: "Never forget, that in the situation to which MY political system and the interests of MY empire have called you, your first duty is towards ME,-your second towards France. All your other duties, even those towards the people whom I have called you to govern, rank after these." Thus, " to his own mind he was the source and centre of duty," and his "political system" became the standard of morals. His devoted and affectionate wife, who had stood by him in poverty and danger, was discarded the moment his " "political system" rendered it necessary. His brothers were used as his tools, and disgraced whenever they showed the least desire for independence. His mother was not permitted to sit in the presence of her arrogant son! bones amidst the snows of Russia. He had gained a throne by the exertion of great practical wisdom and sagacity; he was now beginning to lose it by the commission of astounding blunders. He insulted and outraged the northern emperor, and carried the greatest army ever seen in modern times into the inaccessible empire of Muscovy. He had lost half of this army before he reached Moscow; and had heard, at that enormous distance, that the insignificant English force in Spain, which he had despised, had won the battle of Salamanca, had entered Madrid, and now threatened the expulsion of his brother, and the overthrow of the French power in the Peninsula. He had, in his pride, attempted the impossible, and had failed. Leaving the bodies of 400,000 soldiers on the Russian wilds, he escaped out of Poland with fewer than 50,000 men, and had next to fight for the preservaBut with high-mindedness of this descrip- tion of his ascendency in Germany. Antion practical wisdom never dwells. There other of Wellington's victories, at Vittoria, could be no plainer dictate of common sense, united the three sovereigns of Russia, Austhan that which warned him to crush, if pos- tria, and Prussia against Napoleon, and the sible, the rising power of Wellington. Here winter of that year saw him fairly driven was a commander who had defeated every back into France. His pride and arrogance general that Napoleon had sent against him, still clung to him, and rendered it impossiand had routed the French armies at Vimi- ble for him to stoop. In the negotiations of era, Talavera, Barossa, Sabugal and Fuen- 1813, at Dresden, the Allies offered to leave tes d'Onor. Was it not his first business to him a great empire; in 1814, standing on clear the Peninsula, if he could, of this dan- his own soil, they again offered to give him gerous antagonist, and to drive the English all France. But he could not bend, he army back to its own shores? Yet, with a could not recede; and thus he lost all, bewonderful infatuation did Napoleon adopt cause he would not consent to lose anything. the idea, that "it was good policy to let the A mind which has placed its whole happiEnglish exhaust themselves in the Penin-ness in having no equal, feels the thought sula ;" and hence, instead of putting an end of descending to the level of kings to be into that struggle, he turned his back upon it, tolerable. He "could not wear," he said, and madly engaged in a new and deadly strife" a tarnished crown." Refusing to take at the other extremity of Europe. counsel of events, he persevered in fighting, with a stubbornness like that of a spoilt child, who sullenly grasps what he knows he must relinquish, struggles without hope, and does not give over resistance until his little fingers are one by one unclenched from the object on which he has set his heart. fell Napoleon." In 1811, when he ought to have been terminating the Peninsula controversy, Napoleon remained at home, adding, by edict after edict, new provinces to his immense dominions; and commencing a fresh quarrel with Russia, the only unbroken and really formidable power on the continent of Europe. Two hundred thousand fresh troops poured into Spain might have forced Wellington to quit the Peninsula. But Napoleon overlooked the opportunity, and in the next spring he carried more than four hundred and fifty thousand across the Vistula, to leave their So The same burning ambition, the same restless pride, and the same unscrupulosity as to engagements, led him to cast himself again upon France in 1815, and forced the allied powers once more to defeat and to apprehend him, and to consign him this time to a safer prison. They sent him to St. Helena, and there he ended his days. to live and thrive without moral principle." It was the "eternal law" which balked and ruined him, and the result in a million of experiments would always be the same. Every experiment that has a merely sensual and selfish aim will fail." • His design, the great business of his life, The last six years of his life were mournfully instructive. He had been "a man of the world" all his days, and all his reverses, being unaccompanied by Divine grace, did nothing to soften his heart, or to elevate his views; hence year after year passed in fret--his design against the independence of ful lamentations over his lost glory, in illconcealed aspirations after new contests and victories, and in bitter quarrelings with his watchful gaoler. Thus had Europe seen "an experiment, under the most favorable conditions, of the powers of intellect without conscience. Never was such a leader so endowed, and so weaponed; never did leader find such aids and followers. And what was the result of this vast talent and power; of these immense armies, burned cities, squandered treasures, demoralized Europe? It came to no result. All passed away, like the smoke of his artillery, and left no trace." Napoleon's working, what was it with all the noise it made? A flash as of gunpowder widespread; a blazing up as of dry heath. For an hour the universe seems wrapt in smoke and flame; but only for an hour. It goes out; the universe with its old mountains and streams, its stars above and soil beneath, is still there."† nations and the liberties of the world, has been justly described as the most nefarious enterprise recorded in history. He knew distinctly the price which he must pay for the eminence which he coveted. "He knew that the path to it lay over slaughtered millions; over the putrifying heaps of his fellow-creatures; over ravaged fields, smoking ruins, pillaged cities. He knew that his steps would be followed by the groans of widowed mothers and famished orphans ; of bereaved friendship and despairing love, and that with this misery he would create an equal amount of crime." On the fields of Spain he left half a million of French soldiers, whose bayonets had been dyed with the blood of a still larger number of murdered peasants, with their wives and children. In his Russian campaign of 1812, he lost not fewer than 400,000 of his army; while the ravages and murders committed on the inhabitants of the country defy computation. And the sole object of all this And the poor man himself, what a specta- bloodshed,-the Moloch to whom these milcle of earthly greatness does he present, and lions were sacrificed, was nothing else than of earthly folly and self-delusion! "His no-"my political system," "my glory." tions of the world, as he utters them at St. It was the bright and cheering feature in Helena, are almost tragical to consider. his great rival's history, that from first to He seems to feel the most unaffected sur-last he always recognized an obligation, a prise that it has all gone so; that he is flung duty, by which he was bound, and to which out on the rock here, and the world is still he paid a loyal obedience. To say that Welmoving on its axis! His astonishment is lington had no selfishness, would be absurd; extreme. But alas! what help now? He but it is certain that he never allowed it to had to sink there, mournfully enough, and become his dominant motive, or his rule of break his great heart, and die."‡ life. Bonaparte, on the other hand, lived transparently for himself. No higher or purer aspiration ever stirred his breast than such as had reference to his own power or "glory." It was for this sole end that he lived, and it was to conduce to this end that he would fain have made all other men live. Yet, so far as restless energy, unrivalled genius, and unscrupulous decision were concerned, this terrible failure was not Bonaparte's fault. "He did all that in him lay *Emerson, p. 191. † Carlyle, p. 390. Carlyle, p. 392. The ostensible cause of his death was cancer of the stomach on which Dr. Arnott thus writes: "If it be admitted that a previous disposition to this disease did exist, might not the depressing passions of the mind act as an exciting cause? It is more than probable that Napoleon's mental sufferings at St. Helena were very poignant." "There are different orders of greatness. Among these, the first rank is unquestionably due to moral greatness; to that sublime energy by which the soul binds itself for life or death to truth and duty; espouses as its *Emerson, p. 392. own the interests of human nature; scorns all meanness and defies all peril; reposes an unfaltering trust in God; and is ever 'ready to be offered up' on the altar of its country or of mankind. Of this moral greatness, which throws all other greatness into obscurity, we find not a trace in Napoleon." As to the will or the commands of God, it is quite clear that these “were not in all his thoughts." Hence he performed the work assigned to him, of punishing and scourging guilty nations, and then he was cast upon the rock, "to break his heart and die." So far as he himself was concerned, his life was one long crime, and, of necessity, it was also one long and ruinous blunder. What lesson, however, some thoughtless reader may exclaim, can there be for us in this story? Which amongst us is likely to rise to the command of an empire? Or what instruction can we gain from the study of the fall of a great military autocrat? He who so speaks must have overlooked the just remark of Emerson, that Bonaparte was the type or representative, not of emperors, or military despots, but of "the men of the world." Each man who lives for himself, and covets and obtains wealth and power and the gratification of his selfish ambition, is one of whom Bonaparte was the leader and pattern. His motto was Excelsior, and his ceaseless aim was self-exaltation. A thirst for dominion ever burnt within him,—a thirst which nothing could quench. He gratified it in a higher degree than almost any other of the sons of men; yet still it consumed him, and he died with dreams of conquest and of glory filling his whole soul. And if you covet wealth and power for selfish objects, you follow in the track of Napoleon. "He had no element of character which others do not possess. He is not to be gazed at as a miracle. He was a manifestation of our own nature. He teaches us on a large scale what thousands teach on a narrow one." *Channing's Character of Napoleon, p. 62. He died defeated, frustrated, and an exile. Yet, unless that thirst could have been quenched or taken away, he would have deserved pity no less had he died an autocrat. His broken heart may speak more plainly; but not the fullest success could have rendered him less the object of compassion. Between the boastful conqueror on his throne, and the captive exile on his deathcumstances; the disease which ruined him bed, the only difference is in outward cirwas the same in his prosperity and in his those outward circumstances, would pity the downfall. An archangel, looking beyond delusion, as much in the conqueror as in the the reality, is the disease, and not this or captive. And so, now, the substantial thing, that phase of it. You follow him, perhaps, that a millionth part of the wealth and power at an immense distance, vainly imagining which he enjoyed would richly content you. But if you are really following him,-if you disease, you may reckon on the same fate. have the same burning thirst, the same heartwill still have to cry out with Solomon," All If apparent success be permitted you, you is vanity and vexation of spirit!" but if, as in Napoleon's case,— "Vaulting ambition overleaps itself, your error will be more seen, and your fate more pitied; yet the difference will be more in outside show than in substantial reality. The practical lesson to all "men of the world," from the merchant craving after gain to the conqueror at the head of his armies, is the same: "Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which satisfieth not? Hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness. Incline your ear, and come unto me: hear, and your soul shall live." From The Examiner. The Lady of La Garaye. By the Hon Mrs. Norton. Macmillan and Co. THIS is a true poem, noble in subject and aim, natural in flow, worthy in expression, with the common soul of humanity throbbing in every page through wholesome words that owe their fitness to the generous heart not less than to the genius of a woman. There is no strain for effect, no evident labor for the "strong lines" of which Izaak Walton wearied; yet the musical emphatic lines are modelled to the thoughts they contain with an exquisite nicety. There is the refinement of Bowles with the warmth of a more heartily poetic nature. In the Lady of La Garaye Mrs. Norton simply puts into fit words the sacred poem of a life. It is a grave tale of Time and its changes a tale most fit for New Year reading—of Time and its changes that, whatever be the momentary pang they bring with them, are blessed changes to God's children. With its warm sympathies and wholesome truth that may sanctify the memory of our dead years, the poem is of all new books the one most fit to be a New Year's gift between men and women who share with each other earnest thoughts. A murmur of home feeling stirs with plaintive music in the dedication to Lord Lansdowne, who, full as he is of years and honors, cannot account least of his honors the touching earnestness with which his friendship is here honored in a poet's lines. We quote only a part : Thou knowest-for thou hast proved-the dreary shade A first-born's loss casts over lonely days; And gone is now the pale, fond smile, that made In my dim future, yet, a path of rays. "Gone, the dear comfort of a voice whose sound Came like a beacon-bell, heard clear above The whirl of violent waters surging round; Speaking to shipwrecked ears of help and love. "The joy that budded on my own youth's bloom, When life wore still a glory and a gloss, Is hidden from me in the silent tomb; Smiting with premature unnatural loss. "So that my very soul is wrung with pain, Meeting old friends whom most I love to see. Where are the younger lives, since these remain? I weep the eyes that should have wept for me! "But all the more I cling to those who speak Like thee, in tones unaltered by my change; Greeting my saddened glance, and faded cheek, With the same welcome that seemed sweet and strange "In early days: when I, of gifts made proud, That could the notice of such men beguile, Stood listening to thee in some brilliant crowd, With the warm triumph of a youthful smile. "Oh! little now remains of all that was! Even for this gift of linking measured words, My heart oft questions, with discouraged pause, Does music linger in the slackening chords? « Yet, friend, I feel not that all power is filed, While offering to thee, for the kindly years, The intangible gift of thought, whose silver thread Heaven keeps untarnished by our bitterest tears." The silver thread of thought lies in this volume indeed untarnished, and if The Lady of La Garaye do not win a wide English welcome, the change is not in the singer, whose best music we have here. The tale is a true one, its date the close of the seventeenth century, its scene Dinan in Brittany, where the ruined chateau of the La Garayes, and its ivy-covered gateway, remain to be sketched, and have been sketched by Mrs. Norton to accompany the Mrs. Norton of the Lady of Garaye's face There is prefixed to it also a copy by poem. tutions of Dinan, wherein her spirit yet lives from a picture in one of the charitable instiupon earth. the ruin Time has made of the house of The poem opens with a prologue among Garaye, where Beneath the shadow of each crumbling arch The muffled music of thy onward march, And all mysterious, unconnected sounds Time doth efface Each day some lingering trace Of human government and human care : And earth, usurp the walls to be their own; But with a sober gravity, unmixed with complaint, Mrs. Norton sings of the ruins of Time, and chooses to tell her tale of human trial, love, and triumph, in the woods of La Garaye. The poem is in four parts. In the first we see Claud Marot, the young lord of La Garaye, and Gertrude his wife, rich in wealth, beauty, friendship, perfectness of gether on that holiday came to wild broken love, and all that can make the full joyous-ground. ness of healthy youth. Claud had a wife The joy of his young hours. No more afraid And deems the foamy undulations, rest. Took from those graceful hours a rougher force, "He that had seen her, with her courage high, It is this fulness and gladness of young life that is to be struck down and to bless thousands in its ruin. With artistic purpose, therefore, its full image is presented by the poet. Her friends are gathering to join the hunt. She is delicately painted in words as she waits and as she rides : "Alas! look well upon that picture fair If we knew when the last time was the last, "Across the water full of peaked stonesAcross the water where it chafes and moansAcross the water at its widest part Which wilt thou leap, O lady of brave heart? "Their smiling eyes have met those eager two: She looks at Claud, as questioning which to do; He rides-reins in-looks down the torrent's course, Pats the sleek neck of his sure-footed horse,- Reaches and barely reaches-past the roar "Oh! even while he leapt, his horrid thought "But never yet, Leaped his heart's blood with such a yearning Through all the loving days since first they met, VOW That she was all in all to him, as now. "O Gertrude, my beloved!' Who in the sheltering arms of love can lie dear, Still the fond clasping touch can understand,- With help from a wandering herdsman the count brought home his wife upon a litter of broken branches. "The starry lights shine forth from tower and hall, Stream through the gateway, glimmer on the And the loud pleasant stir of busy men They see the shining of the ruby glasses |