with a very large sandy head. He sat | I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed chamber. They doubtless belonged to the unknown; but it would not do to disturb so redoubtable a person in his den; he might discharge a pistol, or something worse at my head. I went to bed therefore, and lay awake half the night in a terribly nervous state; and even when I fell asleep I was still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the stout gentleman and his waxed topped boots. I slept rather late next morning, and was awakened by some stir and bustle in the house, which I could not at first comprehend; until getting more awake, I found there was a mail-coach starting from the door. Suddenly there was a cry from below, "the gentleman has forgot his umbrella; look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 134 heard the immediate scampering of a chambermaid along the passage, and a shrill reply as she ran," here it is! here's the gentleman's umbrella !" by himself, with a glass of port wine negus, and a spoon; sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon.He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that remained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious; around hung the shapeless and almost spectral box-coats of departed travellers, long since burried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the drippings of the rain, drop-drop drop, from the eaves of the house. The church bells chimed midnight; all at once the stout gentleman began to walk overhead, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There was something extremely awful in all this, especially to me in my state of nerves. The mysterious stranger was then These ghastly greatcoats, these gutteral on the point of setting off. This was breathings, and the creaking footsteps the only chance I should ever have of of the mysterious being. His steps knowing him. I sprang out of bed, grew fainter and fainter, and at last scrambled to the window, snatched died away. I could bear it no longer. aside the curtains, and just caught a I was wound up to the desperation of glimpse of the rear of a person getting a hero of romance, "Be he who or in at the coach door. The skirts of what he may," said I to myself, "I'll a brown coat parted behind and gave have a sight of him!" I seized a me a full view of the broad disk of a chamber candle and hastened up to pair of drab breeches.The door number 13. The door stood ajar. closed-" all right!" was the word— I hesitated I entered: the room was the coach whirled off and that was deserted. There stood a large broad-all I ever saw of the stout gentleman. bottomed elbow chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler, and a Times," and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. LOVE OF HOME. 20 The mysterious stranger had evi- The Love of Home, or that attachdently but just retired. I turned off, ment to local objects which have been sorely disappointed to my room, which intimately associated with the pleasures had been changed to the front of the and affections of opening life, is a feel, house. As I went along the corridoring, or rather, indeed, a passion which draws closer the links of family and kindred, and rivets with an impression ineffaceable by time, the localities connected with their soothing influence. The home of poverty, therefore, necessarily the lot of by far the greater part of mankind, is, to an extent per has been found to exist, in a greater or less degree, in every age and nation, and may, therefore, be deemed natural to, and for the most part, adherent in man. It is moreover the basis of all the charities and virtues of our nature, and ever burns brightest in the breast of him who is the most tender, phi-haps little calculated upon by the rich lanthropic, and humane... It may, in fact, be asserted that he who has not strongly felt this domestic tie, will never, in any of the relations of life, be either happy in himself, or useful to others; for on the love of home is founded that of his country and of this species, and without the first of these affections, which includes all the nearest and dearest affinities of our common kind, the heart must ever remain selfish, desolate and cold, and conséquently void of all those sympathies which can stimulate to any social -sor patriotic feeling. Seldom, indeed, and most fortunately for mankind, is an individual to be found, who is totally dead to all the relations both of country and of home; for such an one would be capable of Jevery atrocity in the annals of cruelty and crime. It has even been made a question whether a human being exists Sentirely divested of the less concentrated of these attachments, affection for his native soil. But of this we may be certain, that s he who flies not to the home of his youth with sensations of mingled gratitude and pleasure, has either suffered there from an unnatural series of persecution and pain, or is defective in intellect, or hardened in vice. Mere poverty and its attendant privations have no power in diminishing the force of this attachment; for, though the finer emotions of polished life be wantning, its too often enervating effects are escaped, and there is that pressure from sorrow and misfortune which, when the heart is uncorrupted, ever and luxurious, an object of love and preference to its hardy inmates; and would be in a still higher degree, were inflictions which so often haunt the roof of the opulent, its listless vacuity, and heartless dissipation, more present to their minds. It is upon this principle, therefore, the association of pleasurable ideas with the home of our earlier years, that every individual prefers his own country to a foreign one, and the spot of ground him birth to any which gave other portion of the globe, whatever may be the physical hardships or inconveniences attending them. Indeed it generally happens that the more forcibly these have been felt, provided they have solely arisen from the influence of ternal nature, the more durable, the more dear and impressive, become the mental combinations of opening life. Many are the circumstances, indeed, which tend to modify, to strengthen, or to enfeeble, our attachment to home, Of these, one of the most operative is the period of life. In Childhood and Youth, where all is fairy ground, where the delightful illusions of hope and novelty are always in play, where, the morning comes without a care, and the evening ushers in the bland repose of health and innocence, home, the seat of pastime and protective love, must necessarily induce associations dear and durable as life itself. Here, unassailed by the temptations, vices, and suspicions of more advanced age, friendship is guileless and affection unalloyed, and whatever may be the lot sof man in his subsequent pilgrimage, whether that of joy or sorrow, he looks back upon this season of his existence with never-failing regret, as upon visions of bliss which can never returnLost, gone like wild flowers wreath'd around the dead, Or lovers' lips that met to part for ever. It is in proportion as the kindlier affections animate the bosom of manhood and old age, as virtue and religion have been acted upon and cherished -through life, that the home of early oyouth is valued and regretted as the scene which, in purity and simplicity, most approximates that which awaits Bus in a better world. More especially do we love to dwell upon those recollections of the home of our youth, when, in conjunction with the festivities of that tender age, we were first taught the joy of making others happy. In manhood the influence of local attachment, and consequently the love of home, whether in actual enjoyment For in remembrance, is liable to be diverted and weakened by a thousand > causes. The necessity imposed on the bulk of mankind, during this period, of seeking their bread in various and distant places, amid the distractions of incessant occupation, or the pressure of engrossing evils; but more particularly the darker passions which now agitate the breast, and, in the higher classes, the apathising effects of luxury and dissipation, will easily account for this result. If we reflect that, to the enjoyment of domestic happiness, many of the milder and nobler virtues of the soul are essential, we can easily conceive why ambition, avarice, and sensuality, why vanity, splendour, and the pride of affluence, are so inimical to its attainment; and that while these absorb the man, how futile it is to expect, within the shades of privacy, aught that is great, or generous, or good. Even he, who from the love of display, or from the obligation too often imposed upon grandeur, changes frequently his place of residence, knows little of that attachment which belongs to him who has but one asylum from the world. The close of life, however, like its commencement, is friendly to those feelings which spring from local affection. It is the privilege of old age, provided the days of our strength have been laudably employed, to feel the attachment for home renewed with all the fondness and endearment of youth. We have experienced the futility and nothingness of worldly pursuits, and we return to the homes of our youth well prepared to place a due value upon the innocence and simplicity of our opening days, and desirous of nothing so much as that the close of life may be marked by the same peace and repose which distinguished its earliest dawn. We are sensible also of an additional bond of affection for the place where our fathers are at rest, and with a sense of dependency somewhat similar to that which is felt in infancy, we look to those who are around us for sympathy and support. Another circumstance operating strongly in augmenting our affection for home, is built on that intermixture of sorrow and disappointment which so generally forms the destiny of man. When the chill blasts of adversity meet us abroad, or death robs us of a portion of our comforts at home, it is then we become conscious of the weakness and instability of our nature, and we turn to that roof, or to those ties which remain to us beneath its shelter, with increasing tenderness and love. Greatly also is the love of home advanced by the physical character of the scene which has nursed our infancy and youth. The more striking and singular this has been, the more vivid and endearing will be the impression left upon the mind. It is on this account that a sequestered but picturesque situation, or a piece of mountain scenery, or a feudal castle will be recollected, as the place of our birth, with infinitely more strength and attachment than the home which shall have fallen to us in a populous city, or busy neighbourhood. The breadth, simplicity and unity of the former being much more easily blended and associated with our feelings and recollections than the multiform and distracting imagery of the latter, and which too, as shared with us by thousands, loses all that peculiarity and singleness of application which attaches to and endears the solitary mansion of our fathers. Still stronger is the impression, and the consequent links of association, where the scene which formed the cradle of our infancy, and has become the theatre of our toils, assumes a still bolder and more decided cast; a fact which is daily exemplified by the inhabitants of mountainous deserts, who are uniformly more attached to their native soil than those who people the level country. Such, indeed, is the force of the attraction which is often found to bind the peasant who has been brought up among regions of wild and awful sublimity, that a separation from his beloved hills is frequently followed by unconquerable regret, and not seldom by death itself. More particularly is this known to be the case in that land of wintry tempest and romantic horror, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy man sions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; Another very powerful cause of local affection is founded, as hath been already hinted, on the love and pride with which we regard what has long been in the possession of our own family: hence, an old mansion or cas tle, which has for ages been the seat of our fathers, must in every breast open to a sense of man's true happiness and dignity, awaken the warmest estimate of the blessings of ancestral worth and honourable independency. Hereditary property, indeed, if united to a lineage of great and good deeds, is one of the strongest incentives to domestic virtue and public utility; and he who has a just value for himself and his descendants, would struggle hard, and endure much, to preserve to his posterity a possession connected with so many delightful and heart-stirring associations. In no instance does the local flame burn brighter than where the ties which bind the feudal proprietor and his dependants have been long established; where the family of a hereditary chieftain has for ages, from his towers of strength, extended a patriarchal sway over districts filled with retainers, ardent, faithful, and affectionate, and whose honour and interests are identified with those of their lord. The love of home may indeed be considered as a test of the goodness of the human heart; for without it, we again repeat, neither the domestic nor patriotic virtues can be said to exist. It is of all our feelings the most generous and amiable, and, if duly cherished, will ever prove one of the best preventives of vanity, selfishness, and dissipation; of discontent, turbulence, and disaffection. Home is the haven to which, after all the storms and vexations of life, we return with the added conviction, that if happiness be any where resident on earth, it is only to be found within its still retreats, when vice and folly stand aloof, and when the soul uncontaminated by its passage through the world, can prepare in peace, and in the sunshine of domestic love, for that not dreaded hour when the frame it now informs shall mingle with its parent dust. REVIEW. Napoleon in Exile; or, a Voice from St. Helena. The opinions and reflections of Napoleon on the most important events of his Life and Government, in his own words.By BARRY E. O'MEARA, Esq., his late Surgeon. 2 vols.- Continued from our last. 250 pieces of cannon: but my troops were so good, that I esteemed them sufficient to beat 120,000. Now Lord Wellington had under his command about 90,000, and 250 pieces of cannon; and Bulow had 30,000, making 120,000. Of all these troops, however, I only reckoned the English as being able to cope with my own. The others I thought little of. I believe that of English there were from 35 to 40,000.. These I esteemed to be as brave and as good as my own troops; the English army was well known latterly on the continent; and besides, your nation possesses courage and energy. As to the Prussians, Belgians, and others, half the number of my troops were sufficient to beat them. I only left 34,000 men to take care of the Prus We give some further details re- sians. The chief causes of the loss of that pecting the battle of Waterloo : : Napoleon conversed a good deal about the battle of Waterloo, the "plan of the battle,' said he, will not, in the eyes of the historian, reflect any credit on Lord Wellington as a general. In the first place, he ought not to have given battle with the armies divided. They ought to have been united and encamped before the 15th. In the next, the choice of the ground was bad; because if he had been beaten he could not have retreated, as there was only one road leading to the forest in his rear. He also committed a fault which might have proved the destruction of all his army, without its ever having commenced the campaign, or being drawn out in battle; he allowed himself to be surprised. On the 15th I was at Charleroi, and had beaten the Prussians without his knowing any thing about it. I had gained forty-eight hours of manœuvres on him, which was a great object; and if some of my generals had shown the vigour and genius which they had displayed in other times, I should have taken his army in cantonments without ever fighting a battle. But they were discouraged, and fancied they saw an army of 100,000 men every where opposed to them. I had not time enough myself to attend to the minutice of the army. I reckoned on surprising and cutting them up in detail. I knew of Bulow's arrival at 11 o'clock; but I did not regard it. I had still 80 chances out of 100 in my favour. Notwithstanding the great superiority of force against me, I was convinced that I should obtain the victory. **'I had about 70,000 men, of whom 15,000 were cavalry. I had also, battle were, first of all, Grouchy's great tardiness, and neglect in executing his orders; next, the grenadiers a cheval and the cavalry, under General Guyot, which I had in reserve, and which were never to leave me, engaged without orders, and without my knowledge; so that after the last charge, when the troops were beaten, and the English cavalry advanced, I had not a single corps of cavalry in reserve to resist them; instead of one which I esteemed to be equal to double their number. In consequence of this, the English attack succeeded, and all was lost. There was no means of rallying. The youngest general would not have committed the fault of leaving an army entirely without reserve, which however occurred here, whether in consequence of treason, or not, I cannot say. These were the two principal causes of the loss of the battle of Waterloo.' If Lord Wellington had entrenched himself,' continued he, I would not have attacked him. As a general, his plan did not show talent. He certainly displayed great courage and obstinacy; but a little must be taken away even from that, when you consider that he had no means of res treat, and that, bad he made the attempt, not a man of his army would have escaped. First, to the firmness and bravery of his troops, for the English fought with the greatest obstinacy and courage, he is prines cipally indebted for the victory, and hot to his own conduct as a general ; and next to the arrival of Blucher, to whom the victory is more to be attributed than to Wellington, and more credit due as a ge eral; becaue he, though beaten the day before, assembled his troops, and brought |