with unequalled alacrity fearlessly to rush into danger and defy death, but incapable of resisting reverses, throughout all their marvellous revolutions down to that astonishing discomfiture which sealed their Emperor's catastrophe and their overthrow; in prosperity more than men, in adversity less than women. Their own and only epic, which, collated with that of Greece, of Rome, of Italy, of England, we might perhaps add of America, seems to prove that epic is not their element, but epigrammatic; their apostle Voltaire, admirable like them, having truly said, "Le Français qu'on attaque est à demi vaincu"-the Frenchman attacked is half overcome. The self-destruction of Moscow and the capture of Paris are proofs wonderfully indicative of the characters of the least and the most refined people of Europe-proofs that patriotism, generosity and true courage are attributes of boors and serfs, not of courtiers and nobles, and that the most absolute sovereigns are unsophisticated people. To describe France is to represent Paris, and to do that in his time is to delineate Bonaparte. France, said Chateaubriand, is a soldier, not a Napoleon of peace, as the certainly very remarkable King of the French was called by Talleyrand; but the little corporal of the violet flower and three-colored cockade, at whose name every crowned head trembled for twenty years of royal panic, while every veteran's heart leaped for joy, and every conscript, even though lamenting home, felt that Bonaparte would lead him to perform the prodigies and share the glories of the great nation. To see him with his little cocked hat, gray surtout, and plain-hilted sword, on a beautiful Persian or Spanish horse, full of fire and movement, but perfectly broke and gentle, like his master collected and delighting in tumult and commotion, richly though heavily caparisoned, as striking as David's picture of him erossing the Alps; a small, pallid, almost beardless midshipman-looking young man, with a languid Italian countenance, light restless eyes, full shoulders, finely turned limbs, very small hands and feet, handsome but not commanding appearance, a bad though bold rider, (as if he had never been taught that gentlemanly accomplishment-the elegant Charles the Tenth was probably a much more graceful horseman, and rode a review better,) environed by cohorts of gorgeous officers as resplendent as he was plain, hardly one of them thirty years old, yet all veterans and many wounded; Beauharnois, a well-favored graceful youth, at the head of his huzzars, and Murat in the flower of fantastic manhood, king by right of dashing deeds and dress, before he was enthroned of modern chivalry, exquisite coxcomb in equipments, glittering with lace, feathers, gold, and military finery, profusely hearded beforethat mode became vulgar, perched on the most extraordinary charger that equestrian luxury could procure, his scarlet manc flowing in long glossy ringlets over broad parti-colored shoulders, his forelock parted in thick curls about odd eyes sparkling with fire, an animal altogether of most curious figure and action, as unlike the quiet simplicity of an English blood horse as Murat to an English plain-dressed English gentleman;-together with all the rest of the indescribable particulars of the grand monthly parade in front of the Tuileries and Louvre, palaces of the Bourbons, close by the ruins caused by the infernal machine;--was a memorable scene to fascinate young fancies with vivid and overwhelming recollections. There was an exultation about Bonaparte's military spectacles, at that day, when the campaigns of Italy, of Egypt and of Marengo were casting forward the shadows of the coming events of Austerlitz, Moscow, and Waterloo-a revolutionary rush. of thought which flashed over the senses beyond the power of adequate description. When he reined up his horse to call a private from the ranks of a distinguished regiment, and chat with him before the army, the metropolis of Europe and of the world, the public communion of such comrades was an ecstacy that thrilled through France. Then seated with the reins loose on the horse's neck in front of the palace, in the utmost abandon of position, while the troops, with their exciting music, and the still greater stimulation of their tattered colors, filed before him, his amiable face beaming with a popular smile which seemed to grant every petition, as, holding by his stirrup, women, children and old men handed their memorials, which he passed to aids-de-camp,-it was the culmination of the sun of martial glory. After the review he dismounted and entered the palace. I stood close by when, as he mounted the marble steps with a bound, he adjusted his darkbrown crop with his hand, as if, notwithstanding his plain and almost negligent dress, he wished to look well in the drawing-room that was to follow. There was even then, and it is said to have increased much afterwards, an awe of his presence which no bystander could resist, and which withered rank. Without size or commanding appearance, but graceful and gracious, though sudden and interrogative, he never failed, long before he was Emperor, to stand alone, while those with whom he deigned to converse stood aloof and around him, his presence making a circle without master of ceremonies. With his coronation, the Emperor waxed fat in every sense. Bonaparte became Napoleon. It may be that Americans, in the republican simplicity of transatlantic seclusion, are not competent judges of what was wise for the Dictator of the French, conqueror in so many battles, author of so many codes, and on all occasions so deeply read in knowledge of mankind. Otherwise we might say that Napoleon mistook the age, when he divorced his wife to beget an imperial dynasty, and fell short of his destiny in suffering emperors, kings, princes, and nobles to flatter him to his downfall. In common with ether visiters of the palace of St. Cloud, I was shown the narrow bed in which we were told the First Consul always slept with Josephine, contrary to the general custom of Parisian married Ifie; and we have all seen that his decline began from noble and imperial connexions, to seduce him into whose embraces no one contributed more than his first wife. Insatiate of family as well as personal renown, he fell, not conquered by others but by himself. The masses unchained, with freedom for their reward, all the princes and captains of Europe in crusade against one man, could not overcome him by military combination, superior bravery, greater numbers, or even by popular enthusiasm. Never was his vast genius more signalized than in the last struggle, when with a divided and discouraged nation, disaffected officers, undisciplined troops and inferior numbers, limited materials, and treachery in the government and the army, by consummate skill and unabated courage, he drew his forces together, surprised more numerous, better disciplined, completely prepared and veteran armies; and, day after day, army after army, attacked and defeated them all, till in the very moment of victory, when two hours more of success must have been the utter discomfiture of his enemies, for they were reduced and distressed without retreat, his star all at once fell from its sphere-his hour came—and, as if by destiny, he was defeated, routed, demolished, dethroned, imprisoned, and tortured to death. I have heard General Bernard describe his conduct at the battle of Waterloo, when he announced to the Emperor the arrival of the Prussians in the field-his unmoved self-possession and cheerful intrepidity in the midst of the shock that ensued. the French soldiers about the Emperor falling faster than it was possible to fill their ranks, and many of the bravest officers near his person in tears, not from any personal uneasiness, but the imminent perils of the chief they had been accustomed to idolize as a tutelar genius, invulnerable and invincible, of their unquestionable security and constant success. "He was like a god in battle!" said General Bernard with French vivacity. As the last of the Cæsars of whom old Galba, when he triumphed over him, said, not by our means, but his own over-action, "longa Cæsarum serie tumentem," swelling, bursting with the long pedigree of the Cæsars, -was over thrown; so this new aspirant for their imperial alliance, for which by disastrous infatuation he sacrificed every thing, fell not by the blows of monarchs or people, but his own. Bonaparte was his own executioner. None other was equal to the achievement, nor all others. Never were Te Deums in churches for victory more appropriate than for that of Waterloo over Napoleon: for it was the work of God, of over-ruling Providence, working by man's infatuation, and by apparently the smallest causes producing the greatest results. His dictatorship, as he called it, rather than reign, ended as it began, by his own act; and forty millions of de voted subjects were let loose from an allegiance which perhaps might have been perpetuated. If liberty was odious to him, Europe owes him the complete establishment of that inappreciable equality which the revolution began, whose inexorable level he passed over all ranks, even while reconstructing titles, dominions, and principalities, which Moreau used to say, he spit upon his followers. It is yet too soon for history to draw his true character as a warrior, a legislator, and a man. Posterity will do his memory that justice contemporaries cannot. His denigration has been said and sung, which written, painted, sculptured, and engraved, in all the dialects of Germany, of Prussia, of Spain, of Great Britain, and of royal France, yet it is certain his character has improved since his power ccased. One of the most curious acts of homage to his memory is M. de Montbel's biography of his son. A minister of Charles the Tenth solacing his exile at Vienna by portraying with melancholy eloquence the marvellous intelligence, integrity, and promise of that unfortunate youth, is one of the most striking and affecting romances of the age-whose birth, titles, life and death are a sequel to his father's; abundant of interest and moral. Returning from France to England, I felt that blessed assurance of personal safety which no American can appreciate till he puts himself into countries of police. One day in Paris, at the restaurateurs where I usually dined, I saw an arrest, whether for crime or debt I never learned. Several of us Americans were together. A party of French gentlemen were playing billiards in the same room. It was evening. Sixteen gens d'armes suddenly and silently filed in, and arrested one of the Frenchmen. Not a word was uttered; no authority was shown but the uniform of the soldiers. No warrant, no cause assigned, no question asked, but the man in dread silence was marched away, under custody of his guards. I felt with a shudder that no Habeas Corpus act, no public sympathy, not even a police report, could come to his relief, and I fancied his fate mine. The necessity of always carrying and frequentiy renew. ing a passport, the alleged danger of any political conversation, the liability of even letters to betrayal, the probably exaggerated terrors of strict surveillance, tainted the enjoyments of Paris; and I breathed in England that air of freedom which to American respiration is inconceivably refreshing, without which Europe with all its magnificence is splendid misery. Notwithstanding, too, the decided preference contracted for the French kitchen, I enjoyed the first slice of the cold roast beef of old England, on which I lunched at Canterbury, on the way from Dover to London, with the aboriginal relish of first love. WOMAN. "What can a woman be or do without bravery? Has she not to struggle with the toils and difficulties that must follow upon the mere possession of a mind? Must she not face physical and moral pain? Physical and moral danger? Is there a day of her life in which there are not conflicts where no one can help her-perilous work to be done in which she can have neither sympathy nor aid? Let her lean upon man as much as she will, how much is it that he can do for her?-from how much can he protect her?"-HARRIET MARTINEAU. "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." ST. MATTHEW'S GOSPEL. Woman! a weary lot is thine, And dark the clouds that round thee rise; Is it with thee a joyous hour, Fraught with sweet glance and sunny smile, Do friends crowd round thy onward path Remember that the days draw nigh When, one by one, thy hopes shall fade; The gorgeous vanities of life, Like childhood's mimic sports shall seem, And more, yet more, the hour may come, And more, far more, the dearly loved |