All in a scale, put all together,
Would not preponderate a feather;

The enemies of Napoleon, masters of a part of France, and encamped in his capital, yet dreaded him. The French, whom they thought they well knew, appeared too formidable under such a head. Henceforth they had no security. They exacted the abdication of the Emperor. Napoleon believing that the happiness of France demanded this great sacrifice on his part, signed his abdication and his exile, with less repugnance than he would have signed a dishonourable peace.

A few tried friends, and some old Generals, followed him to the rocks of the Island of Elba. There they admired the composure and resignation of him whose name alone was yet of immense weight in the politics of Europe. Napoleon watched over that Europe, to which his abdication should have given tranquility. He judged, by the operations of the Congress of Vienna, that tranquility was illusory. He saw France divided, and about to become a prey to her own children. He trembled for her. He believed that his return would prevent the miseries which he foresaw, and without calculating dangers, he landed at the very place which had received him on his return from Egypt. There can be no doubt that the opinion of the French was still favourable towards him; for he encountered no obstacle in the execution of the most gigantic project ever conceived by man. In twenty days, the Exile of the Island of Elba completely traversed France, followed by a single battalion; and the 20th of March witnessed his elevation to a throne erected by himself. Never did a dethroned sovereign re-possess himself of the reins of government in a manner so astonishing.

But Napoleon had accomplished all this, without the permission of the Congress of Vienna. The powerful monarchs and able diplomatists assembled in that city, could not witness such an outrage, without indignation against him who was guilty of it. They set up the cry of usurpation, and their innumerable bayonets were directed anew against Napoleor.

Elated with his new success, and recalling those who had served him in leading the French, Napoleon believed that he could force his enemies to attend to themselves, and not

Your fights, Mahone, are nothing, as is
The shadow of a shade that passes:

interfere with the internal affairs of France. He believed himself able to sustain a contest thus unequal. He made the most admirable dispositions, and in two months the French army was trebled. Impatient to engage those who rejected every proposition for peace, he put his forces in motion to attack two united armies, one of which alone outnumbered his own. He obtained in the onset brilliant advantages. One successful battle more would have changed the face of Europe. But Waterloo came to destroy his projects and his hopes. Napoleon, unable to meet death in that fatal battle, bid adieu for ever to that France, which to him was so dear, and terminated his political life, by confiding himself to the generosity of his enemies.

Such has been the short, but astonishing career of Napoleon! What military name, what statesman's glory, ancient or modern, has resounded with an eclat so resplendent? Transport ourselves into futurity, view this hero as posterity will one day view him, and his greatness appears scarcely less than fabulous; they will hardly be made to believe that a single man could, in so short a time, gain two hundred battles, conquer a hundred nations, change the form of thirty states, unite Italy into a single kingdom, give to his subjects the wisest laws, open a hundred new roads, and as many ports, build an hundred admirable monuments.-Fortunately these codes, these roads, these ports, and these monuments remain.

Having thus hastily sketched the life of the warrior and the statesman, permit me to notice the private man.

Napoleon, for ever engaged, and applying himself incessantly, was not therefore the less affable or agreeable in private life. An excellent son, and good brother, a tender husband, and affectionate father; he divided his good fortune with all his family. He never forgot those he considered his true friends, and rarely those who had devoted themselves to France. He was great and magnificent in his rewards. Nevertheless, he never permitted the treasures of the state to be lavished by courtiers.

Long habituated to command fortune, his great soul was

Yea, less than nothing, even as

A puff of hydrogenous gas,[5]

yet disciplined to reverses.-Treated as the greatest of criminals, and the worst of men, by those to whom he voluntarily delivered himself; deprived of the wife of his bosom, and his only child; he saw torn from him, from time to time, the small number of his friends who had been permitted to accompany him to St. Helena. Having no communication whatever with Europe, seeing himself almost blotted from creation, Napoleon had courage to sustain all his miseries; his soul seemed to be always firmer, always greater. Attacked at last with the malady which was to carry him to the tomb, he saw the approach of death, with a resignation and stoicism of which he only was capable. His sufferings drew from him not one complaint-not a single sigh. France and his son filled his whole soul. He talked of them incessantly, until destiny severed the thread of life.-He lived a hero he died a martyr.

Ancient Rome would have erected a Pantheon expressly to contain his ashes; and we-we are obliged to deposite them at the threshold of a cabin !

Would that the tears and tender remembrance of his friends could assuage, at least, the injustice and hatred of his enemies.

[5] This distich is taken from the eccentric Phesenton's Work, published in England some twenty years ago, under the name of a figurative personage, representing the alarmed fraternity of doctors, on the introduction of Perkins's Tractors into Great-Britain, and patronised by societies formed for the purpose of disseminating their use. This alarmed Genus of Practitioners, is ycliped Christopher Caustic; the Poem is entitled "Terrible Tractoration.”

FROM garret high, with cobwebs hung,
The poorest wight that ever sung,
Most gentle Sirs, I come before ye,

To tell a lamentable story.

Compared to one where I have been,
And these two looking eyes have seen.

What makes my sorry case the sadder,
I once stood high on fortune's ladder;
From whence contrive the fickle jilt did,
That your petitioner should be tilted.

And soon the unconscionable flirt,
Will wield me fairly in the dirt;
Unless, perchance, these pithy lays,
Procure me pence, as well as praise.

Already doom'd to hard quill-driving,
'Gainst spectr'd poverty still striving,
Whene'er I doze, from vigil's pale,
Dame fancy locks me up in jail.

Necessity, though I am no wit,
Compels me now to turn a poet;
Not born, but made by transmutation,
And chymic process, called-starvation.

Though poet's trade of all that I know,
Requires the least of ready rhino,
I find a deficit of cash is

An obstacle to cutting dashes.

For gods and goddesses who traffic
In cantos, odes, and lays seraphic;
Who erst Arcadian whistle blew sharp,
Or now attune Apollo's Jew's-harp,

Have sworn they will not loan me gratis,
Their jingling sing-song apparatus ;
Nor teach me how or where to chime in
My tintinabulum of rhyming.

What then occurs-a lucky hit,
I've found a substitute for wit;

I'm just like you, admire a battle,
Where horse and foot,

On Homer's pinions mounted high,
I'll drink Pierian puddle dry.

Beddoes, bless the good doctor, has
Sent me a bag-full of his gas;

Which, snuff'd the nose up, makes wit brighter,

And eke a dunce an airy writer.

With which a brother bard inflated,

Was so stupendously elated,

He tower'd like Garnesie's balloon,

Nor stopp'd like half-wits at the moon.

But scarce had breath'd three times, before he
Was hous'd in heaven's high upper story,

Where mortals none but poets enter,
Above where Mah'met's ass dar'd venture.

Strange things he saw, and those who know him,
Have said that in his Epic Poem,

To be complete within a year hence,
They'll make a terrible appearance.

And now, to set my verse a-going,
Like Joan of Arc sublimely flowing,
I'll follow Southey's bold example,
And snuff a sconce-full for a sample.

Good Sir, enough-enough already;
No more, for heaven's sake, steady, steady:
Confound your stuff, why how you sweat me
I'd rather swallow all Mount Etna.

How swiftly turns this giddy world round,
Like tortur'd top by truant twirl'd round :
While Nature's capers wild amaze me,
The beldame's crack'd or Causpe crazy