multuously rallied round the patriot and the friend. Henry seems to have appreciated it as he ought, with the gratitude of a man, but, at the same time, with the humility of a Christian. It is recorded that a zealous preacher of the Baptist church, whose piety was shocked at the homage paid to an individual, loudly reproached the people, asking them "why they thus followed Mr. Henry? Mr. Henry, (said he,) is not a God." "No indeed, my friend,” replied Henry, who overheard him, "I am but a poor worm of the dust, -as fleeting and as unsubstantial as the shadow of the cloud that flies over your fields, and is remembered no more." His tone and manner affected every one-alas, they were a too sure presentiment of what was fast approaching. Before the Congress sat, for which he was, of course, triumphantly elected, he had vanished like that "fleeting and unsubstantial shadow!" He was in "the dust," but not, Oh! surely not to be forgotten. No, while the fame of genius is precious, or the memory of patriotism is dear-while America has a head to think, or one pulse of liberty vital in her heart, she will bend, in the pride of tears, over the grave of Henry. Peaceful be thy resting place, thou child of inspiration-may the tread of slavery never press its turf, or vex the spirit that sleeps in bliss beneath it! It was on the sixth day of June, 1799, that America lost Henry.

In

Of his public life, we have given quite as much as our limits will allow us, though not near so much as the merits of that life deserve. private, he was amiable, benevolent, and beloved-a good husband-a good father, and a sincere Christian. His manners were particularly unassuming, and, at times, full of pleasantry. The following is related amongst his friends as a specimen of his light and good-natured playfulness. Being at the house of Mr. Randolph, at Richmond, Mr. R. H. Lee, a very eloquent and distinguished senator, commenced a conversation on the genius of Cervantes, and descanted at such length on the prowess of Don Quixote, that the

company began to show evident marks of the length of the dissertation. Henry, who observed this, affected to join the speaker, and following up the panegyric, remarked: "Ah! Mr. Lee, you have overlooked in your eulogy one of the finest "Indeed," said things in the book." Mr. Lee, pray what is it?" "It is," said he, " that divine exclamation of Sancho, blessed be the man that first invented sleep; it covers one all over like a cloak.'

The genius of Henry, we have seen, was but little assisted by education-he was, indeed, almost selftaught, and through life retained the impression that there was much more to be learned from an attentive pe rusal of the great living volume of human nature, than from all that the shelves of philosophy could furnish. His conversation with a Mr. Wormley, a purblind book-worm in his neighbourhood, furnished a sufficient illustration of this. Meeting him one day in a book-shop, he exclaimed: "What, Mr. Wormley, still buying books!" "Yes," said Mr. Wormley, "I have just heard of a new work, which I am extremely anxious to peruse." "Take my word for it, Mr. Wormley, we are too old to read books-read men-they are the only volume we can peruse to advantage." It was a volume which he indeed had perused attentively, and hence arose his great power of persuasion over mankind-the human heart was to him an instrument of which he knew all the stops and chords, and touched them at his plea

sure.

In concluding our brief and necessarily imperfect sketch of this extraordinary man, we have only to hope that we shall be successful in directing towards him the attention of our countrymen, fully persuaded that all classes of men may rise with advantage from the study of such a character. Contemplating him, the humblest of the people may be taught not to despair of eminence-the highest may learn a lesson of humility, and both may see that distinction is not so much the consequence of birth, as, of the qualities which accompany it.

THIS is the title of a work on Buonaparte, far more interesting than any that have preceded it, to those who would know the real character of this extraordinary being. It shows him to us in his private life, in those moments when the Emperor is lost in the man, when the actor is off the stage: we have Napoleon in familiar intercourse with us, giving accurate, or, at least, striking portraits of his contemporaries, from the revolution down to the battle of Waterloo; reading lectures on the political state of England; and speaking of his own actions as if they belonged to other times. In such a work, it is impossible not to take an interest, and a lively interest, whatever may be our opinion of him who forms its subject: besides, all political animosity is, or ought to be, buried with him in the grave; he has become a portion of the past; the fires, that he once lit up, are now burnt out, or are only faintly glimmering in their embers; they are not to be rekindled by any political discussions; and, were it not that many of the actors in the scene with him are still alive, his story might be told with the same freedom as that of any other conqueror, who, like him, may for his little day have been the scourge and wonder of the world. As it is, we shall as much as possible avoid all comment on the work, merely giving a brief epitome of some of its principal facts.

The author sets out with a minute

story of the voyage to St. Helena, from the moment when the sails were first unfurled, till the landing at James Town, a period of ten weeks, during which, he seems to have gained the confidence of the exile; if, indeed, Buonaparte can ever be said to have made a confidant of any. Enough, however, transpires in the course of this volume, to prove that he was as solitary in his sufferings as in his greatness; his mind wanted no support from communication, and therefore he was little likely to make a show of his feelings, as is the case with most men in the hour of af

fliction. It is weakness only that makes sorrow communicative, and Napoleon's sorrow had no weakness, except it were that of anger; but all this, and much more important matter, we must leave untouched from want of space to do it justice, and proceed to the detail of his habits at St. Helena.

Napoleon's hours of rest were uncertain, much depending upon the quantum of rest he had enjoyed during the night. He was in general a bad sleeper, and frequently got up at three or four o'clock, in which

case he read or wrote until six or seven, at

which time, when the weather was fine, he sometimes went out to ride, attended by some of his generals, or laid down again to rest for a couple of hours. When he retired to bed, he could not sleep unless the most perfect state of darkness was obtained, by the closure of every cranny through which a ray of light might pass, although I have sometimes seen him fall asleep on the sofa, and remain so for a few When ill, minutes in broad daylight.

he fell asleep. At times he rose at seven, and wrote or dictated until breakfast time,

Marchand occasionally read to him until

or, if the morning was very fine, he went out to ride. When he breakfasted in his own room, it was generally served on a little round table, at between nine and ten; when along with the rest of his suite, at eleven; in either case à la fourchette. After breakfast, he generally dictated to some of his suite for a few hours, and at two or three o'clock received such visitors as by previous appointment had been directed to present themselves. Between four and five, when the weather permitted, he rode out on horseback or in the car

riage, accompanied by all his suite, for an

hour or two; then returned and dictated or read until eight, or occasionally played a game at chess, at which time dinner was announced, which rarely exceeded twenty minutes or half an hour in duration. He ate heartily and fast, and did not appear to be partial to high seasoned, or rich food. One of his most favourite dishes was a roasted leg of mutton, of which I have seen him sometimes pare the outside brown part off; he was also partial to mutton chops. He rarely drank as much as a pint of claret at his dinner, which was generally much diluted with water. After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, and when there were no visitors, he sometimes

played at chess or at whist, but more frequently sent for a volume of Corneille, or of some other esteemed author, and read aloud for an hour, or chatted with the ladies and the rest of his suite. He usually retired to his bed-room at ten or eleven, and to rest, immediately afterwards. When he breakfasted or dined in his own apartment (dans l'intérieur), he sometimes sent

for one of his suite to converse with him

during the repast. He never ate more than two meals a day, nor, since I knew him, had he ever taken more than a very small cup of coffee after each repast, and at no other time. I have also been informed, by those who have been in his service for fifteen years, that he had never exceeded that quantity since they first knew him.

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For the first weeks, Rear Admiral Sir George Cockburn had the charge of the fallen exile; upon the whole, he and his captive seem to have agreed tolerably well, but he was soon to be superseded by Sir Hudson Lowe, and if Buonaparte was not altogether satisfied with his first guardian, he was utterly discontented with his second. In a little time, in the usual order of things, they came to open war, Napoleon growing more and more fretful, and the governor more and more rigorous, the severity of public duty taking a deeper tinge from the feelings of the individual. Buonaparte's temper may be pretty well ascertained from his private expressions in regard to Sir Hudson; "bugiardo, sbirro," "Siciliano," "imbecile," "bavard," "capo di spioni," were not his worst terms of reproach, yet at the same time there appears to have been some cause for this violent irritation in the irksome restraints imposed upon him, and in the natural evils of Longwood, made doubly vexatious by the want of fit accommodations, sup posing always our author's statement to be literally correct. The whole island seems to be particularly unpleasant, and Longwood to be the most unpleasant part of it: sometimes for want of water Napoleon could not have a bath, which to his habits was an essential luxury, and if he attempted to move out he was either scorched up by the sun or blighted by the fogs; " here," he was wont to say, 66 it either blows a furious wind, loaded with rain and fog, che mi taglia l'anima, or, if that is wanting, il sole mi brucia il cervello, through the want of shade."

Nor do these complaints appear to have been without some reason, for he was constantly annoyed by headache, by swellings of the gums and cheeks, and by pains in the side, which last, we should suppose, were indicative of a diseased liver. All this, however, arising from the nature of the climate, Sir Hudson Lowe could not help; but whether he or the English government might not have been milder keepers, is a question not so easily decided. But this is a subject that we do not wish to dwell upon, and having first given our author's account of Napoleon's bed-room, as a specimen of his lodging, we shall go on to other matters less liable to discussion.

It was about fourteen feet by twelve, and ten or eleven feet in height. The walls were lined with brown nankeen, bordered and edged with common green bordering Two small windows, without pullies, looked topaper, and destitute of surbase. wards the camp of the 53d regiment, one of which was thrown up and fastened by a piece of notched wood, Window-curtains of white long cloth, a small fire-place, à shabby grate, and fire-irons to match, with a paltry mantel-piece of wood, painted white, upon which stood a small marble Above the mantel-piece hung the portrait of Marie Louise, and which was embroidered by the hands of the four or five of young Napoleon, one of mother. A little more to the right hung also a miniature picture of the Empress Josephine, and to the left was suspended the alarm chamber-watch of Frederic the Great, obtained by Napoleon at Potsdam ; while on the right, the consular watch, engraved with the cypher B, hung by a chain of the plaited hair of Marie Louise, from a pin stuck in the nankeen lining

bust of his son.

The floor was covered with a second-hand ing-room of a lieutenant of the St. Helena carpet, which had once decorated the dinartillery. In the right-hand corner was placed the little plain iron camp bedstead, with green silk curtains, upon which its master had reposed on the fields of Marengo and Austerlitz. Between the windows there was a paltry second-hand chest of drawers; and an old book-case with green blinds stood on the left of the door leading to the next apartment. Four or five cane-bottomed chairs, painted green, were standing here and there about the room.

Before the back-door, there was a screen covered with nankeen, and between that and the fire-place, an old fashioned sofa covered with white long cloth, upon which reclined Napoleon, clothed in his white morning gown, white loose trowsers and

stockings all in one. A chequered red madras upon his head, and his shirt collar open without a cravat. His air was melancholy and troubled. Before him stood a little round table, with some books, at the foot of which lay, in confusion upon the carpet, a heap of those which he had already perused, and at the foot of the sofa -facing him was suspended a portrait of the Empress Marie Louise, with her son in her arms. In front of the fire-place stood Las Cases, with his arms folded over his breast, and some papers in one of his hands. Of all the former magnificence of the once mighty emperor of France, nothing was present except a superb wash-hand stand, containing a silver basin and waterjug of the same metal, in the left hand

1

corner.

In this country it has been generally supposed that Buonaparte had no other influence with the French than that of fear, but it appears that we judged of our neighbours by ourselves, and it is certain, that we feared him as much as we hated him. We had good reason for it; they, however, had not, or at least, Buonaparte thought they had not; he fancied that the French people loved him, and he tells some anecdotes, which, if true, would go far to prove it: as these are given in his own language, or nearly so, we cannot do better than quote one of them:

Napoleon showed me the marks of two wounds, one a very deep cicatrice above the left knee, which he said he had received in his first campaign of Italy, and it was of so serious a nature, that the surgeons were in doubt whether it might not be ultimately necessary to amputate. He observed, that when he was wounded, it was always kept a secret, in order not to discourage the soldiers. The other was on the toe, and had been received at Eckmühl. "At the siege of Acre," continued he, "a shell thrown by Sydney Smith fell at my feet. Two soldiers, who were close by, seized, and closely embraced me, one in front and the other on one side, and made a rampart of their bodies for me against the effect of the shell, which exploded, and overwhelmed us with sand. We sunk into the hole formed by its bursting; one of them was wounded. I made them both officers. One has since lost a leg at Moscow, and commanded at Vincennes when I left Paris. When he was summoned by the Russians, he replied, that as soon as they sent him back the leg he had lost at Moscow, he would surrender the fortress. Many times in my life," continued he, "have I been saved by soldiers and officers throwing themselves before me when I was in the most

imminent danger. At Arcola, when I was advancing, Colonel Meuron, my aid-decamp, threw himself before me, covered me with his body, and received the wound which was destined for me. He fell at my feet, and his blood spouted up in my face. He gave his life to preserve mine. Never yet, I believe, has there been such devotion shown by soldiers as mine have manifested for me. In all my misfortunes, never has the soldier, even when expiring, been wanting to me-never has man been served more faithfully by his troops. With the last drop of blood gushing out of their veins, they exclaimed, Vive l'Empereur!"

The account of Moreau's death, as coming from Buonaparte, is well worthy of quotation.

"In the battle before Dresden, I ordered an attack to be made upon the allies by both flanks of my army. While the manœuvres for this purpose were executing, the centre remained motionless. At the distance of about from this to the outer ed together on horseback. gate, I observed a group of persons collectConcluding that they were endeavouring to observe my manoeuvres, I resolved to disturb them, and called to a captain of artillery, who commanded a field battery of eighteen or twenty pieces: "Jettez une douzaine de boulets à la fois dans ce groupe là, peutêtre il y en a quelques petits généraux." (Throw a dozen of bullets at once into that group; perhaps there are some little generals in it.) It was done instantly. One of the balls struck Moreau, carried off both his legs, and went through his horse. Many more, I believe, who were near him, were killed and wounded. A moment before Alexander had been speaking to him. Morcau's legs were amputated not far from the spot. One of his feet, with the boot upon it, which the surgeon had thrown upon the ground, was brought by a peasant to the king of Saxony, with information that some officer of great distinction had been struck by a cannon shot. The king, conceiving that the name of the person might perhaps be discovered by the boot, scnt it to me. It was examined at my head-quarters, but all that could be ascertained was, that the boot was neither of English nor of French manufacture. The next day we were informed that it was the leg of Moreau. It is not a little extraor dinary," continued Napoleon, "that in an action a short time afterwards, I ordered the same artillery officer, with the same guns, and under nearly similar circumstances, to throw eighteen or twenty bullets at once into a concourse of officers collected together, by which General St. Priest, another Frenchman, a traitor and a man of talent, who had a command in the Russian

army, was killed, along with many others. Nothing," continued the Emperor, "is more destructive than a discharge of a dozen or more guns at once amongst a group of persons. From one or two they may escape; but from a number discharged at a time, it is almost impossible. After Esling, when I had caused my army to go over to the isle of Lobau, there was for some weeks, by common and tacit consent on both sides between the soldiers, not by any agreement between the generals, a cessation of firing, which indeed had preduced no benefit, and only killed a few unfortunate sentinels. I rode out every day in different directions. No person was molested on either side. One day, however, riding along with Oudinot, I stopped for a moment upon the edge of the island, which was about eighty toises distant from the opposite bank, where the enemy was. They perceived us, and knowing me by the little hat and grey coat, they pointed a threepounder at us. The ball passed between

Oudinot and me, and was very close to both of us. We put spurs to our horses, and speedily got out of sight. Under the actual circumstances, the attack was little better than murder, but if they had fired a dozen guns at once they must have killed

us.

We now come to a subject more peculiarly interesting to the English reader-the battle of Waterloo-a battle, which, whether for the severity of its action, or the importance of its results, has not been equalled since the day of Marathon. Every Englishman will be naturally anxious to hear Napoleon's opinion of his great rival, but we fear that he will be little satisfied when he has heard it, for it is not very favourable to the glory of our general. Napoleon asserts, that the Duke committed two capital blunders; first, in suffering himself to be surprised; and, secondly, in giving battle, for, if defeated, he must have been utterly ruined, as he could not retreat, there being a wood in his rear, and only one road by which it could be gained. On the other hand, had he retired to Antwerp, Buonaparte must have been overwhelmed by the armies of three or four hundred thousand men that were marching up against him. How far this judgment may be correct we are not inilitary enough to decide; but we have sufficient philosophy to know, that the event proves nothing, either one way or the other. At the same time, it must in candour be observed, that

Buonaparte seems to be a somewhat partial judge in these matters; he affirms that the English are not calculated to make such good soldiers as the French; but if the general was wrong in giving battle, and his soldiers were inferior, how did he happen to gain the victory? And what does he say for himself in having been beaten by such enemies, to whom in all respects he was so superior? He is, perhaps, more correct in stating that the strength of this country is in its navy, and no less correct in his account of our smugglers, who are the most desperate beings that have ever existed since the days of Blackbeard. We know something of these wild adventurers, whose deeds, and speech, and manners, have all a romantic horror about them that does not belong to the present day; and many a tale could we fashion of them for our readers, that would blanch their cheeks more than the wildest improbabilities of fiction. The people of this country are little acquainted with their habits, or with the scenes that have been lately acted on the coast, in the attempt to put them down; an attempt which never can succeed with all the vigilance of our seamen. There is a romance in their doings as in their sufferings: disguised in the dress of the peasantry, they traverse the wildest parts of the country in the dead of night, to meet the expected boat, though the secret of its landing is known to one only, whom they follow in blind obedience. If the boat is discovered by our seamen, a light is flung into the air, or a pistol flashed off, as they term it, and she is instantly pushed off, and lost again in the darkness. If brought to close quarters they often fight desperately, though their subsequent sufferings, when wounded, are such as to beggar all description; the necessity of secrecy is paramount to all other considerations, and surgeons cannot always be trusted. We actually knew one instance of a poor wounded wretch festering for weeks on a mattress, with nothing else between him and the ground, till the straw was thoroughly soaked through by the impure flowings from the wound, and fungi sprang up from the dampness. But nothing will tame them, nor can you convince them