might prepare the heart to support maternal anguish. It is religion alone which is of universal application, both as a stimulant and a lenitive, throughout the varied heritage which falls to the lot of man. But we know that many thousands rushed into this fight, even of those who had been instructed in our religious principles, without leisure for one serious thought; and that some officers were killed in their ball dresses. They made the leap into the gulf which divides two worlds-the present from the immutable state, without one parting prayer, or one note of preparation!

As I looked over this field, now green with growing corn, I could mark, with my eye, the spots where the most desperate carnage had been marked out by the verdure of the wheat. The bodies had been heaped together, and scarcely more than covered and so enriched is the soil, that, in these spots, the grain never ripens. It grows rank and green to the end of harvest. This touching memorial, which endures when the thousand groans have expired, and when the stain of human blood has faded from the ground, still seems to cry to Heaven that there is awful guilt somewhere, and a terrifick reckoning for those who caused destruction which the earth could not conceal. These hillocks of superabundant vegetation, as the wind rustled through the corn, seemed the most affecting monuments which nature could devise, and gave a melancholy animation to this plain of death.

When we attempt to measure the mass of suffering which was here inflicted, and to number the individuals that fell, considering each who suffered as our fellow-man, we are overwhelmed with the agonizing calculation, and retire from the field which has been the scene of our reflections, with the simple, concentrated feeling-these armies once lived, breathed, and felt like us, and the time is at hand when we shall be like them.

SECTION VII.

Affection for the Dead.-IRVING.

THE sorrow for the dead', is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced'. Every other wound', we seek to heal-every other affliction', to forget'; but this wound', we consider it a duty to keep open-this affliction we cherish'..

Le'zhůre. Vêr'jåre. From-not, frum.

and brood over in solitude'. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant".. that perished', like a blossom', from her arms', though every recollection is a pâng'? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents', though', to remember', be but to lament'? Who', even in the hour of agony', would forget the friend over whom he mourns'? Who', even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved'; when he feels his heart', as it were', crushed in the closing of its portals', would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness'? Nô'; the love which survives the tomb', is one of the noblest attributes of the soul'.

If it has its woes', it has likewise its delights'; and when the overwhelming burst of grief'.. is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection';—when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved', is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness'-who would root out such a sorrow from the heart'? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gâyety'; or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of glôôm'; yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry'? Nô'; there is a voice from the tomb'.. sweeter than song'. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn' . . even from the charms of the living'. Oh, the grave'!—the grave'!-It buries every errour'—covers every defect extinguishes every resentment'!—From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections'. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy', and not feel a compunctious throb', that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him'? But the grave of those we loved'—what a place for meditation'! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness', and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy';—there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness', the solemn', awful tenderness', of the parting scene'-the bed of death', with all its stifled griefs'-its noiseless attendants', its mute', watchful assiduities-the last testimonies of expiring love'-the feeble', fluttering', thrilling', oh', how thrilling'!. pressure of the hand'—the last fond look of the glazing eye', turning upon us even from the threshold of existence-the faint', faltering accents', struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection'!

Ay', go to the grave of buried love', and meditate'!
Frôm-not, frum.

•In'fant-not, in'funt.

There

settle the account with thy conscience'.. for every past benefit unrequited-every past endearment unregarded', of that departed being who can never'.. never'... never return to be soothed by thy contrition'! If thou art a child', and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul', or a furrow to the silvered brow', of an affectionate parent-if thou art a husband', and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms', to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth' -if thou art a friend', and hast ever wronged', in thought', or word', or deed', the spirit that generously confided in thee'-if thou art a lover', and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet'; then be sure that every unkind look', every ungracious word', every ungentle action', will come thronging back upon thy memory', and knocking dolefully at thy soul'-then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave', and utter the unheard groan', and pour the unavailing tear', more deep', more bitter', because'. . . . unheard'.. and unavailing'.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave'; console thy broken spirit', if thou canst', with these tender', yet futile'," tributes of regret';-but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead', and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living'.

SECTION VIII.

Character of Bonaparte, written after his second Abdication. PHILLIPS.

THE bloody drama of Europe is concluded'; and the great tragedian', who', for twenty years', has made the earth his theatre', and set the world in tears', has left the stage forever'. He lifted the curtain with his sword', and filled the scenes with slaughter'. His part was invented by himself, and was terribly unique'. Never was there so ambitious', so restless a spirit' —never so DARING', so fortunate a soldier'. His aim'.. was universal dominion', and he gazed at it steadfastly', with the eye' . . of the eagle', and the appetite'.. of the vulture'. He combined within himself, all the elements of terrour',

"Stro. Fa'til. Trib'àtes-not, trib'its.

U-něke'

nerve', malice', and intellect';-a heart'. . that never mel í a hand'.. that never trembled'- -a mind'.. that never wavered from its purpose'. The greatness of his plans', defied speculation'; and the rapidity of their EXECUTION', outstripped prophecy'. Civilized nations were the victims of his arts'; and the savage could not withstand his warfare'. Sceptres'. . crumbled in his grasp', and liberty'. . withered in his presence'. The Almighty appeared to have intrusted to him the destinies of the globe', and he used them to destroy'. He shrouded the sun with the cloud of battle'; and unveiled the night with its fires'. His march'.. reversed the course of nature'-the flowers of the Spring'.. perished'; the fruits of Autumn'.. fell', for his track was cold', and cheerless', and desolate', like the withering', wintry blast'. Amid all the physical', political', and moral changes which he produced', he was still the same'. Always ambitious', always inexorable"-no conquests satisfied', no compassion assuaged', no remorse deterred', no dangers alarmed him. Like the barbarians, he conquered Italy'; and, rolling back to its source the deluge that overwhelmed Rome', he proved himself the Attila of the South'. With Hannibal', he crossed the Alps in triumph': Africa beheld him a second Scipio'; and', standing on the pyramids of Egypt', he looked down on the fame of Alexander'. He fought the Scythian in his cave'; and the unconquered Arab fled before him'. He won', divided', and ruled' . . nearly all of modern Europe'. It became a large French province', where foreign kings still reigned by courtesy', or mourned in chains'. The Roman Pontiff was his prisoner'; and he claimed dominion over the altar with the God of Hosts'. Even his NAME'.. inspired universal terrour'; and the obscurity of his designs', rendered him awfully mysterious'. The navy of Great Britain'.. watched him with the eyes of ARGUS'; and her coast was lined with soldiers who slept on their arms'. He made war'.. before he declared it'; and peace'. . was, with him, a signal for hostilities'. His FRIENDS were the first whom he assailed'; and his ALLIES® he selected to plunder'.

There was a singular opposition between his alleged motives and his conduct'. He would have enslaved the land to make the ocean free', and he wanted only power to enslave both'. If he was arrogant', his unparalleled successes must excuse him'. Who could endure the giddiness of such a mountain elevation"? Who', that amid the slaughter of millions had escaped unhurt', would not suppose', like Achilles',' that a deity had lent him Prof'è sè. In-èks'o'rå-bl. Kår'tè'sè. Dé-sinez'. Al'lize. A-kil'lèze.

armour'? Who that had risen from such obscurity', overcome such mighty obstacles', vanquished so many monarchs, won such extensive empires', and enjoyed so absolute sway'-who', in the fulness of unequalled power', and in the pride of exulting ambition', would not believe himself the favourite of heaven'? He received the tribute of fear', and love', and admiration'. The weight of the chains which he imposed on France', was forgotten in their splendour':-it was glorious to follow him', even as a conscript'. The arts became servile in his praise', and genius divided with him her immortal honours': for it is mind alone that can triumph over time'-letters only yield per manent renown'.

The blood-stained soldier adorned his throne with the trophies of art', and made Paris the seat of taste', as well as of power'. There'.. the old and the new world met and conversed'; there'.. time was then robbed of his scythe', lingering among beauties which he could not destroy'; there the heroes and sages of every age', mingled in splendid alliance', and joined in the march of fame'. They will appeal to posterity to mitigate the sentence which humanity claims against the tyrant Bonaparte'. Awful indeed will be that sentence'; but when will posterity be a disinterested tribunal'? When will the time arrive that Europe shall have put off mourning for his'.. crimes? In what distant recess of futurity'.. will the memory of Moscow'.. sleep'? When will Jena', Gerona', and Austerlitz'-when will Jaffa', Corunna', and Waterloo', be named' without tears of anguish', and vows of retribution'? Earth can never forget'-man can never forget'. . them'.

Let him live', if he can endure life', divested of his crown'without an army'-and', almost', without a follower'. Let him live-he who never spared his friends', if he can bear the humiliation of owing his life to an enemy'. Let him live', and listen to the voice of conscience'. He can no longer drown it in the clamorous report of war'." No cuirasd guards his bosom from the arrows of remorse'. Now that the cares of state have ceased to distract his thoughts', let him reflect on his miserable self; and with the map before him', retrace his bloody career'. Alas! his life is a picture of RUIN', and the light that displays it', is the funeral torch of nations'. It exhibits one mighty sepulchre', crowded with the MANGLED victims of MURDEROUS ambition'. Let him reflect on his enormous abuse of power', on his violated faith', and shameless disregard of all law and justice'. Let him live and REPENT'—let him Sêr'vil. ¿Trò'fiz. <Diz-in'tèr'êst-èd. "Kwé-rás'. Egz-hib'its.