certain that if, on the whole, his existence prove not a curse to mankind, it will arise from no good intentions of his own. His talents were indeed great, but his moral character was detestable. Though he had generous impulses, they flowed from no principle, and were rooted in no virtue. We never see him rising above his instincts; to these he yields himself, be they good or ill. No deed of his life displays him as acting in obedience to a higher law than his own bosom furnishes, or as guided by that motive which constitutes the essence of virtue, a love to God.

Byron had doubtless a capacity for friendship, and appears to have taken much satisfaction in sustaining the intimacies begun in early life. He had little intercourse with his sister Augusta, from whom indeed he was separated even in childhood. He seemed attached to his mother, and while abroad, wrote her long and frequent letters. He however attributed his wayward temper, and much of his misery in life, to her treatment of him in childhood. She died while he was in Italy, but the event made but little impression upon him.

Byron, as we have intimated, was essentially an unhappy man. The details of his life, as given by his kind and favoring biographer, Moore, constitute one of the darkest and most painful pictures in the sad annals of suffering genius. His very triumphs were converted into fruitful sources of misery. His history affords abundant lessons upon the evils which result from a neglected education; the dangers which attend the path of success; the unsatisfactory nature of unlawful enjoyments; the depth to which exalted and godlike genius may be plunged by vice and self

abandonment. There is enough in his story to reconcile us all to a humble lot in life, and to a sincere. utterance of Agur's prayer, Give me neither poverty nor riches;" applying it as well to intellectual as pecuniary wealth.

As a poet, Byron claims the highest place among the moderns. No one has ever surpassed some of his pictures of human passion, or his delineations of nature. Those of his works which are free from impurity are the Hebrew Melodies, the Prisoners of Chillon, and the Lament of Tasso. Most of his other productions require to be read with caution, and many of them are totally unfit for perusal. They are nearly all linked with the image of the author, and often charm us by an interest, at once powerful and irresistible. This characteristic is set forth in a poem which depicts him as standing upon the borders of the Styx, and about to depart for the regions of departed spirits, in Charon's boat-and speaking in the following terms:

But though my form must fade from view,
And Byron bow to fate resigned,
Undying as the fabled Jew,
Harold's dark spirit stays behind.

And he who yet, in after years,
Shall tread the vine-clad shores of Rhine,
In Chillon's gloom shall pour his tears,
Or raptured see blue Leman shine-

He shall not-cannot, go alone-
Harold unseen shall seek his side:

Shall whisper in his ear a tone,
So seeming sweet, he cannot chide.
He cannot chide; although he feel,
While listening to the magic verse,
A serpent round his bosom steal,
He still shall hug the coiling curse.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

THIS wonderful man was born at Ajaccio, a town of about seven thousand inhabitants, on the eastern side of the island of Corsica, and now its capital. His birth took place August 15, 1769. The father of Napoleon was Charles Marie Bonaparte, a respectable lawyer of Ajaccio. His mother, Letitia, was a woman of great beauty and energy of character. Both were natives of Corsica.

This island had belonged to the Genoese, but they basely sold it to the French, a little before the birth of Napoleon. The Corsicans revolted, and resisted the occupation of their country by the French. Led by the brave and patriotic General Paoli, they were, for a time, successful. Bonaparte's father took part in the struggle with Paoli, and his wife attended him in all his various movements and marches. For several months, she was constantly flying from one town or village to another, to escape the French, always travelling on horseback. Nothing was so much dreaded as falling into the hands of the enemy. Such was the life led by Napoleon's mother, until about a month before he was born, when the Corsicans finally submitted to their new masters.

Napoleon was the second son,-Joseph, afterwards king of Spain, and long a resident of the United States, being the first. He was named Napoleon, after some old Corsican saint. While a child, he appears to have been considered rather remarkable. He soon acquired a complete ascendancy over his mild and amiable brother Joseph, and was looked to as likely to be the stay of the family.

The following anecdote of Napoleon, in his childhood, is furnished by his mother:-" One night, he was walking in our garden, like a man who is meditating some great thing. It was raining violently; his brothers had sought shelter in the saloon, where they were playing. I knocked at the window several times, and made him signs to come to me. He shrugged his shoulders with an appearance of illhumor, and continued his walk. He was drenched with the rain, but he did not mind the storm, and continued his walk, with his head uncovered, and his eyes fixed on the ground. Sometimes he stopped before the little fountain in the garden, and appeared to delight in seeing it run, and to arrest its precipitancy with his hand. Some claps of thunder were heard, which caused him a nervous shudder, but it did not seem to be fear. He then crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at the heavens, courageously waiting for another peal of thunder. I sent my servant to order him to come in. He said to him with coldness, but respectfully, Tell my mother that it is warm, and I am taking an airing.' When the servant again entreated, he precipitately turned his back on him, and accelerated his step. It was only