morrow, and with those I may still re-establish matters; you, of course, following me with your artillery."

"But, sire, in the vicinity of Paris there cannot be less than one hundred thousand troops."

"General Beillard," replied Napoleon with a sublime and haughty look, "my Guard will well know how to penetrate their ranks-you

cannot know them as I do."

Sire, your Majesty will expose yourself to fall into the enemy's hands."

At these words the Emperor stopped, and seizing the arm of General Beillard, which he pressed with ardour

"I! prisoner of a Russian or of a Prussian! I!" cried he, in a disdainful tone-" never! Do you hear that, Beillard ?" then he added, more composedly, "You heeded not what you said. I know the way of escape from such an infamy, be assured of it. You have arranged to accompany me, have you not ?"

"Sire, I cannot. I have left Paris with my brigade there is a convention signed; I can neither re-enter Paris myself, nor the troops." After new and repeated arguments on the part of the Emperor to move forward, and fresh remonstrances of General Beillard, to which were joined those of Berthier and Caulincourt, to dissuade him from such an attempt, the Emperor said in a resolute tone, at the same time mixed up with contempt,

"Allons! I perceive that all the world is gone mad. Joseph is a simpleton, and Clarck is a traitor, for I begin to believe what Savary said to me last year on a like occasion, in talking with me of the Minister of War."

At this moment the avant-garde of Marshal Mortier's column of infantry came in sight. Napoleon haughtily demanded of the Duke of Vincenza to order his carriage to come up, continuing to walk on, his head resting upon both his hands, and letting fall from time to time certain exclamations upon what he called the betisse of his brother, and the treason of his War Minister. The Prince of Neufchatel perceiving that the Emperor had not decided on any plan, and that time pressed-for the day was now well advanced-suggested the expediency of sending M. de Caulincourt to Paris, to treat with the co-a/lies.

"Sire," said he, "affairs are not yet so desperate nothing but a conventional treaty has been hitherto signed;-M. le Duc de Vicence."

Here the Major-General was interrupted by the Duke of Vincenza, who hastened to address the Emperor himself in the following

terms:

off at once, see the Emperor Alexander; perhaps it is yet possible for him to interpose. I give you carte blanche. Go, Caulincourt, and remember this time that the honour and dignity of France are in your hands."

Napoleon stepped into his carriage, and with all those who had joined him took the road to Fontainbleau. At six o'clock in the morning, the Emperor entered the court-yard of the Cheval Blanc.

He would not suffer the state-rooms of the chateau to be opened for his reception, and camped, it may be said, rather than lodged, himself in a small apartment, that he particularly fancied. It was that situated on the first flight, and prolongs the gallery called after the Emperor Francis the First; the same, too, where Christina of Sweden caused Monaldeschi to be assassinated. This gallery he traversed with hasty and unequal strides, in saying to the tavern-keeper's wife, in a tone of brusquerie, that so little belonged to him, and rarely observed,

"I am not in want of any body--I desire to be alone."

As the usher or door-keeper who preceded him found some difficulty in opening the cabinet-door,

"Now, sir, pray do make haste," said he, with a tone and gesture of ill humour, stamping with his foot. Then resting his two clenched hands upon his forehead, he added with more serenity, and an accent of greater composure, "After so much bloodshed, so many great actions, such conquests, labour, and perseverance, thus it is that human affairs are terminated and brought to nought." He entered the apartment, and there remained alone.

F. E.

[In some early number of the "Fly" we purpose giving "The Divorce," which will probably conclude our memoirs of Napoleon: of such a portion of them, at least, as have come under our notice, and which have been submitted to the perusal of our readers. These extracts have been selected from a large mass of less interesting matter, and the article above mentioned will furnish a suitable and rather affecting conclusion to the Emperor's most "strange, eventful history."-ED.]

THE LIFE OF WOMAN.

Napoleon remained some time silent; then, appearing to make an effort with himself, he said to M. de Caulincourt,

"M. le Duc, Berthier is in the right. Se

of the woman-the tender plants of pity, and love, hope, and sorrow, and fear-flowers that spring up to a future day, and make her still the beloved Eden. She leaves her home and her friends, and becomes a wife; the scenes that are imprinted upon her memory are forsaken, and she puts all her trust and hope of

future happiness upon man. She sheds a few natural tears when crossing the threshold, but gentle in her nature as a lanıb, she doubts not but that he, with whose fate she is about to link her own, will ever treat her as he has done hitherto. She recks not then that he whose voice is soft and penetrating, sinking into the very gentleness of her heart, will ere long leave her for the noisy chase, the taverndinner, and the midnight revel. What hours will she sit alone without a murmur, looking love into the face of her first-born! But see, her eyes brighten with joy-he has come! No! he enters not; there is a confused noise in the passage, a mixture of many voices; they have borne him drunk to bed. The bottle has a greater charm for him than the prattle of his child, or the angelic features of his wife; but even all this she can pardon, and her smile breaks upon him as brightly next morning as if he had done no wrong. Why drag such lovely flowers from the tender stem, and wear their fragrant beauty for an hour in proud triumph, then dash them heartlessly aside to wither for ever? How much has woman suffered through trusting to the love of man! how many young hearts have been broken, and hopes innumerable eternally blighted! what aching heads, and throbbing brows, and tearful eyes are left on lonely pillows, to weep away their sweet lives in torture, then rest unremembered in the grave! Happy indeed are they

"Who never told their love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on their damask cheek ;" who have pined in thought, still living upon a dreamy hope, and never awakening to the frightful realities of disappointment and despair; who have reared a standard for the perfection of man in their own imagination, and have fancied that his heart is all love like their never lived to see him measured by it; who own, and never endured his chilling neglect.

UNITED STATES VERSUS BRITAIN.

Some time ago there appeared in the Moraing Chronicle the following beautiful epigram, by Thomas Campbell, on the Striped and Starred Banner of the United States:

United States your banner wears
Two emblems, one of fame;
Alas! the other that it bears
Reminds us of your shame!
The white man's liberty in types

Stands blazon'd by your stars—
But what's the meaning of the stripes?
They mean your Negroes' sears.
In the New York Morning Herald of Jan.
16 we find the following reply:-

England! whence came each glowing hue
That streaks your flag of meteor light;
The streaming red-the deeper blue,
Cross'd with the moonbeam's pearly white!

The blood and bruise-the blue and red,
Let Asia's groaning millions speak!
The white-it tells the colour fled
From starving Erin's pallid cheek!

THE DEPARTED.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

And thou art one among the dead,
The beautiful and bright;
Whose radiant looks were full of joy,
Of tenderness, and light.

Thy sunny smile has passed away,
And gone thy roseate bloom;
And thou the prized of other hearts,
Art slumbering in the tomb.

Alas! for him who won the love

Of thy fond, faithful heart;
He did not dream his treasured hope
Must all so soon depart.

And he will look, and look in vain,
For thy bright smiling face;
And weep when he shall turn and see
Nought but thy vacant place.

He never more shall hear thy steps,
Nor listen to that voice,

Which ever in fate's darkest hour
Could bid his soul rejoice.

Its sweet and silvery tones are mute,
And thy dark glossy hair

Is shrouded in the narrow bed,

Which thou hast gone to share.
Shall we repine, that thou hast fled
From all life's ills below?
And that its bitter grief and cares
Thy spirit ne'er can know.

Ah, no! ah, no! 'twere better far,
In this thine early bloom,
With thy young heart all happiness,
To sink into the tomb

Than live to find that thy bright thoughts
Were all a fading dream,
And feel that love and friendship too,
Sink! as the sun's last beam.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

(For the FLY.)

Columbus!

To mankind you gave a treasure,
By finding out that western land;
Praises for you, without measure,
Will be sung on every strand.
Oppress'd of nations, he has found ye
A place of refuge and a home;
Burst asunder chains which bound thee
To tyrants' will and monarchs' throne.
Now are ye free! a happy nation,

Let your children lisp thy name;
Columbus, though of humble station,
Thy name immortal will remain.
Let discord never thrive among ye,
Or be found in your debate,
For then will tyrants overwhelm thee
With hirelings base, and savage hate.
But let peace with blessings crown ye,
Then your fields will teem with grain ;
Commerce o'er the seas will waft thee
Plenty-happy be thy reign!
D******.

THE RUINS OF GOLDAU.

(Continued from page 75.)

No chariots of fire on the clouds careered; No warrior's arm on the hills was reared; No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown;

No mantle of wrath over heaven was thrown; No armies of light with their banners of flame, On neighbouring steeds, through the sunset

came,

Or leaping from space appeared: No earthquake reeled: no thunderer stormed, No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed,

No voices in heaven were heard.

But, the hour when the sun in his pride went down,

While his parting hung rich o'er the world, While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was blown,

And his streamers of gold were unfurled; An everlasting hill was torn From its primeval base, and borne, In gold and crimson vapours drest, To where a people are at rest. Slowly it came in it's mountain wrath And the forests vanished before its path; And the rude cliff's bowed; and the waters fled;

;

And the living were buried, while over their head

They heard the full march of their foe as he sped;

And the valley of life was the tomb of the

dead.

The mountain sepulchre of all I loved! The village sank, and the giant trees Leaned back from the encountering breeze, As this tremendous pageant moved. The mountain forsook his perpetual throne, And came down in his pomp: and his path is shown

In barrenness and ruin-there

His ancient mysteries lay bare;
His rocks in nakedness arise;
His desolations mock the skies.
Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell!
An Alpine monument may dwell
Upon thy bosom, O my home!

DESTRUCTION OF GOLDAU,

AND OTHER VILLAGES IN SWITZERLAND.

Extracted from a letter dated Geneva, Sept. 26, 1806.

Picture to yourself a rude and mingled mass of earth and stones, bristled with the shattered parts of wooden cottages, and with thousands of heavy trees, torn up by the roots, and projecting in every direction. In one part you might see a range of peasants' huts, which the torrent of earth had reached with just force enough to overthrow and tear in pieces, but without bringing soil enough to cover them. In another were mills broken in pieces by huge rocks, transported from the top of the mountains which fell, and were carried high up the opposite side of the Rigi. Large pools of water had formed themselves in different parts of the ruins, and many little streams, whose usual channels had been filled up, were

attracted by the smell of dead bodies, were hovering all about the valley.

But the general impression made upon us by the sight of such an extent of desolation, connected, too, with the idea that hundreds of wretched creatures were at that moment alive, buried under a mass of earth, and inaccessible to the cries and labours of their friends, was too horrible to be described or understood. As we travelled along the borders of the chacs of ruined buildings, a poor peasant, wearing a countenance ghastly with woe, came up to us to beg a piece of money. He had three children buried in the ruins of a cottage, which he was endeavouring to clear away.

A little further on we came to an elevated spot, which overlooked the whole scene. Here we found a painter seated on a rock, and busy in sketching its horrors. He had chosen a most favourable point. Before him, at the distance of more than a league, rose the Rossberg, from whose bare side had rushed the destroyer of all this life and beauty. On his right was the lake of Lowertz, partly filled with the earth of the mountain. On the banks of this lake was all that remained of the town of Lowertz. Its church was demolished; but the tower yet stood amid the ruins, shattered, but not thrown down.

The figures which animated this part of the drawing were a few miserable peasants, left to grope among the wrecks of one-half their village. The foreground of the picture was a wide desolate sweep of earth and stones, relieved by the shattered roof of a neighbouring cottage. On the left hand spread the blue and tranquil surface of the lake of Zug, on the margin of which yet stands the pleasant village of Art, almost in contact with the ruins, and trembling even in its preservation.

We proceeded, in our descent along the side of the Rigi toward the half-buried village of Lowertz. Here we saw the poor curatė, who is said to have been a spectator of the fall of the mountain. He saw the torrent of earth rushing toward his village, overwhelming half his people, and stopping just before his door. What a situation! He appeared, as we passed, to be superintending the labours of some of the survivors, who were exploring the ruins of the place. A number of newmade graves, marked with a plain pine cross, showed where a few of the wretched victims of this catastrophe had just been interred.

The

Our course lay along the borders of the enchanting lake of Lowertz. The appearance of the slopes, on the eastern and southern sides, told us what the valley of Goldau was a few days since, smiling with varied vegetation, gay with villages and cottages, and bright with promises of autumnal plenty. shores of this lake were covered with the ruins of huts, with hay, with furniture and clothes, which the vast swell of its waters had lodged on the banks. As we were walking mournfully along towards Schweitz, we met with the dead body of a woman, which had just been found. It was stretched out on a board, and barely covered with a white cloth. Two men, preceded by a priest, were carrying it to a more decent burial.

We hoped that this sight would have concluded the horrors of this day's scenery, and that we should soon escape from every painful vestige of the calamity of Schweitz. But we continued to find relics of ruined buildings for a league along the whole extent of the lake; and a little beyond the two islands mentioned above we saw, lying on the shore, the stiff body of a peasant, which had been washed up by the waves, and which two men were examining, to ascertain where he belonged. Our guide instantly knew it to be one of the inhabitants of Goldau. But I will mention no more particulars. Some, perhaps, that have been related to me are not credible, and others which are credible are too painful.

The immediate cause of this calamitous event is not yet sufficiently ascertained, and probably never will be. The fall of parts of hills is not uncommon; and in Switzerland especially there are several instances recorded of the descent of large masses of earth and stones. But so sudden and extensive a ruin as this was, perhaps, never produced by the fall of a mountain. It can be compared only to the destruction made by the tremendous eruptions of Etna and Vesuvius.

Many persons suppose that the long and copious rains, which they have lately had in this part of Switzerland, may have swelled the mountains in the Rossberg, sufficiently to push this part of the mountain off its inclined ibase. But we saw no marks of streams issung from any part of the bed which is laid bare. Perhaps the consistency of the earth in the interior of the mountain was so much altered by the moisture which penetrated into it, that the projection of the Spitzberg was no longer held by a sufficiently strong cohesion, and its own weight carried it over. Perhaps, as the earth is calcareous, a kind of fermentation took place sufficient to loosen its foundations. But there is no end to conjectures. The mountain has fallen, and the villages are

no more.

SPRING.

Hail! glorious season of the year,
Thou'rt welcome to our isle;
For pleasant Spring doth now appear,
In variegated style.

The snow-drop from her silent sod,
Doth rear her lovely head;

The crocus to adore her God,
Is rising from her bed.

The primrose on her mossy bank,

Has just begun to peep; The daffodil, to join the rank,

Has 'wakened from her sleep.

The fleur-de-lis, in dress so neat,

Will soon burst from her case;
The rose so blooming and so sweet,
Will soon unveil her face.

The fair palm-tree's once joyful bud
Already may be seen;
The plants, and shrubs, and every wood,
Will soon be deck'd in green.

The cuckoo's voice we soon shall hear,
In every wood and lawn;
The lark will soar above, and cheer,
When morn begins to dawn.

The thrush has just begun to sing,
His sweet and joyful song;
His partner, forth she soon will bring
Her dear and tender young.

In short, 'tis time to dig the soil,
For winter's on the wing;
And nature now begins to smile-
Then welcome lovely Spring!

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HIS GRACE THE

DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

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