e proud footstep Europe trembled, he is
now an exile at Elba, and now, finally a prisoner on the rock of St.
Helena, and there on a barren island, in an unfrequented sea, in the
crater of an extinguished volcano, there is the death-bed of the mighty
conqueror. And all his annexations have come to that! His last hour has
now come, and he, the man of destiny, he who had rocked the world as in
the throes of an earthquake, is now powerless--even as a beggar, so he
died. On the wings of a tempest, that raged with unwonted fury, up to
the throne of the only power that controlled him while he lived, went
the fiery soul of that wonderful warrior, another witness to the
existence of that eternal decree, that they who do not rule in
righteousness shall perish from the earth.

NAPOLEON[48]

ROBERT G. INGERSOLL

A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon, a
magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity, and
gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at
last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and
thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.

I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I
saw him at Toulon. I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of
Paris. I saw him at the head of the army of Italy. I saw him crossing
the bridge of Lodi with the tricolor in his hand. I saw him in Egypt in
the shadows of the Pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the
eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at
Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow
and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's
withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster, driven by
a million bayonets back upon Paris--clutched like a wild beast--banished
to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his
genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and
Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him
at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the
sad and solemn sea.

I thought of the orphans and widows he had made, of the tears that had
been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him,
pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said, "I would
rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rath