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drawal of the sun from the heavens, at the moment when every telescope throughout the world was levelled to discover either its brightness or its spots."

In person, Lord Byron was of middling stature; his head was so remarkably small that not one man in ten could wear his hat. It was, however, finely formed, with a lofty forehead. His lips were large and full, his eye deep, his hair thin, brown and curling. When excited, his countenance bore a remarkable expression of soft, yet melancholy sentiment. Though crippled in one of his feet, the defect was scarcely observed in his gait, and it did not prevent his being a vigorous swimmer. When in Greece, he swam across the Hellespont, from Sestos to Abydos, a distance of four miles. He has celebrated the feat in some indifferent lines, in which he alludes to the crossing of the same water by Leander, to meet the maiden Hero. He closes in the following verse

""Tis hard to say who fared the best,

Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you

He lost his labor, I my jest,

For he was drowned, and I've the ague."

He was abstemious in eating, often making his dinner of biscuit and water. He was vain of his skill in boxing and pistol shooting, and more pron of his descent than his talents. While writhing under the reprobation which his vices called down upon his head, he affected to despise the world. While he professed to be a sceptic and lived as if there were no God, he yielded to superstitious impressions. Having all the means of happiness, he was still wretched; with powers to do infinite good, it is

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.

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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.

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