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so; and the rest remained on shore, subject, now they were inferior in martial strength, to the cruelty and caprice of the baffled and exasperated despot. Leitensdorfer was one of the persons who went on board, and witnessed the mortification of the exbashaw, and the ravings of his lieutenant-general, at this unexpected order, so subversive of their plans, and so ruinous to their hopes. In this vessel he acted as a colonel, and proceeded with her by way of Malta to Syracuse.

From Syracuse he went to Albania, taking the route of Corfu to Salona, with the design of enquiring by letter what had become of a son by his first marriage, whom he had left behind in the Tyrol. Immediately, however, upon his landing among the Turks, he was seized as an apostate Mahometan and reduced to slavery. The miseries of his situation were in some degree relieved, from the circumstance of his having fortunately recovered several sick sailors during the voyage. In addition to this, he pleaded the necessity which he felt, when in the American army of Africa, of conform ing to the dress and manners of that strange and peculiar people of the west, under a belief that necessity justified his deceit, and that to act as an American, was not to feel as a Christian. By degrees, the rigours of his servitude were alleviated, and he was at length restored to the entire freedom of a faithful Mussulman. He next visited Palermo, and there formed a temporary marriage with a fair Sicilian, who laughed at all ties but those which love had made."

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About this time, the new king of Naples threatened to conquer Sicily, in spite of all the resistance that Ferdinand IV. and the English could make. On this, Lietensdorfer became alarmed for his personal safety, knowing well that he neither deserved nor could expect mercy from the Frenchmen. He then determined to embark as a passenger for the United States, but no master of a vessel could be found to receive him in that capacity; and being obliged to offer himself as a sailor, he was entered as such on board a ship bound for Salem, in the State of Mas

sachusetts. Here he learned to hand, reef, and steer, and in a short time became an active and perfect seaman. Arriving at Salem, in December 1809, he soon went on a visit to his old friend and fellow warrior at Brimfield, by whom he was hospitably entertained and sent to Washington, furnished with ample testimonials of his bravery and services, for the inspection of the President and Secretary of State. By these officers he was referred to the Secretary at War, and enjoyed, for a time, the paradise of suspense into which every state expectant is sure to be initiated. By continued references, however, from one person to another, his skill in surveying, drawing, and engineering, happened to become known to the surveyor of the public buildings, and he thereby acquired some of the patronage of Mr. Latrobe. There he now lives, occupying one of the vacant chambers in the northern pile of the capitol, as a watch or office keeper; providing and cooking for himself, and employing his hands in almost every kind of occupation, from the making of shoes to the ensnaring of birds and the delineation of maps.

This extraordinary man is about five feet ten inches in height, with dark eyes, black hair, and a brown complexion. His looks are lively, his gestures animated, and his limbs remarkably flexible and vigorous. His forehead is ample, his features expressive, and his figure rather spare and lean. With such natural marks and powers, he has been enabled to assume the respective characters of Jew, Christian, and Mahometan; and of soldier, linguist, engineer, farmer, juggler, tradesman, and dervise, with apparent facility. In short, he has shown himself to be one of the most versatile of human beings, having acted, during his multifarious life, in about thirty differ ent characters! In the course of his adventures he has received several wounds, and his eccentric life has afforded incidents for a theatrical exhibition on the stage of Vienna. can utter the Hebrew words of worship almost exactly like a Rabbi in the synagogue; he can recite the Christian Catholic ritual, after the manner of the

He

Capuchins; and he pronounces the religious sentences of the Mussulmen in Arabic, with the earnestness and emphasis of a Mufti. To complete this 66 strange, eventful history," the Congress of America have, at the instance of Mr. Bradley, who detailed the leading incidents of his life on the floor of the senate, passed a bill, bestowing on him a half section of land, (320 acres) and the pay of a captain, from the 15th of December, 1804, to

the same period in 1805, being the time that he served as adjutant and inspector of the army of the United States in Egypt, and on the coast of Africa.

Leitensdorfer is at present

but forty-eight years of age, strong, and healthy, and if his rambling disposition should continue, likely to add many more pages to a biography, which, perhaps, has few parallels, except in the adventures and vicissitudes of Baron Trenck.

SLEEP, little baby! sleep!

Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,

But with the quiet dead,

Yes-with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be,
Oh! many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,

TO A DYING INFANT.

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling!

Flee to thy grassy nest;
There the first flowers shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! peace! the little bosom

Labours with short'ning breathPeace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh

Those are the damps of death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee;
But never then wert thou
So beautiful, as now,

Baby! thou seem'st to me.

Thine up-turn'd eyes glazed over,
Like hare-bells wet with dew;
Already veil'd and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open-
The soft lip quivering,

As if (like summer air
Ruffling the rose leaves) there
Thy soul were fluttering.

Mount up, immortal essence!
Young spirit! haste, depart-
And is this death!-Dread Thing!
If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Oh! I could gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face :
So passionless! so pure!
The little shrine was sure

An Angel's dwelling place. `

Thou weepest, childless Mother!
Aye, weep-'twill ease thine heart-
He was thy first-born Son,
Thy first, thine only one,

"Tis hard with him to part!

'Tis hard to lay thy darling
Deep in the damp cold earth-
His empty crib to see,
His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber
His small mouth's rosy kiss;
Then, waken'd with a start
By thine own throbbing heart,

His twining arms to miss!

To feel (half conscious why)

A dull, heart-sinking weight,
Till mem'ry on thy soul
Flashes the painful whole,

That thou art desolate !
And then to lie and weep,
And think the live-long night
(Feeding thine own distress
With accurate greediness)

Of every past delight ;—

Of all his winning ways,
His pretty playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimickry,

And all his little wiles!

Oh! these are recollections
Round mothers' hearts that cling-
That mingle with the tears
And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother!
In after years look back,
(Time brings such wondrous easing)
With sadness not unpleasing,

E'en on this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say "My first-born blessing!
It almost broke my heart
When thou wert forced to go,
And yet, for thee, I know,

'Twas better to depart.

"God took thee in his mercy,

A lamb, untask'd, untried; He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory,

And thou art sanctified!

"I look around, and see
The evil ways of men ;
And, oh! beloved child!
I'm more than reconciled

To my departure then.

"The little arms that clasped me, The innocent lips that prest,

Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore,

I lull'd thee on my breast?

"Now (like a dew-drop shrined
Within a crystal stone)
Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove!
Safe with the Source of Love,
The Everlasting One.

"And when the hour arrives
From flesh that sets me free,
Thy spirit may await,
The first at heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me."

NA

NAPOLEON.

APOLEON has at length terminated his Prometheus like existence. The vulture that preyed upon his vitals has done its work, and nothing remains of him but an empty sound in the mouths of men. We are told that he died in his military garb, his field marshal's uniform, and his boots, which he had ordered to be put on a short time previous to his dissolution. There is something melancholy in these details, which, even when considered apart from so great a man, irresistibly attracts our sympathy. We dwell with intense curiosity on all that relates to our passage from this state of being to that "bourn from whence no traveller returns;" it is a subject that intimately and awfully concerns each one of us, and therefore every circumstance that can indicate the state of feeling at the terrible parting is carefully noted and preserved, and becomes perhaps the most interesting portion of the history of man.

In the present instance, the interest is increased tenfold, on beholding a man, who had been so uplifted above his fellows, that we might almost have imagined him beyond the shafts of fate, bowed down to that humiliating condition to which human nature is subjected in its process of re union with mother earth. With what painful delight we contemplate the last flutterings of such a spirit, and watch the expiring efforts of poor mortality, still clinging to earth, still labouring for the breath of posterity, and exhausting itself in efforts to fall with "gracefulness at last." This attempt to brave the horrors of

death: is not quite in the spirit of Christianity which puts on the armour of faith; it is not in the meekness of resignation, but reminds us rather of the Roman part, and is, upon the whole, in unison with the life and character of this extraordinary individual. Knowing the importance that is attached to this last hour of existence, the fondness with which we dwell upon all the minutiæ connected with this event, it is not to be wondered at that men who have lived for fame should study so to comport themselves at this crisis as to ensure the plaudits of posterity.

Augustus Cæsar chose to die in a standing position, and was careful in arranging his person and dress for that occasion; and Seward Earl of Northumberland, when on the point of death, quitted his bed and put on his armour, saying, "that it became not a man to die like a beast." A more remarkable instance is that of Maria Louisa of Austria, who, a short time before she breathed her last, having fallen into a sort of insensibility, and her eyes being closed, one of the ladies in attendance remarked that her majesty seemed to be asleep. "No," said she, "I could sleep, if I would indulge repose, but I am sensible of the near approach of death, and I will not allow myself to be surprised by him in my sleep; I wish to meet my dissolution awake." The extinguishment of that spirit, whose "sound went forth into all lands," must, no doubt, be considered as one of the most important and interesting events of the day. But it is mortifying to human vanity to reflect with

what indifference this intelligence has been received. The truth is, the few last years have teemed with events of appalling magnitude-with giant births -unheard of monsters and prodigies. Revolutions, with all their sanguinary train of consequences, have succeeded each other with fearful rapidity; and the caprices of jugglery, which fortune delights to play in private life, have been exhibited on the grand theatre of Europe. We have been glutting our eyes with the bloody business of the Circus, and the tale of individual misery can no longer work upon our sensibilities.

We are, perhaps, less impressed with the importance of this event, because Napoleon may be said to have terminated his political existence when he abdicated the throne; but he was still the lion in the toils, whose destruction is only completed when the deathblast has sounded. It will be moreover contended by his admirers, that the years of his imprisonment, though replete with suffering, and though flowing in darkness and sorrow, will be more honourable to him when history shall have taken her pen, and meted out his measure of praise, than his days of sunshine, when he trod, like a winged Mercury, and waved the rod of the enchanter. To suffer well is the highest praise that man can earn; to accommodate the fiery and restless spirit to the uncontrollable changes of fate, not notching his days of misery in passive helplessness, but wearing his manhood undauntedly about him, is the true test of greatness of soul, which shows most brilliant in surrounding darkness. It

is said that

"The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones.”

It is well if it be so: the good has carried with it its reward; and the evil may perchance remain a useful warning to mankind. But, in truth, neither are remembered when their immediate effects cease to be felt. Military renown is of all others, and very deservedly so, the most brilliant and the most fading; it is a splendid meteor, which blazes and expires. Wolfe and Abercrombie are no longer remembered as

the benefactors of their country, and the name of Nelson is already strange in our ears. It is not, as some of our old writers apprehended, that we have fallen upon the latter days of the world, and that there is not as yet time for the enjoyment of fame, or that we are not still alive to the tale of conquests (though the effect of this, as of every other twice-told tale, must lose somewhat of its charm as the world advances in years, but really because nothing has been done that contributes in any shape to the present happiness or wellbeing of mankind. We are about as sensible of the beneficial effects produced by the victories of a Howe, as of the defeat of the Spanish Armada.— And, in general, our knowledge of these things is as circumscribed as that of Mr. Southey's narrator of the battle of Blenheim, who could only say that "twas a glorious victory."

We are told that the dissolution of this great man is an instructive lesson to the world, as affording a striking instance of the punishment that awaits upon perverted talents, and ill directed ambition. But, after all, the world is little benefited by such lessons, and grows nothing wiser from the experience of the past. Whatever may be said of the progressive improvement of which the nature of man is capable, that glorious prerogative which is said to distinguish him from the brute creation, society seems to be marked every where with the same follies, and the same vices. The same passions lead to the commission of the same crimes. Revolution and bloodshed, havoc and ruin, have been ever abroad, and war has never furled its flag. For when did example, or the cold maxims of experience, ever repress the wing of yourg ambition, or quench the ardours of a restless spirit? The disasters and unhappiness consequent upon the intemperance of youth, seem to be useful monitors, only when indulgence has blunted the edge of passion, or satiety has incapacitated us for enjoyment. So true it is (as Lord Bacon has remarked) that "Nature is often hidden, sometimes overcome, seldom extinguished.” Tut, in point of fact, the fate of Napoleon seems no very salutary warning to

those whose talents, combined with fitting time and opportunity, may induce them to tread in his footsteps.

Like the end of every other great man, it will serve to "point a moral and adorn a tale ;" but it is nothing more than the old lesson that has been read to us from King Solomon downwards. We shall find, upon investigation, that he was a more fortunate usurper than Cromwell. His triumphs were as brilliant, and his reign of longer duration than Julius Cæsar's; his country was not ungrateful to him as Scipio's; his seclusion and banishment were as sacred and dignified as Dioclesian's; he encountered the approaches of dissolution with the calmness and philosophic resolution, if not with the Christian spirit of Charles the Fifth; and if he did not, like Samson, crush his enemies in his fall, he died, at least, in the full strength and vigour of a spirit that still awed the world. Probably no triumph was more complete, or more calculated to swell the heart of man, than the return of Napoleon from Elba. He came alone, unarmed, a wanderer. The very elements seemed to aid him at his approach; armies rose up and flocked round him, like the bones before the prophet; and his entry into the capital was not in the car of triumph, and with the sound of trumpets, but in the hearts of a mighty people, and borne upon the universal shout of France. If Turenne was right, that the only pleasures of an ambitious man are the gaining a prize at school, and the winning a battle, surely years were too little to purchase such a moment of exultation, and life too short to efface its intoxicating sweets. The "Veni, vidi, vici” belongs more properly to him than to Cæsar.

Of the events which immediately preceded his downfall, and which are supposed to have tarnished his military reputation, it is hardly possible to speak with precision or justice. It is a subject upon which it is safer "to say nothing that is false, than all that is true, as we tread upon fires that are not extinguished." And yet we may venture to affirm, that when party and faction shall die away, and the impartial voice of truth be heard, there will be

found many features of the memorable campaigns of 1814 and 1815, that, in their display of military genius, would not have disgraced the brightest days in the annals of Napoleon.

We have a lively and ingenious portrait of this great man from the hand of Madame de Stael, who knew him in the full lustre of his power, which, though probably somewhat distorted in the outline, and heightened in the colouring, carries with it, upon the whole, that genuine air of truth that makes us pronounce it to be a likeness, without a personal knowledge of the original. "I could not find words to reply to him," she observes, in relating her first interview, "when he came to me to say that he had sought my father at Coppet, and that he regretted having passed into Switzerland without having seen him. But when I was a little recovered from the confusion of admiration, a strongly-marked sentiment of fear succeeded. Bonaparte at that time had no power; he was even believed to be not a little threatened by the captious suspicions of the Directory: so that the fear which he caused was inspired only by the singular effect of his person on all who approached him. I had seen men highly worthy of esteem; I had likewise seen monsters of ferocity; there was nothing in the effect which Bonaparte produced on me, that could bring back to my recollection either the one or the other. I soon perceived in the different opportunities I had of meeting him during his stay at Paris, that his character could not be defined by the words which we commonly use: he was neither good, nor violent, nor gentle, nor cruel, after the manner of individuals of whom we have any knowledge. Such a being had no fellow, and, therefore, could neither feel nor excite sympathy; he was more or less than a man. His cast of character, his understanding, his language, were stamped with the impress of an unknown nature. I examined the figure of Bonaparte (she goes on to observe) with attention; but whenever he discovered that my looks were fixed upon him, he had the art of taking away all expression from his eyes, as if they had been turned into marble.

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