he had watched the whole progress of the strife, and when he rode over the plain it was not difficult to tell what column had fought bravest, or what leader had proved himself worthiest of confidence; and on the spot where they earned their reward he gave it, and made the place where they struggled bravest and suffered most, the birth-place of their renown. This custom of his furnished the greatest of all incitements to desperate valour in battle. Every officer knew that the glass of his emperor swept the field where he fought, and the quick eye that glanced like lightning over every object was constantly on him, and as his deeds were, so would his honours be. This strung the energies of every ambitious man-and Bonaparte would have none others to lead his battalions-to their utmost tension. What wonder is it, then, that great deeds were wrought, and Europe stood awestruck before enemies that seemed never to dream of defeat? Macdonald was one of those stern men Bonaparte loved to have in his army. He knew what Macdonald attempted to do he would never relinquish till he himself fell, or his men fled. There was as much iron and steel in this bold Scotchman, as in Bonaparte himself. He had all his tenacity and invincibility without his genius. Macdonald was the son of a Scotchman, of the family of Clanronald, who fought under the standard of Prince Charles Edward, on the fatal field of Culloden; and after its disastrous issue, fled to France, and settled in Sancerre. There the subject of this sketch was born, in November, 1765, and received the name of Etienne Jacques Joseph Alexandre Macdonald. He belonged to the army before the revolu 1 2:32 tone, and the sound of cannon, fell alike on the dull ear of the mighty sleeper. His battles were all over, and his fierce spirit gone to a land where the loud trumpet of war is never heard. As the coffin approached, the old invalid soldiers drew up on each side of the way, in their old uniform, to receive it. The spectacle moved the stoutest heart. The last time these brave men had seen their emperor was on the field of battle, and now, after long years, his coffin approached their midst. The roar of cannon, and the strains of martial music brought back the days of glory, and as their eyes met the pall that covered the form of their beloved chief, they fell on their knees in tears and sobs, and reached forth their hands in passionate sorrow. Overwhelmed with grief, and with the emotions that memory had so suddenly wakened, this was the only welcome they could give him. On swept the train till it entered the church; and as the coffin passed through the door, heralded by the Prince de Joinville with his drawn sword in his hand, the immense throng involuntarily rose, and a murmur more expressive than words, filled the house. The king descended from his throne to meet it, and the aged Moncey, who had hitherto sat immovable and dumb, the mere "phantom of a soldier," suddenly struggled to rise. The soul awakened from its torpor, and the dying veteran knew that Napoleon was before him. But his strength failed him-with a feeble effort he sunk back in his chair, while a flash of emotion shot over his wan and wasted visage like a sunbeam, and his eye kindled a moment in recollection. It was a striking spectacle--that silent coffin and that old Marshal together. Nothing could be more appropriate either, than this reception of Napoleon's body. The |