long and inglorious inactivity.  The pageant of ambition returned.  He was again a Lieutenant, a General, a Consul, an Emperor of France.  He filled again the throne of Charlemagne.  His kindred pressed around him again, re-invested with the pompous pageantry of royalty.  The daughter of the long line of kings again stood proudly by his side, and the sunny face of his child shone out from beneath the diadem that encircled its flowing locks.  The marshals of the Empire awaited his command.  The legions of the old guard were in the field, their scarred faces rejuvenated, and their ranks, thinned in many battles, replenished, Russia, Prussia, Austria, Denmark and England, gathered their mighty hosts to give him battle.  Once more he mounted his impatient charger, and rushed forth to conquest.  He waved his sword aloft, and cried “Tete D’ARMEE.”  The feverish vision broke—­the mockery was ended.  The silver cord was loosed, and the warrior fell back upon his bed a lifeless corpse.  This was the end of earth.  The Corsican was not content.

Statesmen and citizens! the contrast suggests its own impressive moral.

THE END.