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asters of a kind that, while they disable, are still made more endurable by the thought that we can lie by in dock and refit at our leisure.

Now, I have already said I am not one of those included in the prayer, who travel by land or by water. I journey very little, and that little rarely. To insure my life or my limbs against accident on the rail, would be to me about as reasonable as to pay an annual sum to secure me against being scalped by a Red Indian or blown up by a torpedo. These are not the class of injuries against which I ask to be shielded or to be recompensed for. The disasters which disable me-disable me for weeks, rendering me helpless and almost hopeless-are of a far different kind; and I desire to know now, Shall I meet in this benevolent Company an asylum for the sorrows and miseries which beset me, if I comply with this annual payment of three pounds sterling?

One of my most frequent accidents is a bad dinner. I live in a moderately-sized town and with reasonably fair markets, but, by the perversity of human interference, God's gifts come to me so marred, spoiled, and perverted, that all the goodwill in the world, aided by a digestion an ostrich might envy, fail to deal with them, and I am often disabled-I use the words advisedly— for days, even for weeks, and would gratefully fall back on an institution that would afford me six pounds a-week till I am able to be


and about again.

Another of the accidents that befall me is blood to the head, caused by newspaper encomiums on the generous patriotism of men whose whole career and lives have marked them out as place-hunters and partisans. These panegyrics push me very close on apoplexy, and frequently disable me for weeks; and can I, I ask, by payment of three pounds a-year, secure six pounds aweek, while the 'Star' sings praises of Mr Bright, and the 'Daily News'

chants hymns of joy over Gladstone? The dramatic amusements of Londoners, as indicated in the morning papers, are constantly interfering with my health, and the very names of the popular comic songs of the day have more than once disabled me. I don't pretend that six pounds a-week would reconcile me to party trickery or playhouse vulgarity, but I could renew my wrath on cold mutton and idleness, and would willingly pay three pounds a-year for the boon.

Will this Company, therefore, contract with me against, to use their own words, "accidents of any kind;" and when I am laid down with smashed susceptibilities and broken hopes, damaged feelings and dislocated beliefs, will they give me six pounds a-week till I am up and about again, even though it only be on the crutches of good intentions? Talk of a collision,-is there any worse, I would like to know, than to find one's head smashed against intolerance, ignorance, and stupidity? To be told that one of the most unscrupulous manoeuvres of party, that one of the most treacherous assaults on power, meant patriotism, any more than to believe that Peter's crust meant mutton, is too much for credulity and too much for temper; and to be disabled for it for weeks is not a very unreasonable consequence. When Alphonse Karr tells us that the liberty of the press was unspeakably dear to that interesting portion of the population who can't read, he was still far below those enlightened statesmen who discover that the peace of Ireland is jeopardised by the unpalatable nature of Protestantism to the peasant mind of Ireland; for if it be simply the revenues of the Church are the grievance, why are not rents in the same category? If theology be not an ingredient in the contention, the landlord must be as objectionable as the parson-and more so, inasmuch as his demands are far greater. I am not rash

enough, however, to suppose that finality is to be the badge of this measure. "Qui bene incepit habet dimidium facti;" which may be roughly rendered, "Who robs the priest may rob the layman too." The old Chief Baron O'Grady used to say that "Every question in Ireland was a landlord's question;" and how long will it take, probably, before this affair of the Irish Church shall become a landlord's question? We cannot affect to say it is a sign of permanence anywhere, where the greatest obstacle to a confiscation is the difficulty of knowing how to dispose of the booty. Perhaps, however, the same generous hands which will relieve us of the Church property may kindly be extended for that of the landlords. Meanwhile the whole imbroglio is a serious accident, and very disabling too, and I'd like to fall back on six pounds a-week till I felt myself well over it.

Until a man gets the nerves of a rhinoceros, ordinary newspaper reading is a sore trial; and, for my own part, I'd rather take my chance of an occasional shaking on "the

line" than be subject to the incessant shocks one is exposed to by successful achievements of knavery, mock philanthropy, mock patriotism, and mock generosity. If the quality of an accident be whatever happens unforeseen, I am sure I can safely say that I never looked to the time when Mr Buckstone would play Othello, nor Mr Bright perform the part of a Cabinet Minister, and yet one is already announced, and the other is in rehearsal; and may I not say that the former casualty may be endured, the latter is a disabling accident, and not easy to rally from?

The great point, however, to know is, are these accidents within the meaning of the Act, and will the Company be liable to him who may be disabled by any of the many humbugs which now lie across the rails of life, and to be shaken by which is a grievous injury and a sore discomfiture; and will they pay six pounds a-week to him who is rendered unable to pursue his avocations and earn his livelihood by reason of them?



LONG had Napoleon slept afar in his Atlantic grave,

His tomb the isle, his vault the sky that met the circling wave,
The willow shivered in the wind, the sea-bird wheeled and screamed
Above that last lone bivouac where the conqueror lay and dreamed-
There were none to feel the sweep

Of the thoughts that thronged his sleep,

Save the spirits of the tempest or the genii of the deep.


Then said the King so politic who wore the Bourbon's crown, ""Twere well to lend our quiet reign some gilding of renown: "That name so terrible to kings shall work a peaceful spell : "Go, bring the hero back to France, 'twill please the people well !” So they bore him o'er the main

To his capital again

Which had throbbed with all the triumphs and misfortunes of his reign.


They buried him beneath the dome that roofs the warriors grey,
Who, in their youth, still followed where his Eagles led the way;
All day battalions by the walls with drum and banner go,
The ancient sentries doze above, the Emperor dreams below-
And, responding to the sweep

Of the thoughts that throng his sleep

The troubled nation heaves as to the hurricane the deep.


His dreams are of his destiny, its splendours and its gloom,

His fateful past, his purposes, how baffled and by whom;

Souls which have struck such earth-fast roots, borne such earth-shadow

ing sway,

Departed, still impress their will, nor wholly pass away.

As his visions come and go,

Some of glory, some of woe,

Electric through the heart of France the martial currents flow.


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"I hear the sounds that greeted me when I from Egypt came,

Applauding Paris echoes back the army's wild acclaim,

Victorious leader of the host, 'tis thou shalt rule the State,

The Conqueror of Italy shall fill the Consulate!'

And yet louder rolls the strain

As from red Marengo's plain

I step to loftier empire o'er the Austrian heaps of slain.


How long shall this tame monarchy my warlike realm disgrace?"
Dark was that dream and ominous to Bourbon's fated race! ·

Swift insurrection drives them forth as whirlwinds chase the leaf,-
Again a French Republic hails a Bonaparte its chief;

Nor ends resemblance there

He gains the Imperial chair

With all its heritage of war, dark policy and care.


"Chill is the vision rising now, of endless fields of snow,
All dark the sky save in the east the burning city's glow,

The sleepless Cossack in their rear, in front the wintry flood,
My legions sow the waste with dead, and trace their paths in blood.
-'Twas the crumbling of my might

'Twas the gathering of my night,

A debt of ruin mindful France still owes the Muscovite."


Not long the Second Empire waits unanswering to the Dead-
"Let Moscow's dark misfortune be with glory overspread!
The light of Friedland's victory upon our standards sits—
We saw their horsemen's backplates flash the sun of Austerlitz!
There are triumphs yet in store

On that distant Eastern shore

Where, with the mighty Sea-Power leagued, we'll beard the Czar once



Green are the hills and grey the cliffs that rise by Alma's flow
Where, like a belt of fir, the Russ awaits the triple foe,
The cliffs' pale walls are swarming with the voltigeurs of France-
Up the green slopes that volley death the red-clad men advance-

And the Russians slow give back,

Like their bears before the pack,

Till, from the seaward flank, the Turk discerns their flying track.


Onwards, her towers all bright against the Euxine's azure roll,

The leaguering armies downward look on doomed Sebastopol ;
Their camps are whitening all the hills, their fleets cloud all the deep,
Close the brown trenches undulate with fiery, fatal, sweep,

Till aloft in thunder fly

Fort and battery to the sky,

And Russia's pride and France's hate amid the ruins lie.


"Thorn of my grave, ill friend, fast foe, false Austria breaks my rest! Austria, so prompt to parley with my foot upon her breast! So quick to rise, forget, new-plot, and deal a treacherous thrust !Shall France forgive such perfidy, forego revenge so just? 'Twas my faithless Austrian bride

In misfortune left my side:

Poor Josephine had clung to me, with me had captive died!"


France bows before his will, like corn that feels the unseen blastDown Alp and Apennine to the Po her troops are pouring fast, Pale Milan hears the cannon on Ticino's frontier banksBrightens, as past her walls retreat her tyrants' broken ranksThen all her bells ring clear

And all her people cheer

As follow on the Austrian tracks Guard, Zouave, and Cuirassier.


Eastward they march, and round them lie their fathers' fields of fame, Whence seems to come his voice who gave those fields historic name, Castiglione cheers them, and Lonato bids them hail,

From Médole and Arcola come greetings on the gale,

Low down, where Mantua lies,

The notes of triumph rise,

And Rivoli, from yonder hills, in trumpet tone replies.


A hill-tower looks o'er Lombardy 'mid cypresses and vines
Where far to right, and far to left, extend the embattled lines,
Among the hills King Victor fights, by Garda's lake of blue,
Around the tower, along the plain, the French the charge renew,

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