ferred Briseïs to the cause of Greece; Thaïs inflamed Alexander to fire Persepolis; Cæsar was the drudge of every woman in Rome; Louis XIV. married the mountebank Scarron's widow; and a certain English hero has been a milch-cow to C―y, C—le, C―ke, C—II, C— and Co.-Such glory is, indeed,

the vain breath

Of fools, and sycophants.”

LANSDOWNE.

Reader, do not imagine that we would jest with heroes ;-no, no, 'ware edge tools! We would only remark, that it is " pitiful-wondrous pitiful," such brave men should not knock their "knotty pates" together for some more rational cause-such as the just and necessary contest in which we are at present engaged, and which, with the help of God, we will discuss, till we shall be able to cry"hold-hold!" with honor

the soldier's treasure, bought with blood, And kept at life's expence."

But when, we hear of black Pongo's sparring with black Cohadjee, and coppercoloured Malatchi's setting to with coppercoloured Attakulla, for a trifling quantity of rum, tobacco, shot, powder, rifles, &c. is not the practice of these whom we stigmatize as savages, rather below the dignity of the crowned heads of civilized, polished Europe, the seat of the arts, sciences, and all terrestrial wisdom ?—But what signifies what thou, reader, and I think of it;-kings are made of other stuff: we may as well whistle jigs to a milestone, as expect them to hop to our measures. In short, ambition is an incurable madness: What is it but

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desire of greatness?

And what is greatness but extent of power

But lust of power, a dropsy of the mind,

Whose thirst increases while we drink to quench it,
Till, swoll'n, and stretch'd by the repeated draught,
We burst and perish.”

Ambitious tyrants are therefore mere bubbles, which, after having, for a short time,

rode triumphant on the stream, "burst and perish." As Europe has such a scourge at present upon her hands, the best advice seems to be that which Durandante gave to Montesinos, as Don Quixote relates his adventures in the cave: "Patience, and shuffle the cards."

"Remember-he's a man; his flesh as soft,
And penetrable as a girl's

A surfeit, nay, a fit of common sickness,
Brings this immortal to the gate of death."
LEE'S ALEXANDER.

The bubble must burst, and it is only to see it out. Few conquerors have left any immediate descendants; still fewer have left their conquests to their descendants; and, by God's blessing, for the repose of mankind, not one of them has ever transmitted his troublesome spirit to his descendants; so that it is only a lease for life, which, in few instances, has been suffered to run out to its natural length.-Patience, therefore, and reflect that

"

Levius fit patientiâ

Quicquid corrigere est nefas.”

HORACE.

The nature of revolutions have been elegantly paralleled to a boiling pot, with which the scum flies uppermost. We do not understand how this aristocratic epithet can be applied to any part of the human race, without an insult to the Creator; and as this scum generally developes men of strong mind, too long depressed by prejudices, it were time to lay aside these prejudices, and consider personal merit in its proper rank—that is, above all the fortuitous circumstances of birth, rank, or affluence. If rightly considered, revolutions are the thunderstorms which clear the political horizon, when darkened by tyranny, pride, superstition, or ignorance. They are not always to be deprecated, as this country has experienced one, to which the term glorious has been, and justly too, annexed. May we not read in them the hand of God, which overthrew the tower of Babel, to shew the inefficiency of man to perpetuate his labours?

May we not see in them the hand-writing on the wall, the "MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN," the end of the government of light-weight princes? Who, that has read the Scriptures, can peruse the annals of Europe for a century or two back, and wonder that there are so many king Nebuchadnezzars of the present day turned to grass? Or that an attorney's clerk should wear a crown, when David was a shepherd boy?-Bravo! We may all have a chance in time, and we pledge our veracity against the reader's modesty, that there is not a man in the creation, who will say, at least who will think, with Sancho Pança, that his scull is so misshapen, that "should crowns be suffered to rain down from heaven, not one of them would fit it;" but rather,

"Regem me esse oportuit."

I should make a very pretty sort of a king.

Indeed, we are so accustomed to the sight of simple kings, that almost any simpleton