But the great Napoleon had a truer conception of what such a corps ought to be, in the constitution of his Imperial Guard, which at one time amounted to upwards of 100,000 of the best troops in the world. Selected not merely for fidelity or display, each one was a veteran, who, passing through the fires of battle and inured to war, had won by his valour the right to a place in the ranks of “the Brave.” No wonder that Europe trembled when the bearskin of the Guard was recognised amongst the number of her foes; no marvel that the charm of invincibility should so long be enjoyed by this phalanx of warriors, and the halo of victory rest upon their brows. Romance presents no scene more deeply touching than is recorded in the page of history, when, amid the crumbling ruins of his colossal empire—under the eye and directed by the transcendent genius of their beloved chief, which never on any occasion shone forth more conspicuously—the shattered remnant of the French Guards, faithful amid the faithless, with unmurmuring constancy and heroic devotion, withstood, all but alone, the attack of allied Europe; dealing out the same terrible blows as of old, which, were it possible, must have rescued their country from the countless hosts which already desecrated her plains. But the closing scene was postponed for an after year, when France once more marshalled around the Guard, and Napoleon cast the fatal die for empire or ruin. What Austria, Russia, Prussia, nay, banded Europe, had failed to do, our British soldiers achieved. The spell was broken, as the Guard was overthrown. Noble and brave, ever commanding our respect in their life, they were doubly so in their death. We cannot help according this tribute to so brave a foe. Nay, we feel honoured as, regarding their grave on the plains of Waterloo, we shed a tear for the worthy representative of the Guard; and, lingering beside the relics of “the mighty dead,” we catch the meaning of their watchword— “THE GUARD DIES, BUT NEVER SURRENDERS.”