'The man (NAPOLEON) was a Divine Missionary, though unconscious of it, and preached through the cannon's throat this great doctrine: _La carriere ouverte aux talens_; 'The Tools to him that can handle them.' . . . Madly enough he preached, it is true, as Enthusiasts and first Missionaries are wont, with imperfect utterance, amid much frothy rant, yet as articulately perhaps as the case admitted. Or call him, if you will, an American Backwoodsman, who had to fell unpenetrated forests, and battle with innumerable wolves, and did not entirely forbear strong liquor, rioting, and even theft; whom notwithstanding the peaceful Sower will follow, and as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless.' SARTOR RESARTUS: BOOK II., CHAP. VIII. SONNET I.--NAPOLEON. Napoleon was a Missionary merely, Who through the cannon's throat this truth expressed, Unconsciously, divinely and sincerely, _The Tools to him that handles 'em the best._ Madly enough, indeed, the man did preach, Amid much rant, as all Enthusiasts do, And yet with as articulate a speech As the strange case, perhaps, allowed him to. Or call him a Backwoodsman, if you will; Who, forced to fell unpenetrated woods, And doomed innumerable wolves to kill, Got drunk sometimes, and stole his neighbor's goods; Whom will the Sower follow ne'ertheless, And as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless. Or let us try the following description of the Hotel de Ville in the French Revolution: 'O evening sun of July! how at this hour thy beams fall slant on reapers amid peaceful woody fields; on old women spinning in cottages; on ships far out on the silent main; on Balls at the Orangerie of Versailles, where high-rouged dames of the palace are even now dancing with double-jacketted Hussar officers; and also on this roaring Hell-porch of a Hotel de Ville. Babel-tower, with the confusion of tongues, were not Bedlam added with the conflagration of thoughts, was no type of it. One forest of distracted steel bristles endless in front of an Electoral Committee.' FRENCH REVOLUTION: BOOK V., CHAP. VII. SONNET II.--THE HOTEL DE VILLE. O evening sun of most serene July! How at this hour thy slant refulgence pours On reapers working in the open sky, And women spinning at their cottage doors, On ships far out upon the silent main, On gay Versailles, where through the light quadrille Hussars are leading forth a high-rouged train, And on the hell-porch-like Hotel de Ville. Not Babel's tower with all its million tongues, Save Bedlam too therewith had added been, To mingle burning brains with roaring lungs, Could feebly imitate that dreadful din; One endless forest of distracted steel Bristling around that mad Hotel de Ville! Or to return to Professor TEUFELDROeCKH'S vast chaos of ideas. Let us try another passage therefrom: