The Duke of Weimar told his friends always to be of courage; this Napoleonism was unjust, a falsehood, and could not last. It is true doctrine. The heavier this Napoleon trampled on the world, holding it tyrannously down, the fiercer would the world's recoil against him be, one day. Injustice pays itself with frightful compound interest. I am not sure but he had better lost his best park of artillery, or had his best regiment drowned in the sea, than shot that poor German bookseller, Palm! It was a palpable, tyrannous, murderous injustice, which no man, let him paint an inch thick, could make out to be other. It burnt deep into the hearts of men, it and the like of it; suppressed fire flashed in the eyes of men, as they thought of it, waiting their day! Which day _came_: Germany rose round him. What Napoleon _did_ will amount in the long run to what he did _justly_; what Nature with her laws will sanction. To what of reality was in him; to that and nothing more. The rest was all smoke and waste. _La carriere ouverte aux talens:_ that great true message, which has yet to articulate and fulfil itself every where, he left in a most inarticulate state. He was a great _ebauche_, rude-draught; as indeed what great man is not? Left in too rude a state, alas! His notions of the world, as he expresses them there at St. Helena, are almost tragical to consider. He seems to feel the most unaffected surprise that it has all gone so; that he is flung out on the rock here, and the world is still moving on its axis. France is great, and all great; and at bottom, he is France. England itself he says is by nature only an appendage of France; 'another isle of Oberon to France.' So it was _by nature_, by Napoleon-nature; and yet look how in fact--HERE AM I! He cannot understand it; that France was not all great, that he was not France. 'Strong delusion,' that he should believe the thing to be which _is_ not! The compact, clear-seeing, decisive Italian nature of him, strong, genuine, which he once had, has enveloped itself, half dissolved itself, in a turbid atmosphere of French fanfaronade. The world was not disposed to be trodden down under foot; to be bound into masses, and built together as _he_ liked, for a pedestal for France and him: the world has quite other purposes in view! Napoleon's astonishment is extreme. But alas, what help now! He had gone that way of his; and Nature had also gone her way. Having once parted with reality, he tumbles helpless in vacuity; no rescue for him. He had to sink there mournfully as man seldom did; and break his great heart and die--this poor Napoleon; a great implement too soon wasted, till it was useless; our last Great Man! THE FLORAL RESURRECTION. BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE.