When the star of Napoleon began to rise, and broke forth with a lustre which dazzled the eyes of a wondering world, the Levellers of Britain, like the Republicans of France, lost sight of their love of liberty, in their admiration of the military glories and rapid triumphs of the hero. James Nicholson was one of those who became blinded with the fame, the splendid success, and the daring genius of the young Corsican. Napoleon became his idol. His deeds, his capacity, his fame, were his daily theme. They became the favourite subject of every Leveller. They did not see in him one who laughed at liberty, and who made it his plaything, who regarded life as stubble, whose ambition circled the globe, and who was the enemy of Britain: they saw in him only a hero, who had burst from obscurity as a meteor from the darkness of night--whose glory had obscured the pomp of princes, and his word consumed their power. The threatened invasion, and the _false alarm_, put the Leveller's admiration of Napoleon, and his love of his native land, to a severe trial; but we rejoice to say, for the sake of James Nicholson, that the latter triumphed, and he accompanied a party of volunteers ten miles along the coast, and remained an entire night, and the greater part of a day, under arms, and even he was then ready to say-- "Let foe come on foe, like wave upon wave, We'll gie them a welcome, we'll gie them a grave." But, as the apprehension of the invasion passed away, his admiration of Napoleon's triumphs, and his reverence for what he termed his stupendous genius, burned with redoubled force. "Princes are as grasshoppers before him," said James; "nations are as spiders' webs. The Alps became as a highway before his spirit--he looked upon Italy, and the land was conquered." I might describe to you the exultation and the rejoicings of James and his brethren, when they heard of the victories of Marengo, Ulm, and Austerlitz; and how, in their little parties of two and three, they walked a mile farther together in the fields or by the sides of the Tweed, or peradventure indulged in an extra pint with one another, though most of them were temperate men: or, I might describe to you how, upon such occasions, they would ask eagerly, "But what is _James_ saying to it?" I, however, shall dwell only upon his conduct when he heard of the battle of Jena. He was standing with a brother Leveller at a corner of the village when the mail arrived which conveyed the important tidings. I think I see him now, as he appeared at that moment. Both were in expectation of momentous information--they ran to the side of the coach together. "What news?--what news?" they inquired of the guard at once. He stooped down, as they ran by the side of the coach, and informed them. The eyes of James glowed with delight--his nostrils were dilated.