Among the famous generals of the revolution, there were few who were not comparatively boys. Hoche, who was thought by many to be equal to Bonaparte, died at thirty. Honchard, when guillotined, was thirty-two. Kleber, one of the oldest and best, was forty. Dessaix, the knight, without fear and without reproach, was thirty when he received his death wound at Marengo. Other great captains who afterwards became renowned, Ney, Soult, Joubert, (only twenty-five,) M’Donald, Lannes, Duroc, Victor, Mortier, Oudinot, Murat, Eugene, (a mere boy,) &c. &c., were all young. But the giant is behind—Him! Bonaparte! the little corporal was but twenty-four.
Well did the Swedish chancellor, Oxenstrein, say to his son, when he sent him on his travels, “Go, son, and discover what little wisdom it takes to govern the world!”
September Thoughts.
The gay, beautiful, and ever welcome months of summer are gone, and the months of autumn have begun to take their place. Our summer movements are fast closing,—our summer journeyings are passing away,—the travelling invalid and belle of fashion now wend their way homeward. Our merry meetings upon land and water, our annual visits, our assemblies under the canopy of heaven, our sailing excursions, our night wanderings,—all will soon be over. To be sure, Niagara still will thunder, and still there will be the rushing of mighty waters from her magnificent falls; but her music will be music for herself alone. The multitude who have gazed in wonder upon this mighty work of an Omnipotent Architect, will soon be far distant. Saratoga, too,—that little world of folly and of fashion, where thousands congregate to kill time, or else, perchance, to woo and wed,—will soon be desolate.
Two months hence and the cap and the cloak will take the place of our summer apparel. Our summer breezes will be changed into autumn winds. The gay and pleasing attire of our green fields and pleasant gardens will present the forbidding coldness of their own peculiar desolation. Our trees will cast off their foliage and their fruits, and instead of the blossom and the rose, the desert will appear. “Thus passes the glory of the world.” But a truce to autumn reflections.
September, then, has come among us. It is the time for trade, the signal for business, the prelude to long nights and short days, the time for balls and parties, the time for work, and the time for play; the time for merchants and clerks to rise early and retire late; the time for our mechanics to work in the evening and sleep in the morning; the time for wooing and wedding; the time to prepare for winter—to buy your fuel and make ready for stormy days. It is the time to make money and pay your debts, the time to study, and the time to make good bargains; the time to be honest, and the time to speak the truth; the time to make friends, and the time to do good. In a word, it is the time, our time, the only time. To our good mothers, grandmothers, and daughters, we say then, improve it; and to our perpetual motion business men, who neither sleep long nor slumber long, our advice is not needed. To the drones and sluggards that surround us, we say, prepare for freezing time and starving time, for a bed of ice and snow, and for a beggar’s meal. To the drunkard, we say, keep sober; and to the sober, we say, keep the bowl from the drunkard. Our advice is for all, and good to all, and he, whomsoever he may be, is a criminal who will not take it.
Politeness.—Men think very little of the value of a bow; how small the cost and how great the return. So, for a few soft words and pleasant looks, interest is paid, compound and simple added together. How many compliments have been lost on the one hand, and gained on the other, from neglecting or putting into exercise this one important thing. A nod! Why, it has gained more friends than wealth and learning together. A compliment, a fine speech, a pleasant look, are each more valuable than rubies. There is yet another value to politeness, which till lately the world knew but little, and but perhaps for Louis Phillippe and Alibeau, nothing would have been known. It seems that the king was in the act of bowing to the national guards, at the moment the assassin, Alibeau, discharged his weapon at the monarch’s head. Evidently the king’s politeness saved him his life.