48 
on a rock in the midst of the ocean, 
and in the arms of a few faithful ser- 
vants, the mortal career of this extra- 
ordinary man, who had not his equal 
in the ages that are past, nor will have, 
in all probability, in the future. 
Thus finished this political and war- 
like Colossus, whose remains ought to 
be consigned to a rich mausoleum, in 
the execution of which, the combined 
talents of the great masters of the fine 
arts, ought to be employed. But, alas! 
the remains of this first of heroes, now 
lie buried under an humble stone, at a 
«listance of nearly six thousand miles 
from the theatre of his exploits! The 
intrepid soldier, who, during sixteen 
years, conducted millions of men to 
victory, had only a few despairing 
friends, and his relenting gaolers— 
moved with compassion, to serve him 
as an escort to the field of repose. 
With the exception of a few indivi- 
duals, cowardly sycophants of Sir 
, every one who was de- 
serving the name of Englishman felt 
interested in the misfortunes of Napo- 
poleon: some, even, would have wished 
at the risk of their lives, to ameliorate 
his fate, and redouble his consolations. 
Of this number was Capt. Poppleton, 
an officer of artillery. attached to his 
person. When this brave officer, who 
knew how to reconcile his duties with 
the regard and respect due to misfor- 
tune, came to take the last leave of 
Napoleon, the latter made him a present 
of a snuff-box enriched with brilliants, 
saying to him; *“ Adieu, my friend, 
here is the sole bagatelle which is left 
me; deign to receive it, asa proof of 
my gratitude for the noble conduct 
which you have held towards me; this 
trifling gift will recall to you my re} 
inembrance after my death. Tell also 
to your countrymen, in the most dis- 
tinct terms, that I have never con- 
founded them with my oppressors.” 
The captain, deeply affected, seized 
the hand of Napoleon, which he bathed 
with tears. ‘“ Weep not, captain,” 
said the dying man, “I shall soon 
suffer no more !”’ 
Towards the end of 1817, Bonaparte 
received a copy of a work, entitled 
“ Manuscrit venu de Sainte Héléne.”’ 
Searcely had he got it in his possession 
when he shut himself up in his cabinet 
in order to peruse it. We shall here 
leave the individual, who was at the 
same time eye-witness and actor in the 
scene, to speak for himself:— 
Last Six Months of Napoleon. 
[Keb. 1, 
It was about the end of September, 
about two o’clock in theafternoon, when 
Santini* came to summon me to the 
presence of the Emperor. I found Na- 
poleon lively affected. “ See,” said he, 
presenting me with the pamphlet, “ this 
is what is published in France under 
my name, and which is freely cireulated 
in all Europeas coming from me. Read 
it; you will there see what miserable 
policy is attributed to me; what prin- 
ciples they ascribe; what detestable 
confessions they make ime utter: it isa 
diabolical work, compiled by my bit- 
terest enemies, for the purpose of losing 
me in the estimation of the allied sove- 
reigns, and thus prevent all hopes of my 
return to Europe.” 
I had only oceasion to read a dozen 
pages of the pamphlet, to assure the 
Emperor that there were not two men 
in France, nor even in Europe, who 
would not immediately discover that 
the work neither was, nor could be; 
from him. ‘“ You would be in the 
right,’’ replied he, “ if my enemies were 
less interested in losing me in public 
opinion. Even the princes, although 
well aware that the book is not mine, 
will not the less, on that account, draw 
a pretext from it, in order to perpetuate 
my sorrows.” 
There are no species of reports to 
which the death of Bonaparte has not 
given birth. It is principally on the 
causes which have produced it that 
public opinion varies the most. We 
shall not hazard giving our opinion on 
so delicate an affair. We shall content 
ourselves with making known certain 
facts which, if they were not the pri- 
mary cause of the decease of so extra- 
ordinary a man, were not less of a na- 
ture to hasten his days, supposing that 
policy had no hand in his death. 
Bonaparte was secretly undermining 
his health with excessive grief; it prey- 
ed heavy upon his mind, and nothing 
was more nafural; but, among the 
number of his sorrows, there was one 
more deadly than all the rest; it was 
not the loss of his throne, however sen- 
sibly he felt that ; it was not his exile 
in the middle of the ocean, whatever 
were the inconveniences and ennui at- 
tending it. 
Napoleon had a firm conviction that 
his consort, the Arch-Duchess, had never 
endeavoured to do for him what, in 
* Santini, a Corsican by birth, attached 
to the person of Bonaparte, at St. Helena. 
the 
