ST. HELENA 245 



but soon after died before much further progress had been made in 

 the work, which fully accounts for the delay of the publication. 

 *; In their original form these memoirs would have embraced 

 notices of his early occupations in Sicily, Corsica and Calabria, and 

 would have made public many valuable letters and documents con- 

 nected with affairs of that part of the world, from the most emi- 

 nent soldiers and diplomatists of that eventful time. 



To St. Helena, of course, the most interesting part would have 

 related to the period while he was Governor and had charge of 

 Napoleon. It has been confidently asserted that the scurrilous 

 libels of Montholon and other Bonapartists would be shown in their 

 true light, and the extent of their exaggerations and misstatements 

 fully revealed, for young Lowe possessed all the qualifications for 

 the task and had naturally a greater and more direct personal 

 interest in the issue of the matter than a stranger could be expected 

 to have. The change of editors is therefore to be regretted in more 

 respects than one, although it cannot be doubted that posterity 

 will do Sir Hudson justice, which Napoleon appears to have thought 

 would be just only to his own reputation. Posterity has done justice 

 to Napoleon, and will do so yet for the memory of Sir Hudson Lowe. 



THE EXPEDITION TO SAINT HELENA. 

 Translated from the French of Arthur Bertrand. 



A voyage of five thousand miles, to fetch from the land of his exile, 

 and render to this country the ashes of its hero, is an event without 

 example in history, and a fact so remarkable that the least circum- 

 stance connected with it excites our interest. While events succeed 

 each other so rapidly, and are so soon forgotten, the memory of 

 Napoleon appears to revive each day. In the cottage, in the salon, in 

 the palace and amongst the names of men of modern days, no one is 

 so often heard of as that of Napoleon, and to no other can be applied 

 with truth these two lines of one of the first of our lyric poets : 



" Ce heros n'est pas port ; beau de lui-me'ines 



Vit encore parmi nous." 

 " The hero is not dead ; his better part remains 



And lives amongst us still." 



Two good anchors at length held us safely moored, and for the 

 first time for twenty years I breathe the air of the land where I was 

 born. I smiled upon these rocks blackened with age, I saw grace 

 in these mountains, which lose themselves in the sky, which, how- 

 ever, others are slow to admire. It was in vain that I tried to prove 

 to my companions that there is more of grace and majesty in the 

 elevation of these rocks, than in the finest fields of Europe. I saw 

 all here under a different aspect, d'un oeil amoureux ; for it is the 

 land of my birth, it is the cradle of my infancy, that I salute. 



Before casting anchor we had perceived a man-of-war under the 

 tricolour flag, the captain of which soon after came to the commander 

 of the frigate. We had left Cherbourg on the 3oth July, and had on 

 board a pilot de la Manchi, for the Bette-Poule. Captain Doret, com- 



