On Buonaparte’s arrival from Egypt, he found things as favourable for his projected usurpation as his most sanguine hopes could have imagined.  In the eighteen months which had preceded his arrival, there had arisen no fewer than four constitutions, and the French might well exclaim, “They have made us so many constitutions, that we have now none remaining!” Wearied out with the succession of sanguinary factions, each endeavouring to establish itself by proscriptions, banishments, and confiscations, France submitted without opposition to the government of a ruler, who seemed sufficiently strong to keep all minor tyrants in subjection; and, despairing of freedom, sought only an interval of repose.  This hope was, however, not destined to be realized, for Buonaparte soon pursued all those who presumed to oppose his schemes in the slightest degree with astonishing eagerness, and those who submitted with the most alacrity, were treated only with contempt.

He was hardly seated on his throne, before he spoke of making France a camp, and all the French soldiers.  A long series of success made him despise those precautions so necessary to insure it, and rendered his catastrophe the more striking.

The character given by Seneca of the Corsicans, has been quoted as applicable to the most famous character that island has ever produced:  he says, “the leading characteristics of these islanders are revenge, theft, lying, and impiety.”  Over the downfall of such a man, the civilized world must rejoice; but the contemplation of his character affords a salutary lesson to ambition, which, carried to excess, ruins that greatness it would so madly increase.

The last years of his reign were distinguished by the number of plots which were pretended to be discovered, and proved the truth of a remark of Mary de Medicis, “That a false report believed during three days, tended to secure the crown on the head of an usurper.”

But neither his guards, nor his police, could insure him a moment of repose.

    “Volvilur Ixion, et se sequiturque fugitque.”

Modern history has fully demonstrated a truth, which might have been collected from more ancient records, and of which England affords an illustrious example, that the attachment of a free and enlightened people is the only basis on which thrones can rest with security.

Having now sufficiently satisfied my curiosity at Fontainbleau, I determined on continuing my journey (which I fear my reader may regret I did not do sooner), and I accordingly arrived at noon at Montereau, which is an inconsiderable town, but beautifully situated in a fertile plain, at the junction of the rivers Seine and Yonne.  The bridges over those rivers had been partly broken down, to impede the progress of the allied troops in the late memorable campaign.  They have been repaired with timber in a temporary manner, but cannot be considered as at all sufficiently secure for the passage of heavy carriages.  Many of the houses in this town still exhibit abundant marks of bullets, but the country around appears in such a luxuriant state of cultivation, that had I not myself seen the spot where a battle had been fought in the last spring, I could hardly hare persuaded myself it had so lately been the theatre of war.