of warning should have gone unheeded.  A body of men with a spark of humane feeling would have thrown political exigencies to the winds and defied all the powers of earth and hell to prevent them from at once offering their prisoner a home in the land of a generous people.  What had they to fear from a man whose political career ended when he gave himself up to the captain of the Bellerophon, and whose health was now shattered by disease and ill-usage?  Had the common people of this nation known all that was being perpetrated in their name, the Duke of Wellington and all his myrmidons could not have withstood the revolt against it, and were such treatment to be meted out to a political prisoner of our day, the wrath of the nation might break forth in a way that would teach tyrants a salutary lesson.

But this great man was at the mercy of a lot of little men.  They were too cowardly to shoot him, so they determined on a cunning dastardly process of slow assassination.  The pious bard who sings the praises of Napoleon’s executioners—­Wellington and his coadjutors—­and whose “History” was unworthy of the reputations of himself and his publishers, will have sunk into oblivion when the fiery soul of the “Sultan Kebir"[2] will seize on the imagination of generations yet unborn, and intoxicate them with the memory of the deeds that he had done.

Napoleon has said, “In the course of time, nothing will be thought so fine nor seize the attention so much as the doing of justice to me.  I shall gain ground every day on the minds of the people.  My name will become the star of their rights, it will be the expression of their regrets."[3] This statement is as prophetic as many others, more or less important, made by Napoleon to one or other of his suite.  It is remarkable how accurately he foretold events and the impressions that would be formed of himself.

Had the warning given so frequently to Sir Hudson Lowe been conveyed to his Government, and had they acted upon it, there is little doubt that a change of climate would have prolonged the Emperor’s life.  But in going over those dreary nauseous documents which relate the tale, one becomes permeated with the belief that the intention was to torture, if not to kill.  Dr. Antommarchi, who succeeded Dr. O’Meara as medical attendant to the Emperor, confirms all that O’Meara had conveyed so frequently to the Governor and to the Admiralty.  The Council sent for him to give them information as to the climate of St. Helena.  They express the opinion that at Longwood it is “good.”  Antommarchi replies, “Horrible,” “Cold,” “Hot,” “Dry,” “Damp,” “Variation of atmosphere twenty times in a day.”  “But,” said they, “this had no influence on General Bonaparte’s health,” and the blunt reply of Antommarchi is flung at them, “It sent him to his grave.”  “But,” came the question, “what would have been the consequences of a change of residence?” “That he would still be living,” said Antommarchi.  The dialogue continues, the doctor scoring heavily all the way through.  At length one of the Council becomes offended at his daring frankness, and blurts forth in “statesmanlike” anger:  “What signifies, after all, the death of General Bonaparte?  It rids us of an implacable enemy.”