THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
London: Published for Henry Colburn, March, 1836.

On the report of the death of Napoleon, it must, however, be said, that there was but one single cry, one selfsame sentiment in the streets, in the shops, in the public places; even the saloons shewed some feeling: the cabinets alone shewed themselves insensible, worse than insensible! But, after all, it was natural, they breathed, at length, at their ease....

During his life, in the time of his power, he had been assailed with pamphlets and libels; on his death, we were suddenly inundated with productions in his praise—a contrast, nevertheless, that gives a little relief from so much meanness of the human heart. There were every where, and from all parts, compositions in prose and in verse, paintings, portraits, pictures, lithographs, and a thousand little things more or less ingenious, proving much better than all the pomp of kings could do the sincerity, the extent, the vivacity of the sentiments which he left behind him. A clergyman on the banks of the Rhine, the place of whose residence had received some particular favour from the Emperor, assembled his parishioners, and made them pray for their old benefactor. In a large city of Belgium, a great number of citizens subscribed for a solemn funeral service, and if they abstained from the performance of it, it was much more from etiquette than in consequence of any interdict. Then these words of Napoleon, which I have often heard him repeat, were verified:—“In the course of time, nothing will be thought so fine, or strike the attention so much, as the doing of justice to me.... I shall gain ground every day in the minds of the people. My name will become the star of their rights; it will be the expression of their regrets.” And all these circumstances are verified in every country and every where. Without reckoning things of this kind, of which I am no doubt unaware, a peer of Great Britain shortly after said in open Parliament, “That the very persons who detested this great man have acknowledged that for ten centuries there had not appeared upon earth a more extraordinary character. All Europe,” added he, “has worn mourning for the hero; and those who have contributed to that great sacrifice are devoted to the execrations of the present generation as well as to those of posterity.”[[46]]

Two German professors, who either had always known his real character, or had been cured of their national prejudices, have erected upon their grounds a monument to his memory, with some inscriptions, indicating that, with him, fell a funereal veil over the rights of the people, and the ascendant impulse of civilization.

Our writers have defended his memory, our poets have celebrated it, and our orators, in the legislative tribunal, have proclaimed aloud the attachment which they had felt for him, or that they are honoured by the distinctions which they had received from him.

Nothing now remained for me but to return to my country. In crossing the frontier, at the end of the second emigration, I could not avoid thinking of the circumstances of my return after the first, and what a difference of sentiment distinguished them! Then I seemed, at every step, to advance amidst a hostile population; now I felt as if I was entering into my family. I soon beheld again all my companions of Longwood, and, while embracing them, I could not deny myself one melancholy reflection—we were all met again; but he for whom we had sought the fatal rock, he alone remained there! I recollected that he had told us it would be so, and many other things besides. I learned from all these eye-witnesses the details and the circumstances of the ill treatment which, since my departure, had been daily increasing; and I saw that the times which I had known had not even been the most unhappy moments.

STATUE OF NAPOLEON
ON THE COLUMN OF THE PLACE VENDÔME.
London: Published for Henry Colburn, December, 1835.

I read his last will; I there found my name, three or four times, in his own hand!—What were my emotions!—Assuredly I did not stand in need of them for my reward. For a long time I have carried it within my breast. But the remembrances, however, were dear and precious—how much more precious than millions! And yet he joined to them large sums from those of his family who were most nearly connected with him, and were dearest to him. If they ever pay them, so much the better; that will concern them hereafter more than me. I should have liked to consider myself only as a kind of depository. I even wished to anticipate them, but I found it necessary to stop: my means did not allow me to make these advances. My happiness would have been great in affording a retirement to a few civil and military veterans. In our long evenings, we should have often spoken of his battles or discoursed of his heart.