immediately to St. Helena. He was not, however, allowed to land; and, having spent some days at the anchorage, sailed on February 25, 1817, for England.

These refractory captives of the British authorities seem to have been a source of great perplexity to them, to say nothing of the cost to the nation caused by the hopeless incapacity displayed in dealing with them. The business grows so farcical that the English guardians become the laughing-stock of the most menial creatures on the island.

Immediately on his arrival in London Santini issued a touching appeal to the British people, laying naked the St. Helena atrocities, the main facts of which have never been contradicted. Any exaggerations which may appear in the pamphlet, coming as they do from a soldier whose adoration for his Emperor amounted to fanaticism, may be excused; but, whatever his faults, the ugly facts remain unshaken.

There is no evidence in all the voluminous publications concerning Napoleon at St. Helena that there would have been a shred of mourning put on by the best men and women of any nationality residing on this inhospitable rock had Santini or any one else despatched the petty tyrant who was carrying on a nefarious assassination by the consent, if not the instructions, of an equally nefarious Ministry. Perhaps his Imperial victim would have been the only person outside his family and official circle who would have deplored the act. It is pretty generally admitted that Lowe was detested by all classes who knew of the villainous methods adopted by him to give pain to Napoleon and to any one who showed the slightest sympathy towards him.

Letters from and to his wife, "the amiable Austrian Archduchess," his mother, and other members of his family, were not allowed to pass unless scrutinised and commented upon by this insatiable gaoler. Letters written to the Ministry and to well-disposed public men outside it were not forwarded, on the pretext that the title of Emperor was used. A marble bust of the Emperor's son was brought to St. Helena by T.M. Radowich, master gunner aboard the ship Baring. It was taken possession of by the authorities, and had been in Lowe's hands for some days when he intimated to Count Bertrand that, though it was against the regulations, he would take upon himself to hand over some presents sent out by Lady Holland and some left by Mr. Manning. A more embarrassing matter was the handing over of the bust. The mystery and comic absurdity of some Government officials of that time, or even of this, is amazing.

Lowe's dull perceptions had been awakened. He realised that he might be accused of having committed an exceedingly dirty trick. He thinks it in keeping with the dignity of his high office to become uneasy about the retention of these articles, especially the statue of the King of Rome. So with unconscious humour he asks the Count if he thinks Napoleon would really like to have his son's bust. The Count replies, "You had better send it this very evening, and not detain it until to-morrow." Lowe is aggrieved at the coldness of the reply. He presumably expected Bertrand to gush out torrents of gratitude. But the French code of real good taste and humane bearing put Sir Hudson Lowe beneath their contempt. To them he had become indescribable.

To all those who had access to Napoleon, the burning love he had for his son was well known, and in one of those outbursts of passionate anguish he declares to the Countess of Montholon that it was for him alone that he returned from Elba, and if he still formed some expectations in exile, they were for him also. He declares that he is the source of his greatest anguish, and that every day he costs him tears of blood. He imagines to himself the most horrid events, which he cannot remove from his mind. He sees either the potion or the empoisoned fruit which is about to terminate the days of the young innocent by the most cruel sufferings, and then, after this pouring out of the innermost soul, he pleads with Madame to compassionate his weakness, and asks her to console him.

This learned warrior-statesman was also a poet, and but for the solitude of exile we should probably never have seen that side of this versatile nature. The lines which he writes to the portrait of his son are painfully touching. For some reason they were kept concealed, and found some time afterwards. Here they are, but the English translation does not do them justice:—