"Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones! And can he thus survive!" So Byron sang, in accents of astonishment, long before the object of it was even once buried. Is the note of wonder less called for, and less natural now—now that the world has lived to witness, not only the first, but the second funeral of its Imperial Agitator? Is this Napoleon le Grand! and looked Alexander after this fashion—barring the decorations of his bony extremities! Agitator still! Aye, Agitator even in thine ashes thou must be called—whatsoever name else thou mayst be destined to survive! Whether Boney, Bonyparty, Buonaparte, Napoleon, Emperor! Whether in the future, as in the past, thou shalt be addressed by any one of that astounding collection of titles which the most metaphysical and admiring of thy biographers once gathered from the public journals and set forth in startling array—as Monster, Tyrant, Fiend, Upstart, Usurper, Rebel, Regicide, Traitor, Wretch, Villain, Knave, Fool, Madman, Coward, Impostor—or these again with suitable adjectives to reinforce them, as Unnatural Monster, Sanguinary Tyrant, Diabolical Fiend, Corsican Upstart, Military Usurper, Wicked Rebel, Impious Regicide, Perfidious Traitor, Vile Wretch, Base Villain, Low-born Knave, Rank Fool, Egregious Madman, Notorious Coward, Detestable Impostor;—or this other set of epithets, which, in more countries than France, and not unsparingly in our own, have since been associated with thy name—as Conqueror, Potentate, Preserver, Genius, Liberator, Law-giver, Statesman, Ruler, Regenerator, Enthusiast, Martyr, Hero, Benefactor—these again being reinforced as before, thus—Invincible Conqueror, Mighty Potentate, Glorious Preserver, Guardian Genius, Generous Liberator, Enlightened Law-giver, Magnificent Statesman, Wise Ruler, National Regenerator, Sincere Enthusiast, Devoted Martyr, Triumphant Hero, Beneficent Benefactor:—by these names, by any one of them possibly, thou mayst not be especially distinguished in after times; but as Agitator at least thou must be hailed while language lasts! —It may justly be doubted whether the figure thus looking down upon a pyramid of skulls, is indeed "the man of thousand thrones"—whether he does "thus survive." The design is one of those that "show men as they ought to be, not as they are." That opening of the coffin at St. Helena opens up a world of curiosity, of wonder, and alarm. All the spectators were awed and astounded at the absence of the great Dictator of the Grave—Change! All the beholders were stricken to marble, or melted into water-drops, to see Death looking like Life; to survey the pale and placid features of the Emperor, expressing the serenity of repose, not the workings of decay—to witness a sign of power beyond that which ordinary clay may boast, and to feel that a "divinity did hedge" indeed the hero-king, in preserving all that was mortal of the Now, it will be remembered that Fauntleroy was considered to bear a decided resemblance to Napoleon—a very respectable "likeness-done-in-this-style" sort of portrait—and Fauntleroy, as we all hear, is said to be alive still! Somebody has remarked—in fact we remarked it ourselves—that on dit is French for "a lie;" and so it may be in this particular: still the coincidence is curious. Even the likeness of Napoleon is associated with things living; but Napoleon himself has been seen, recognised, identified—looking like life itself—sleeping, sightless, but not dead. We have all been reminded lately of the manner in which his return from Elba was announced in the Moniteur. It will bear repetition here:—"1st announcement—The demon has escaped from banishment: he has run away from Elba. 2d—The Corsican dragon has landed at Cape Juan. 3d.—The tiger has shown himself at Gap—the troops are advancing from all sides, in order to arrest his progress—he cannot possibly escape. 4th—The monster has really advanced as far as Grenoble—we know not to what treachery to ascribe it. 5th—The tyrant is actually at Lyons. Fear and terror seized all at his appearance. 6th—The usurper has ventured to approach the capital to within sixty hours' march. 7th—Buonaparte is advancing by forced marches—but it is impossible he should reach Paris. 8th—Napoleon will reach under the walls of Paris to-morrow. 9th—The Emperor is at Fontainbleau. 10th—Yesterday evening his Majesty the Emperor made his public entry, and arrived at the palace of the Tuileries—nothing can exceed the universal joy!" What would be his reception now, were he—as he escaped so strangely from Elba, and worked his way still more strangely from under the willow of St. Helena—were he to wake where he is! The people cried Vive l'Empereur as the coffin that held him was borne by. And truly the Emperor yet lives in France!
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