From “Pictures of Travel.” Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland.

WHEN I think of the great Emperor, all in my memory again becomes summer-green and golden. A long avenue of lindens rises blooming around; on the leafy twigs sit singing nightingales, the waterfall rustles, flowers are growing from full round beds, dreamily nodding their fair heads. I stood amidst them once in wondrous intimacy; the rouged tulips, proud as beggars, condescendingly greeted me; the nervous, sick lilies nodded with woeful tenderness; the tipsy red roses nodded at me at first sight from a distance; the night violets sighed; with the myrtle and laurel I was not then acquainted, for they did not entice with a shining bloom; but the reseda, with whom I am now on such bad terms, was my very particular friend. I am speaking of the court garden of Düsseldorf, where I often lay upon the bank, and piously listened there when Monsieur Le Grand told of the warlike feats of the great Emperor, beating meanwhile the marches which were drummed during the deeds, so that I saw and heard all to the life. I saw the passage over the Simplon—the Emperor in advance and his brave grenadiers climbing on behind him, while the scream of frightened birds of prey sounded around, and avalanches thundered in the distance; I saw the Emperor with flag in hand on the bridge of Lodi; I saw the Emperor in his gray cloak at Marengo; I saw the Emperor mounted in the battle of the Pyramids—naught around save powder, smoke, and Mamelukes; I saw the Emperor in the battle of Austerlitz—ha! how the bullets whistled over the smooth, icy road; I saw, I heard the battle of Jena—dum, dum, dum; I saw, I heard the battles of Eylau, of Wagram—no, I could hardly stand it! Monsieur Le Grand drummed so that I nearly burst my own sheepskin.

  But what were my feelings when I first saw with highly blest (and with my own) eyes him, Hosannah! the Emperor!

  It was exactly in the avenue of the Court Garden at Düsseldorf. As I pressed through the gaping crowd, thinking of the doughty deeds and battles which Monsieur Le Grand had drummed to me, my heart beat the “general march”—yet at the same time I thought of the police regulation that no one should dare, under penalty of five dollars fine, ride through the avenue. And the Emperor with his cortége rode directly down the avenue. The trembling trees bowed towards him as he advanced, the sun rays quivered, frightened, yet curiously through the green leaves, and in the blue heaven above there swam visibly a golden star. The Emperor wore his invisible green uniform and the little world-renowned hat. He rode a white palfrey which stepped with such calm pride, so confidently, so nobly—had I then been Crown Prince of Prussia I would have envied that horse. The Emperor sat carelessly, almost lazily, holding with one hand his rein, and with the other good-naturedly patting the neck of the horse. It was a sunny marble hand, a mighty hand,—one of the pair which bound fast the many-headed monster of Anarchy, and reduced to order the war of races,—and it good-naturedly patted the neck of the horse. Even the face had that hue which we find in the marble Greek and Roman busts, the traits were as nobly proportioned as in the antiques, and on that countenance was plainly written, “Thou shalt have no gods before me!” A smile, which warmed and tranquillized every heart, flitted over the lips—and yet all knew that those lips needed but to whistle—et la Prusse n’existait plus; those lips needed but to whistle—and the entire clergy would have stopped their ringing and singing; those lips needed but to whistle—and the entire holy Roman realm would have danced. It was an eye, clear as heaven, it could read the hearts of men, it saw at a glance all things at once, and as they were in this world, while we ordinary mortals see them only one by one and by their shaded hues. The brow was not so clear, the phantoms of future battles were nestling there, and there was a quiver which swept over the brow, and those were the creative thoughts, the great seven-mile-boots thoughts, wherewith the spirit of the Emperor strode invisibly over the world—and I believe that every one of those thoughts would have given to a German author full material wherewith to write, all the days of his life.

  The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Indian Sea lies his lonely grave, and he for whom the world was too narrow lies silently under a little hillock, where five weeping willows hang their green heads, and a gentle little brook, murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by. There is no inscription on his tomb; but Clio, with unerring pen, has written thereon invisible words, which will resound, like spirit tones, through thousands of years.

  Britannia! the sea is thine. But the sea hath not water enough to wash away the shame with which the death of that Mighty One hath covered thee. Not thy windy Sir Hudson—no, thou thyself wert the Sicilian bravo with whom perjured kings bargained, that they might revenge on the man of the people that which the people had once inflicted on one of themselves. And he was thy guest, and had seated himself by thy hearth.

  Until the latest times the boys of France will sing and tell of the terrible hospitality of the Bellerophon; and when those songs of mockery and tears resound across the strait, there will be a blush on the cheeks of every honorable Briton. But a day will come when this song will ring thither, and there will be no Britannia in existence—when the people of pride will be humbled to the earth, when Westminster’s monuments will be broken, and when the royal dust which they inclosed will be forgotten. And St. Helena is the Holy Grave, whither the races of the East and of the West will make their pilgrimage in ships, with pennons of many a hue, and their hearts will grow strong with great memories of the deeds of the worldly savior, who suffered and died under Sir Hudson Lowe, as it is written in the evangelists, Las Casas, O’Meara, and Antommarchi.

  Strange! A terrible destiny has already overtaken the three greatest enemies of the Emperor. Londonderry has cut his throat, Louis XVIII. has rotted away on his throne, and Professor Saalfeld is still, as before, professor in Göttingen.