From where I sat, I could see in the gorge beneath, very plainly, the “Briers,” the home and habitation of Napoleon until Longwood could be gotten ready for his reception. It is situated behind a naked, stony hill, and must have been a warm abode, but Napoleon liked it for its quaintness and solitude; preferring it to better houses in the town, where privacy would have been impossible. The place is enclosed by low walls and rows of the prickly pear. On resuming my tramp, I passed some swarthy-featured, black-haired, fine-formed young women, barefooted, and lightly clad, carrying bundles of twigs on their heads, with which they walked, with apparently perfect indifference, notwithstanding the steepness of road and the intense rays of the sun. I soon reached and went by an old cottage in decay, a rusty signal-gun, a wayside inn with an embowered doorway, and then passing through a lane of trees, I entered upon a level road, which, in the space of three quarters of a mile, turned in crescent to the left. Some distance below, within this crescent, a lot of fir, cypress, and other trees, with grassy sod, terminated a small valley which commenced in desolation from the seaside. This spot was enclosed by a low, straggling fence, having a kind of sentry-box at its gate, and contains the vacant tomb of Napoleon. I descended to the place, paid the shilling entrance required of me, and entered the enclosure. The willow-tree which so invariably figured in all drawings of the spot, is now gone. The grave is enclosed by a plain iron railing, and, when I saw it, covered over with an awning. Its present appearance is that of the strong foundation of an elongated old spring-house, lined with cement. It is eight feet deep, having at the bottom a small recess sunk below the general level, which received the coffin, and about five feet wide. Desirous of getting the exact measurement of so much greatness, one of our party stretched himself at full length in this lower deep, but its chilliness soon made him have as little desire to continue there, as the old hero of New Orleans had to repose after death in the sarcophagus of one of the Cæsars, which the very considerate kindness of a commodore had brought for him. The whole surface of the plastering down in the tomb is covered with scarcely-legible names, or petty ambition’s trashy verses. The same very limited aspiration is to be seen in the pages of a register kept at the place, where the national animosities of visiting-strangers play shuttlecock and battledore. The obstinate and collected Englishman repeats the commonplace of Sir Walter Scott, in wishing you to behold the spot which held him for whom the earth was once too small, or ethically informs you, that one life being taken constitutes murder, but that of thousands makes a hero; then comes the mercurial Frenchman, who, after relieving himself by a great big “_sacre_” on the English nation generally and the island jailer in