The great captive lived six years at St. Helena, converting his rock into a monument, of imperishable glory. Memory once more brought kings, as suppliants, into his presence. The mighty conqueror saw again all nations tremble at his approach. The captivity at St. Helena is an epilogue; that at Ham a prologue. The sad, poetic prisoner, filled with dreams of a wonderful future, sustained by unshaken faith in the star of his destiny, had also passed six years in his dreary prison; so far as men could see, calmly accepting whatever fate might bring. He had said: “I prefer to be a captive on French soil rather than a free man in foreign land.” * * * * * In the year 1845 he received a letter which changed his mind and influenced his destiny. It was from his father, for whom he had a profound veneration, and towards whom he had ever been faithful in the discharge of filial duties. King Louis had not been sparing in his blame of the vain hopes which had led his son to the escapades of Strasbourg and Boulogne. With a gloomy memory, replete with bitterness, of all the tempestuous glory of his family, he looked with anger and compassion upon this audacious soul—his son who could throw himself into the stormy ocean of human greatness. A king against his will, an unhappy husband, a loving father deprived by fate of his children, his life had been one of sadness and disappointment. In August, 1845, he wrote: My son, you deceive yourself strangely if you believe me indifferent to your position and your sufferings. Doubtless I am unable to forget that you placed yourself in this position out of mere wantonness, but I suffer from your sufferings because I had hoped for some solace in your happiness, a happiness which should be independent of all the glories of life. Moral sufferings have reduced me to the point of being no longer able to stand upright, or even to rise from my chair without assistance; and yet I have no one who can assist me. I cannot even write any more, and you will see from my signature how I can sign. I have taken some measures for you, but it is only too probable that they will be useless, like all which have been attempted hitherto. The Prince replied: