It seems as difficult to disabuse the minds of the unbelieving Thomases of to-day, as it was of old; if once their opinions are formed, no matter how erroneous, they will persistently cling to them. And a belief in there being Salix Napoleana, distinctly different from the common Weeping willow, S. Babylonica, proves there are still believers in this common error. To decide the vexed question so often mooted, I promised some friends to state through the Monthly, for the good of whom it may concern, what I know about it.

Some years ago, "when in the course of human events," your horticultural scribe tarried awhile beneath the famous tree, or trees, at Longwood, St. Helena, he took notes of what he saw around. Thus, being on the spot where the debatable willow grew, the real tree or trees were closely examined with a view to ascertain whether S. Napoleana, so-called, differs from S. Babylonica, and if so, in what respect.

Instead of one at the time mentioned, there were two of the most scraggy, forlorn-looking trees imaginable, overhanging the empty vault in which, at one time, the body of the notorious Napoleon Bonaparte lay. Desirous of obtaining a twig or two to examine and propagate, the sable cicerone in charge of the place, with the aid of a long bamboo, to the end of which was attached a boat-hook, jerked off a piece from each tree, and for which demanded the usual fee. To go down to the bottom of the empty tomb,* eighteen feet deep, and moralize, to come up again and drink a glass of sparkling aqua pura at Napoleon's spring near by, then to view the Longwood House and surrounding grounds where the ex-emperor lived and languished, was next in order, and according to custom, was gone through. But to make sure nothing was omitted which every well regulated visitor is expected to go through, took a few moments' rest on the worm-eaten and weather-beaten seat under the willows, where the miserable misanthrope used to sit and brood over his misspent life.

Feeling satisfied with having properly done the Napoleonic locale, I retraced my steps along the steep hillside road which picturesquely winds down to Jamestown and the deep blue sea.

*In 1837 Napoleon's remains were removed from St..Helena and reinterred in France.

While the willow twigs from Longwood were fresh, comparisons were made with others taken from some of the numerous specimens of S. Baby-lonica, so luxuriantly growing in the many gardens and grounds around. As thus carefully compared, there did not appear to be the slightest difference between them, except the color of the bark on the young shoots was more rubicund than on those of the sickly old trees by the side of Napoleon's tomb at Longwood. But my experience in such matters readily accounted for the cause. That this slight difference of color has often been the means of misleading many people, I have every reason to believe, as the sequel will show.

No matter what mere opinions may have previously been when maintaining there were two kinds, scientific facts have since decided that S. Napo-leona (so called) is a myth. To quote the emphatic language of the editor: "Napoleon's willow is the female plant. Nothing but the female has been anywhere grown till the introduction recently of S. Japonica, which is the male form of the same. And Napoleon's willow is simply the willow from Napoleon's tomb, and is really S. Babylonica, or weeping willow."

From the history of the original Napoleon weeping willow, it seems to have been a fair sized tree when the exile first landed from H. M. S. Northumberland, in 1815, and was no doubt introduced with other trees from England some time about 1810.

During my stay on the Island I met the celebrated old soldier Tom Evans, who claimed to have been Napoleon's gardener at Longwood House. And a more loquacious soldier or garrulous gardener I should think never shouldered a musket or handled a spade. This remarkable man, of spear and pruning hook fame, was one of the Peninsula heroes when but a youth of nineteen years of age, and was justly proud of the part he performed in the military achievements of Wellington. It was his misfortune to lose an eye at Toulouse, and after Waterloo he accompanied his regiment, which guarded Napoleon at St. Helena. From my informant's account, "Bony," as he always called him, "was a morose and melancholy man, and, who cared not a gun-flint for a garden; but madame, wife of Gen. Bertrand, did, and took great delight in the cultivation of flowers." The same lady planted several willows by the ex-emperor's grave, raised from cuttings of the original one, which was destroyed by a hurricane which swept furiously over the Island soon after Napoleon's death.

And it is probable the two much mutilated trees the writer saw are the only survivors left.

As regards the right or wrong kind of Napoleon willows which travelers take away, it only remains for me to show how they are likely to be deceived in the matter. No sooner does the stranger wend his way towards the landing place at the foot of Jamestown, than he is beset with a noisy multitude of willow venders, whose clamorous importunities to purchase are beyond description. Such a com- ' mercial spirit as is evinced by the Island gamins, big and little, is more remarkable than pleasant, especially if the luckless wayfarer is not disposed to buy. They seem to have a large stock of well-rooted plants, growing in jars, cigar boxes, paint kegs, etc, in readiness for the siege. And, as if the sole aim of life was to sell the voyager a Napoleonic souvenir, they persistently pester and plague him into buying. And no sooner does the stranger yield to temptation than the harpies surge around him, en masse, loudly vociferating he has been swindled. With a seeming virtuous indignation the transaction is pronounced a shameful fraud. Sorely perplexed, while badgered about to understand the meaning of so furious a hubbub about so small a matter, the hapless victim is forced to believe he has unwittingly bought the wrong sort, the Jamestown instead of the Long-wood kind.

Feeling chagrined at the motley ragamuffins' duplicity, some more of the right kind has to be bought, and with which the outraged purchaser runs the gauntlet as best he can, to the friendly boat awaiting. The next surprise in reserve to astonish the bewildered bonhomie, is the discovery of so many little willow groves, much like his own, scattered about the ship, among which he staggers, much amazed at the senseless sailors cursing the blasted rubbish. Leaning against the taffrail to take a last sad look at the lonely Isle where naught besides the willow weepeth -----"O'er that silent spot." the writer thanked God for his safety. Standing by my side I noticed a middle-aged, unhappy-looking man, who, assuming a theatrical attitude, shook his dexter finger at the sons of Belial on the strand, and soliloquizingly exclaimed, "I was a stranger, and ye took me in."

The chronicler since then, has often wondered how many of the hundreds thus imported are afterwards identified as the real Napoleon willows.