PETITION TO THE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND.
A simple individual, a helpless stranger, presumes to raise his voice among you, Representatives of the people of England; but he invokes you in the name of humanity, of justice,—in the name of your glory. Can he speak in vain? must he not be heard? Cast out from St. Helena, forced away from the greatest monument of the vicissitudes of human life that ever existed, I approach you to paint to you his situation, his sufferings. Snatched suddenly and unexpectedly from his presence, deprived of all communication, my words, my ideas, will be all my own: they will have no other source but my heart. Perhaps the lofty spirit of him who is the object of them will be irritated by the step which I am taking at this moment; thinking that here below he ought not, he cannot, appeal from his sufferings, but to God alone. Perhaps he will demand of me who has committed the cares and the interests of his life to me? It matters not: my love for him will have caused my weakness. I feel myself already too far from his heroic influence; my heart can no longer contain the ills of which it has been the witness. They open for themselves a passage; they force me to cry out.
You have banished in the deserts of the ocean him whose magnanimous confidence brought him, freely and from choice, to live among you, under the protection of your laws, which he considered all-powerful. No doubt you sought in your determination only what you conceived to be useful; you did not pretend to be just; otherwise it might be demanded of you, who put him in your power? who gave you the right of judging him? upon what ground have you condemned him? whom have you heard in his defence?... But you have made the law.... It exists; I respect it. I am not entitled to discuss the principle. I will refrain from all murmur; my protest shall not escape from my heart. You shall hear now only the vexations with which your decisions have been attended, and, no doubt, contrary to your intentions. Representatives of Great Britain, you have said you only wished to secure the person of the Emperor Napoleon, and to ensure his detention.—This object attained, you proposed that every thing should be lavished upon him that could soften and alleviate what you have considered the work, the obligation of policy:—such have been the spirit, the letter of your laws, the expression of your debates, the wishes of your nation, the sentiments of its honour. Well, then! only the severe part of your intentions has reached the illustrious captive upon his frightful rock. Happy, however, still, if they never had been transgressed[transgressed]. But the clouds which hang over his island are less dense, less dark, than the moral and physical pains which are heaped upon his head.
Under the vain pretence of apprehensions purely imaginary, every day has seen new restrictions. His proud spirit has every day brooked new outrages; all exercise has become impossible to him; all visits, all conversations, have been nearly interdicted. Thus privations of every kind, vexations of every nature, unite against him with the extreme insalubrity of a climate, at once humid and burning, with the dull monotony of a sky without colours or seasons. They contract every instant, in a frightful manner, the circle of his life! He is compelled to keep his chamber. They are inflicting on him his death!
Did you then intend all these things? No, undoubtedly; and what motives could justify them? The fear of an escape? Then let them call together military and naval men, competent judges, that they may consult their experience, that they may learn their opinions, and let them cease to surrender such an object to the discretion of a single man, who, taking his terrors for his guide, will occupy his time every day with combating phantoms which his own terrified imagination may create, without reflecting that he cannot destroy all chances, or reach them all, but by causing death. At Longwood all escape is held impossible; no one there thinks of it. Certainly, every one would wish to accomplish the enterprise at the expense of his life: death would appear sweet for so glorious a result. But how elude the officers who are constantly on the watch? escape the soldiers who line the shore? descend perpendicular rocks? throw one’s self, as it were, into the vast ocean? clear a first line of boats? a second of ships of war? when one is overlooked from all the heights, where one may be surrounded, pursued with signals every instant, and in all directions? And what mode of embarkation could be hazarded? There is none within reach of the shore. In what vessel could refuge be sought? There is not one far or near; all foreign sail, even those of your own nation, become the prey of your cruisers, if they approach without urgent motives the accursed isle!
With such precautions and under such circumstances, is not then the whole island a prison sufficiently secure? Can it be necessary to fill it incessantly with prisons within prisons? And if so many difficulties could be overcome, which is impossible, the immensity of the seas and almost every land remain still a new prison?
Now who would induce men in their sound senses to dream of such ridiculous attempts? Who at Longwood could entertain thoughts so madly desperate? Besides, the Emperor Napoleon has still the same views, the same desires, which he declared when he came with confidence freely and in good faith among you: ‘A retreat and repose under the protection of your positive laws, or those of America.’ This is what he wished, this is what he wishes still, what he always demands.
If then the island of St. Helena, from its nature, is not already a sufficient prison—if it has not the advantage of combining safety with indulgence, you have been deceived in your choice and your intentions. For what purpose send us to die miserably in a foreign climate? For what purpose all your additional expenses? For what purpose your numerous garrison and its large staff? For what purpose your naval establishment? For what purpose the restrictions imposed upon the commerce of that unfortunate isle? There were many points in your European dominions where you could have kept us without expense, and where we should have considered ourselves less unfortunate! If that island, on the contrary, from its nature, and with the aid of the precautions above stated, presented in itself every thing that human wisdom and prudence can conceive necessary, then would not all aggravating conditions be so many useless vexations, tyrannical and barbarous acts executed against your intention? For it was not your intention to torture Napoleon—to make him die by inches; and yet it is but too true that he is perishing from the incessant wounds of every day, of every hour, of every minute.
If you chose to behold in him a simple prisoner, and not the object of the ostracism of kings, a king himself—if you have designed to give him only a common prison, and not to choose[choose] for him a place where the asperities of his exile might be mitigated—if it was intended to commit him to a gaoler, and not to an officer of high rank, who, by his habits of business and of the world, would know how to unite what he owed to the safety of the captive with the respect and regard which he commands—if it was intended to pursue hatred and vengeance, and all the narrow and vulgar passions—if it was intended only, in fine, to intrust to the climate the death of the illustrious enemy, to charge nature with an act which no one durst execute himself—if all this was intended, I stop; I leave nothing more to say; I have already said too much.
But if, in the spirit of your Bill itself, you meant to accompany your political act, as you in fact did, with all the intentions of a great, noble, and honourable nation, I may continue: for you must have meant all the good that circumstances can permit; interdicted every ill that necessity did not command. You never meant that the prisoner should be deprived of all exercise, by the needless imposition of conditions or forms which would make that recreation a torment.
You have not wished that the nature of his words, the length of his sentences, should be prescribed to him, you have not wished that his original circuit should be abridged upon the pretence that he did not make daily use of its extent; you have not wished that he should be forced to confine himself to his chamber, that he might not find himself in the midst of intrenchments and palisades, with which his garden is ridiculously surrounded.
Now, all these things exist; they are renewed every day, although they are considered useless, and although a great many of your countrymen condemn and lament them.—You did not wish that, to the great detriment of his health and his comforts, he should be condemned to a wretched, small, inconvenient dwelling: while the government had large and fine houses both in town and country, which would have been much more commodious and more appropriate, and would have saved the sending of the famous palace, or to speak much more correctly, of the immense quantity of rough planks, now rotting unused upon the shore, because it has been found that it would require from seven to eight years to complete the intended edifice. You cannot have meant that, in spite of the sums which you have devoted to them, the necessaries of life, all the means of subsistence, furnished daily at Longwood, should be of the worst kind, while others could have those of the best quality; you did not mean that Napoleon should be so far outraged as to attempt to force him to discuss the little details of his own expenditure, that he should be called upon to produce a surplus when he had none; that, in default of his so doing, he should be threatened with insufferable reductions; that he should be forced to desire, in his indignation, ‘To let him be quiet; that he asked for nothing; that when he should be hungry he would go and seat himself among those brave fellows whose tents he perceived at a distance, who would not repulse the oldest soldier in Europe.’—You did not intend that Napoleon should find himself thereby constrained to sell his plate piece-meal, to supply the deficiency of every month, and that he should be reduced to the necessity of accepting what some faithful servants were happy enough to be able to lay at his feet.
O Englishmen! Is it thus they can treat in your name, him who has governed Europe, disposed of so many thrones, created so many kings! Do you not fear the loud complaint of history? Suppose it should hereafter say, ‘They deceived him to get possession of his person, and they afterwards grudged him the means of subsistence.’ Will you suffer your sentiments, your character, your honour, to be thus compromised?[compromised?] Is this then your Bill, your intentions? And what connexion have such unbecoming measures with security? You never intended that authority should make a puerile and barbarous study of incessantly recalling, by words, regulations, and acts, that which it would have been delicate never to mention; by repeating to us every day that we deceived ourselves strangely respecting our position; by rigidly interdicting all unusual respect; in even punishing, as we have been told, those whose habits had inadvertently led them to shew such respect; by restricting the journals furnished us to those which might be the most disagreeable; by voluntarily procuring us libels; and by removing or withholding[withholding], on the contrary, favourable works; in fine, by imposing upon us the literal form of the declaration by which we were to purchase the slavery and the happiness of attending a revered object; by compelling us to admit into it denominations contrary to our habits and to our laws, thus taking advantage of our own hands to degrade the august object whom we surrounded; and yet we were obliged to do it, because, upon our unanimous refusal, we were threatened with being all torn from our pleasing employment, instantly thrown on board ship, and carried to the Cape of Good Hope.—How can these cruel and tyrannical measures contribute to security?
It will be hardly believed that Napoleon, on inquiring if he might be allowed to write to the Prince Regent, was answered by authority that his letter would not be suffered to pass, unless it was open; or that it would be opened to ascertain its contents: a proceeding which reason rejects, as equally insulting to the two august persons.
St. Helena had been chosen for us, we were told, in order that we might be able to enjoy there a certain degree of liberty and some indulgence.—But we cannot speak to any one; we are forbidden to write to any one whomsoever; we are restricted in our most petty domestic affairs. Ditches and intrenchments surround our dwellings; an authority without control governs us. And St. Helena was chosen in order to allow us some indulgence! But what prison in England, then, could have been worse for us? Certainly, there is none there at this day that would not seem to us a blessing. We should find ourselves in a Christian land; we should breathe European air. The control of a superior authority would have sheltered us from personal resentments, from momentary irritation, or even an error in judgment.
It has been insinuated to the officers of your nation that they are not to present themselves before him whom they guard; or they have been forbidden to do so. The English themselves, whatever may be the rank and the confidence which they enjoy, have been forbidden to approach us, and to enter into conversation with us, without formalities which are equivalent to an interdiction, lest we might represent to them the ill usage heaped upon us—a precaution useless with respect to security; but which proves the jealous care with which we are prevented from communicating the truth. Our efforts on this subject have been made a crime; as if to inform you of the truth, particularly where it interests your honour, your character, was not doing you a service.
You certainly never intended to allow such a tyranny over our thoughts and sentiments, as to insinuate to us, or inform us, that, if we continued to express ourselves freely in our letters to our relatives, to our friends, we should be torn from the presence of Napoleon, and banished from the Island. Yet it is precisely this circumstance which has brought about my deportation, by causing me to forward, clandestinely, the very letters which I had in the first instance, intended for the Governor, and which I would have sent to him, had it not been for his vexatious intimation—an intimation gratuitously tyrannical—since these letters were sent open to Ministers, accompanied, if necessary, by the notes of the local authority, that they might be detained by the Ministers, if they were improper; or even delivered up to the laws, if they were criminal: and since, at all events, they must have in their eyes the merit of being a further means of coming at the truth.
Certainly, you never intended that those who had obtained the favour of staying with Napoleon should find themselves within the penalties of the laws, but excluded from their benefit. This is, however, what has been positively signified to us. You did not intend that my most secret, and most sacred, papers should be seized; and, though I had allowed them to be read cursorily, in order to shew their nature, that they should be taken from me, and that I should not be allowed to put my seal upon them. You never intended that a barbarous sport should be made in my case, of whatever is most holy and most sacred among you; that, in contempt of my constant claims to be restored to liberty, or brought to trial; that, in despite of my reiterated offers to submit myself voluntarily, beforehand, to all the privations, even arbitrary, which might be imposed upon me in England, I should be kept prisoner at St. Helena; that I should be sent from that Island to the Cape of Good Hope, to be brought back in the course of time, from the Cape to St. Helena; that I should be carried a prisoner over the vast extent of sea, in a frail vessel, to the great injury of the health of my son, whose life was in danger, to the peril of my own life, which has been afflicted with infirmities that must accompany me to the grave,—if, indeed, they do not plunge me into it before my time.
It was not your intention that, on my arrival at the Cape, the Governor should detain me there arbitrarily, without examination, without inquiry, without inquest, and cause me to wither there in the pangs of sorrow, of delay, and of despair, upon the ridiculous pretence of sending to a distance of two thousand leagues to inquire of my natural judges, the ministers to whom I so earnestly solicited to be delivered up, if it would be right to send me to them; and executing beforehand upon me, by that single act, a sentence a thousand times more terrible than could have been that of my judges, viz. depriving me for several months of my liberty, detaining me the whole of that time a captive at the extremity of the earth, separated from my family, from my friends, from my interests, painfully wearing out in the desert the few days which remain to me. Surely, under the empire of positive laws, no one could thus tyrannically sport with the liberty, the life, the happiness of individuals.
O Englishmen! if such acts should remain unpunished, your excellent laws would be no more than an empty name. You would carry terror to the extremities of the earth and there would no longer be either liberty or justice among you.
Such are the grievances which I had to make known to you, and which are developed, with others, in a letter hereto annexed,[[35]] which, on leaving St. Helena, I sent to the Governor, in the hope that it might produce a reformation.
Many of these grievances would perhaps have deserved to pass unnoticed by us; nevertheless, I have done myself the violence of laying them before you. There are none of them so trivial as not to interest your honour. And what could be the causes of such measures? Whence can proceed these gradual attacks, these continued aggravations. How can they have been justified? We know not.
Not, however, that the ruling power at St. Helena denies the danger to the health of the captive, the imminent peril of his life, the probable and speedy issue of such a state of things. ‘It will have been his own wish,’ they content themselves with coldly observing; ‘It will be his own fault.’ But do they act discreetly in this? To confess that Napoleon seeks death, is it not confessing that they have rendered life intolerable to him? ‘Moreover,’ continue they, ‘why refuse to take the necessary exercise, because an officer must accompany him? What is there in this formality so hateful, so painful? Why does he insist upon making it a matter of such great importance?’ But who can arrogate to himself the right of judging of the feelings of the illustrious[illustrious] victim? Napoleon debars himself, and he is silent; what would they have more? Besides, it has been reported, a thousand times, it is neither the colour of the coat nor the difference of nation which creates repugnance; but the nature of the thing itself, and its inevitable effects. If, in such exercise, the benefit of the body were greatly below the sufferings of the mind, would this exercise be an advantage?
But it is further insinuated, (for there is not one identical scale for all minds and all sentiments) ‘Why such particular regard, why such extraordinary cares and attentions? After all he is a captive, of distinction perhaps, but what is he more? what are his claims?’
What he is, and what are his claims, I will proceed to state.
Napoleon’s destiny has been the first, the most astonishing in history. He is the man of renown, of prodigies; the hero of ages. His name is in every mouth; his actions excite every imagination; his career remains without a parallel. When Cæsar meditated the seizure of the sovereign power in his country, Cæsar was already the first man in it, by his birth and his riches; when Alexander undertook to subjugate Asia, Alexander was a king, and the son of a king who had paved the way for his successes: but Napoleon, rushing from the crowd to govern the world, presents himself alone without any other auxiliary than his genius. His first steps in his career are so many miracles; he immediately covers himself with immortal laurels, and reigns from that instant over every mind: the idol of his soldiers, whose glory he has raised to the skies—the hope of his country, which, in her pangs already feels that he will be her liberator; and this expectation is not disappointed. At her expiring voice, Napoleon, interrupting his mysterious destinies, hastens from the banks of the Nile; traverses the seas, at the risk of his liberty and of his reputation; and lands alone upon the French shore. Every heart leaps at seeing him again. Acclamations, public rejoicing, and triumph attend him into the capital. At sight of him the different factions droop, parties blend themselves into one; he rules, and the revolution is chained.
The mere weight of opinion, the influence of one single man, effected every thing. He had no occasion to fight; not one drop of blood was shed. Nor was this the only time that such a prodigy distinguished his life.
At his voice, the principles of disorganization vanish; wounds are closed; stains are effaced. Creation seems once more to issue from chaos.
All the revolutionary follies disappear; grand and noble truths alone remain. Napoleon knows no party; no prejudice attaches to his administration. All opinions, all sects, all talents, form themselves in a group about him; a new order of things commences.
The nation recovers breath, and blesses him; the people of other states admire him; kings respect him; every one is happy,—every one fells himself once more honoured in being a Frenchman.
Shortly, he is raised to the throne; he becomes Emperor. Every one knows the rest. Every one knows with what lustre, with what power, he dignified his crown. A sovereign by the choice of the people, consecrated by the head of religion, sanctioned by the hand of victory, what chief of a dynasty ever united titles so powerful, so noble, so pure? Let them be examined.
All the Sovereigns were allied to him by blood or treaties. All nations acknowledged him. Englishmen, if you alone are an exception, that exception only belongs to your policy; it was only a matter of form. Moreover, you are precisely those who have seen in Napoleon the most sacred, the most indisputable titles. Other powers may perhaps have yielded to necessity. You, you have done nothing but submit to principles, to your conviction, to the truth; for such are your doctrines that Napoleon, four times elected by a great nation, must necessarily, in spite of your public denials, have found himself a sovereign in the bottom of your hearts. Look into your consciences!... Now, Napoleon has lost nothing but his throne; a reverse has snatched it from him; success would have fixed it with him for ever. He has seen eleven hundred thousand men march against him. Their generals, their sovereigns, have every where proclaimed that his person was their sole object. What a destiny! He fell; but he lost only power: all his august attributes remain and command the respect of mankind.
A thousand recollections of glory still crown him; misfortune renders him sacred, and, in this state of things, the man of real feeling does not hesitate to consider him more venerable upon his rock than at the head of six hundred thousand men, imposing laws.
Such are his claims.
In vain would narrow minds, or perfidious hearts, attempt to charge him, as is the custom, with being the offensive cause of all the evils, of all the troubles, of which we have been the witnesses or the victims. The time of libels is past, the truth must have its turn. Already the clouds of falsehood are clearing up before the sun of futurity. A time will come when the world will render him complete justice; for passions die with contemporaries; but actions live with posterity, which has no bounds. Then it will be said that the great actions, the great benefits, came from him; that the evils were those of time and fate.
Who does not now begin to see that, notwithstanding his vast power, he never had the choice of his destiny or of his means? that, constantly armed for defence, he retarded his destruction only by a constant succession of new prodigies; that in this terrible conflict he was placed under the necessity of subduing every thing, in order to survive and save the great national cause? Who among you, Englishmen, dreams of denying, above all, this last truth? Has not war for life been often proclaimed among you; and did not your secret allies, in the bottom of their hearts, feel that which your position permitted you to declare aloud? Do you not still boast that you would have carried on the war as long as he maintained himself? Thus every time that he proposed peace to you, whether his offers were sincere, or whether they were not, it was of little importance to you: your decision was fixed. What course then remained for him, and what reproach could be uttered against him, which you yourselves did not already deserve? And who at this day would still pretend to bring forward the vulgar reproach of his ambition? What then has it had so new, so extraordinary, and above all, so exclusive in his person?
Did it stifle sentiment in him, when he said to the illustrious Fox, that in future Europe would be so united by laws, manners, and blood, that there could be no war in it, but civil war?
Was it irresistible, when, describing to us all his useless efforts to prevent the rupture of the treaty of Amiens, he concluded that England, notwithstanding all the advantages of to-day, would, however, have gained more by having adhered to it; that all Europe would have gained by it; that he alone, perhaps, his name and his glory, would have lost by it?
Was it an over-greedy and common ambition, when at Chatillon he preferred the chance of losing a throne to the certainty of possessing it at the price of the glory and independence of the nation?
Was it incapable of alteration, when he has been heard to say, ‘I returned from the Isle of Elba quite another man. They did not think it possible, and they were wrong. I am not a man to do things with a bad grace, or by halves. I would have been at once the monarch of the constitution and of peace?’
Was it insatiable, when, after the victory of which he considered himself certain at Waterloo, his first word to the vanquished was to have been the offer of the treaty of Paris, and a sincere and solid union, which, blending the interests of the two nations, would have insured the empire of the seas to England, and forced the continent to repose?
Was it blind, and without motives, when, after his disaster, passing in review the political consequences which he had so often foreseen, and trembling at the probabilities of the future, he exclaimed, ‘There is no nation, not even the English, who may not one day have to lament their victory at Waterloo?’
And who can now think of reverting to this charge of ambition? It will not be the people, all astonished as they are, at the conduct of those who have overthrown him. Will it be the Sovereigns? They talked of nothing but justice before the battle, but what use have they made of the victory? Let them cease, then, to repeat these odious charges. They might be an excellent pretence; they would be pitiful justifications. Let them content themselves with having conquered!...
But I grow warm. Whither do the force of truth, the warmth of sentiment, the impulse of the heart, carry me? I return to my subject.
Representatives of Great Britain, take this state of things into fresh consideration. Justice, humanity, your honour, your glory, demand it from you. St. Helena is insupportable; Napoleon’s stay there is equivalent to certain and premeditated death; you could not wish to make yourselves responsible for this in the eyes of futurity. Napoleon was, during twenty years, your terrible enemy; he will remind you of Hannibal and of Roman infamy.... You would not stain with such a spot the noble pages of your present history. Save your administration the odious, the horrible, censure of having trafficked with the blood of a prisoner. History furnishes several examples of it. They all excite our horror; and what an increase of dignity would be reserved for Napoleon’s character! For it is easy to predict, when Napoleon shall be no more, when the crime has been accomplished, he will become the man of the people; then he will be only the victim, the martyr, of Kings. The inevitable march of the force of things and of the sentiments of man so wills it. Save our modern annals from such a scandal and its dangerous consequences. Save royalty from its own blindness. Save the most sacred interests of the great Monarchs, in whose name the victim is under execution. Save royal Majesty in the first of its attributes, the most holy of its characters, its inviolability. If kings themselves lay their hands upon the representatives of God on earth, what restraint, what respect, can they intend to oppose to the attempts of the people? There is no prosperity here below, secure from time or from fortune. The circle of vicissitudes envelops all thrones. This cause is the cause of all kings, present and to come. An anointed of the Lord degraded, debased, tortured, immolated, cannot, must not, be other than an object of indignation, of horror for history, of terror for kings!
Recal Napoleon among you; let him come to find repose under the protection of your laws; that they may enjoy his distinguished homage. Do not deprive them of their noblest triumph. And who will prevent you?
Will it be your first decision? But, in recalling it, you would shew to every eye that you were only then guided by the force of circumstances, the law of necessity.
Will it be your domestic repose? But the thought of that would be foolish; the doubt an injury, an outrage, to your institutions, to your manners, to your whole population.
Will it be the safety of Europe? But truths of circumstance have their day, and it belongs only to the vulgar to perpetuate them, to bring them forward long after they cease to exist. Napoleon, in his omnipotence, might be the terror of Europe; reduced to his single person, he can no longer be any thing but an object of astonishment and meditation. And, in truth, what could he effect at this day, even with power, against the safety of Russia, that of Austria, of Prussia, or your own?
Finally, can there be any fear of his secret intentions? But Napoleon now has no wish but for repose. In his own eyes, in his own mouth, his wonderful career has already all the distance of ages. He no longer considers himself of this world; his destinies are accomplished. A soul of such elevated power is of no value but to lead to celebrity, to glory. And what mortal has accumulated more of these? Does not the measure seem above the imagination of man? Have not even his reverses been abundant sources of glory to him? Does there exist any thing to be compared with the return from the Isle of Elba? And, more lately, what an apotheosis is his; the regrets of a great nation. A great number among you have traversed our provinces, penetrated to our fire-sides; you know our secrets, our sentiments. If the country was less dear to him than glory, what has he to desire after what he has left behind? His advanced age, his lost health, his disgust at the vicissitudes of life, perhaps that which he feels for men, the satiety, above all, of the great objects pursued here below, leave him nothing new or desirable but a tranquil asylum, a happy and sweet repose. He demands them from you, Englishmen, and you owe them to the heroic magnanimity with which he gave you the preference over all his other enemies. Learn, dare, will to be just. Recal him, and you will have secured the only glory which seems to be wanting in your present condition. The admirers, the real friends, of your liberties and of your laws expect this of you; they demand it. You have baffled those who delight in boasting of all the benefits that flow from your noble constitution.
‘Where, then,’ say their adversaries, with a triumphant irony, ‘is that generosity, that elevation of sentiment, that inflexibility of principle, that public morality, that force of opinion, which you told us distinguished that free people, in some sort superior to the sovereignty itself? Where are the so much vaunted fruits of this classic ground of liberal institutions? All this pompous scaffolding, these imaginary pictures, have then disappeared before the dangers which a single man has created; or rather before the hatred and the vengeance which he has inspired. And what more could that absolute power which we defend, and you decry so much, have done? It would have done less, perhaps, but most assuredly it would not have been able to do more. It would have shewn itself sensible, no doubt, of the noble and magnanimous confidence of its enemy, or, if it had so decided, on the ground of utility, it would, at least have shewn more energy, candour, and elevation in its injustice. It would not have descended to palliate its wrong in the eyes of the people, by associating its neighbours gratuitously in it. It would have avoided above all the leaving itself entangled in this distressing dilemma: Either, when you concluded your iniquitous treaty of ostracism, the victim was not in your power, and you had the cowardice to hold out the hand to him that you might seize him; or, you had him already in your power, and you sacrificed your glory, the honour of your country, the sanctity, the majesty, of your laws to foreign solicitations.’[solicitations.’]
Englishmen, your friends are obliged to turn to you for an answer. They await it.
As for me, in spite of a fatal experience of two years, such is still my confidence in your principles, that I still reckon upon your justice; and I have dared to speak before you, consulting only my own heart, persuaded that it will be in the midst of you that I shall see the defence and the talents worthy of this great and noble cause arise. However you may decide in other respects, my own destinies are fixed. Wherever the victim dwells I wish to go, to devote at his feet the few days that still remain to me;[[36]] and in this tribute of sentiment I shall think I have done nothing but for myself. When I followed him at first, I rather obeyed honour, I followed glory:—but now I bewail, far from him, all the qualities of the heart that attach man to man. How many of your countrymen have approached him! they would all tell you the same thing. Let them be consulted. Englishmen! is this,
then, the man who has been portrayed to you? Have you pronounced upon his fate in full possession of the case?
COUNT DE LAS CASES.
My solicitations were not confined to the letters which I addressed to the Allied Sovereigns; my efforts were ardently directed towards every point, and every object I could think of. As soon as I was restored to liberty, I found myself surrounded by the French exiles at Frankfort, who shared my sentiments, and manifested the tenderest sympathy for me. All, not even excepting those who had nothing to spare, save the widow’s mite, offered me all they possessed, not only to provide for the personal wants with which they supposed I had to struggle, but also to promote the sacred object which wholly occupied my mind. At Frankfort I had also the happiness to meet the Countess de Survilliers, whose extreme generosity is only one of the many virtues that adorn her. Finally, some eminent merchants of Frankfort, merely from hearing of my adventures, and from motives of pure sympathy, made me the most generous offers; and even diplomatic individuals, of whom there were many at that time in the town, indirectly conveyed to me proofs of their attention. These circumstances enabled me to learn where the different members of the Emperor’s family were to be found, and to enter immediately into communication with them, so as to adopt the speediest means of ameliorating the condition of him for whose sake I had resolved to exert every effort, and even to sacrifice my life.
On the other hand, I had laid down the rule of writing regularly, on a certain day every month, to the Grand Marshal, in order to obtain such information as would enable me to render myself as useful as possible; and I sent the letter open to the Under Secretary of State for the Colonies, with whom I had, by this means, commenced a correspondence, which I conceived to be best calculated to fulfil the object I had in view. I requested that he would send out regularly to Longwood the newspapers, pamphlets, new publications, and various articles of daily use which I specified, or which I begged he would himself select, to be paid for by me to his order; this he promised to do.
The Emperor’s mother, brothers, sisters, and all his relations, though I was not particularly acquainted with any of them, except Prince Lucien, immediately answered me in the warmest and most affecting manner. Mine were almost the first authentic tidings they had received from the illustrious victim; and they esteemed themselves happy in finding a channel, by means of which they could transmit to him testimonies of their respect, devotedness, and affection. They wished only to be informed what they had to do. An annual contribution of one hundred and fifty thousand francs was immediately determined on: this sum I conceived to be indispensably necessary for the establishment at Longwood. The amount was divided equally among all, and I already had in my hands the subscriptions of several of the parties, when I had the satisfaction of being enabled to return them, with the request that they might be reserved till a future time, as unforeseen circumstances would render it unnecessary to make use of the money for two or three years. The reason was that there had been found a deposit of several hundred thousand francs belonging to the Emperor, and I esteemed myself happy in being thus early enabled to present to the members of his family a proof of the regularity and reserve with which I acted. But unfortunately I was too precipitate; for the money which had been promised, and was to have been furnished by me, was, either through the mistake or embarrassments of the banker, or the negligence of agents, more than a year in being paid. I was very much vexed and disappointed by this circumstance, for the thirteen bills which I had left with the Grand Marshal on my departure from St. Helena, had been quickly paid away, and fresh drafts had been made on my banker, or on other individuals in London, who allowed the bills to be protested, because they had no funds belonging to me, or had received none from any other individual. This occasioned enormous expense, compromised Longwood, and afforded a subject of ridicule to the English ministerial journals.
As soon as I was made acquainted with this unfortunate circumstance, I wrote to London, to offer my personal security for any drafts that might come from Longwood, stating that they should be payable to order at Frankfort. To this object I appropriated, in the most advantageous way I could, the sum which I received from Madame Mère, and which was the only one that had not been returned, together with some money which a few friends had lodged in my hands when my own was exhausted; for my four thousand louis had been repaid to me in a way so singular that I cannot refrain from mentioning it. A person who stood in a very delicate situation, and who held money belonging to the Emperor, suspecting, though he knew nothing of me, that I might be in some degree of embarrasment, transmitted to me a hundred thousand francs. I could lay no claim whatever to the sum: but this the person in question doubtless conceived to be his most prudent course, considering the peculiarity of his situation. Thus I found myself repaid without having made any claim or given any receipt, and I am not aware that there existed any trace of the debt due by the Emperor in any account whatever.
Six months had already elapsed; the fine weather was set in; and my health, which had been so greatly impaired by disappointment and vexation, required me to make trial of the waters of Baden. But was I free to depart? The times were so extraordinary, and such a total disregard seemed to be every where manifested for the privileges and the destiny of a Frenchman, that many persons about me very much doubted whether I should be at liberty; and I was myself not without apprehension, so accustomed was I to see all justice violated in my person. Be this as it may, I was so desirous to act with perfect openness, and to evince my gratitude for the kindness of Baron Wessemberg, that I determined to acquaint him with my intention of departing, and to ask him whether he considered me under his inspection. However, the Baron in a moment banished all my scruples and fears, by replying, with the frankness and courtesy which characterize him, that, in granting me hospitality, there had been no idea of making me a prisoner.
I accordingly repaired to Baden, where I had the honour of being received by the Grand Duke and Duchess, almost secretly it is true, but with those proofs of interest and attention which I might have expected from the adopted children of Napoleon.
On taking my leave of the worthy Grand Duke, I requested that he would permit me to remain in his States, and I determined on fixing my residence at Manheim. I made choice of this place because, like Frankfort, it afforded every desirable advantage for the continuance of my correspondence, while it presented none of the inconveniences of the latter city, which, from circumstances of a very delicate nature, I was anxious to avoid.
I seldom went out, and I did not abuse my liberty any more than I had done in the time of the Prussian Commissioner; but I thought it my duty to receive every one who came to me. I was perfectly aware that I should be likely to encounter enemies in the disguise of friends; but I also knew that there were many persons, of all classes, who frequently came from a distance for the purpose of seeing me, and who were guided by sincere sentiment. But could I, for the sake of avoiding one betrayer, run the risk of wounding many honest hearts, who, amidst their sorrow and regret, hoped to obtain from me a few words of satisfaction and consolation? During my stay at Manheim, it would be difficult to imagine the singular questions that were put to me, and the hints and insinuations of every kind that were thrown out to me. One proposed to execute my most secret, hazardous, and remote commissions; another offered to become my mediator with distinguished and hostile individuals; and a third assured me that he would go in disguise to Parma, and deliver all my packets to the Empress Maria Louisa in person. In short, I know not what plans were suggested to me. I several times received, from natives of different countries, proposals for effecting Napoleon’s escape. Some were excited by enthusiasm, some by speculation, and others were, no doubt, contriving snares; for the crime of instigation is now boldly and universally resorted to. Fortunately my guarantee was that I had nothing to conceal. I possessed no secret, therefore I could only express hopes and wishes in reply to all I heard; and certainly, in the avowed situation in which I stood, the reports that might have been made from my conversation could convey no new information. Accordingly, nothing of an unpleasant nature occurred. By making choice of Manheim, which is a retired place, and where I lived as privately as possible, I obviated most of the inconveniences I had met with at Frankfort, which was the resort of schemers and intriguers of every kind. I also proved to those who were interested in observing me that I was a stranger to all secret designs.
The period fixed for the meeting of the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle was now approaching; and I formed the highest hopes from this august assemblage. These hopes were shared by every generous heart; for who could have imagined that the Sovereigns of Europe would have shewn themselves insensible to the misery of Napoleon, whom each, individually, had so long treated as a friend, a brother, or a son; particularly when they should receive a correct and faithful account of the situation in which he was placed? I had made every necessary preparation; being determined that they should be assailed by entreaties, and surrounded by information. I wrote to Maria Louisa; and I was charged to present to the Sovereigns a letter from Madame Mère; all the other relations of the Emperor having undertaken to act for themselves. I carefully collected for each of the Sovereigns all the authentic documents existing, and drew up a note on the subject, enclosed in a letter addressed to themselves. I did not even neglect Lord Castlereagh; to whom I thought it requisite to make the communication in his quality of representative of the King of England. I shall insert these documents, hoping that the reader will pardon the many repetitions that occur in them. They all relate to one and the same subject; this subject is reduced to its simplest expression; the circle is limited; and recurrence to the same topic is unavoidable.