He did not, however, continue many years in St. Helena, and long the island remained without inhabitants.
Sometimes a passing ship would leave one or more of her crew, who were ill, that they might be restored by the vegetables and fruits, the pure air and clear water of the island.
It happened once, nearly ninety years after the first discovery, that an English crew landed for refreshment, and wandering about the island approached the little church. They believed themselves the only human beings on the island, and were therefore greatly surprised to hear a voice singing within the church.
“It is a Portuguese,” they said one to another, “let us enter and make him prisoner.”
Without another word the doors were thrown open, and there kneeling alone in the church, they discovered a strange figure, wild and terrified, dressed in a rough suit of goat-skin.
“Who are you?” cried the foremost of the sailors, forgetting that the supposed Portuguese was not likely to answer an English question; but the man started to his feet at the words, gazed round him, looking one by one into the eager and wondering faces before him, and then, as if he could no longer contain his joy, he rushed towards them, and threw himself into the arms of the foremost.
He, in his turn, had feared that the new-comers were Portuguese, and the poor English sailor, for such he was, had endured an agony of terror till the sound of English speech assured him that he was among friends and fellow-countrymen.
His story was soon told. He had been left at St. Helena by a passing ship, because he was so reduced by the voyage that the captain feared that he could never reach his home. Here he had lived for fourteen long months, and had never during that time heard a human voice, or seen the face of a friend. He had lived chiefly on the flesh of goats, which had now multiplied on the island, and had in his wild, free life quite recovered his health. But the joy of meeting with friends after so long a solitude was too great; he was quite unable to sleep, and only lived till the ship in which he had taken passage reached the West Indies.
St. Helena passed at length into the hands of the English, was colonized and brought into cultivation, and it was here that Napoleon ended the career which had laid waste and despoiled Europe. Here in this little island was bounded his wide ambition; the sea set limits to his steps on every side and stretched its strong impassible barrier all around him. Here, though not alone, he endured a solitude which was doubtless heavier to bear and more hopeless than that felt by any of the wanderers who in early days were left upon that shore. For there is no solitude like that of a heart which dwells alone, whose memories of the past can bring no gladness, and whose future lies cheerless and blank before it.
He spent his time chiefly in reading, riding on horseback, and digging in his garden. He was fond of amusing himself with children, and would join in all their little sports. He employed himself, also, in writing the memoirs of his own campaigns. “Let us live on the past,” he said. But ah! what satisfaction could a view of his past life have afforded him? Those who have lived only for this world must never expect anything but self-reproach in reviewing the opportunities of usefulness which they have lost, and the precious talents they have misemployed. What a favorable opportunity, however, was afforded to Napoleon in his solitude at St. Helena, of examining his past life. Happy would it have been for him if he had diligently used the time thus given him in mourning for his sins, and humbling himself for the misapplication of the vast talents entrusted to his charge.