This manuscript, sacred by its nature and its object, was unknown, and was intended to remain unknown to all. I allowed Sir Hudson Lowe to peruse it sufficiently to be convinced of its inoffensive nature in political matters. On arriving at the Cape, I had the honour to write to the Prince Regent, through the channel of Ministers, as well as to Ministers themselves, to place these precious materials under their special protection; I appealed to them in the name of justice and of history. They are, according to all laws, my sacred property, the property of my children, and of posterity.
6.—Lastly, and above all, I demand the restoration of the letter which the Emperor Napoleon did me the honour to address to me in my prison, in the Island of St. Helena. A letter entirely foreign to politics, read by the Governor of St. Helena, read by Ministers themselves, if they have thought proper to do so, cannot, consistently with any code of laws, be taken from the person whose property it is, however strong it may be in the tenor of its confidential expressions. This sacred and precious object is the reward of my life, a title for my children, a monument for my family.
My Lord, as I am by nature and reflection a friend to propriety and moderation, it is to you that I first address the enumeration of my grievances. It is of you alone that I quietly ask their redress.[[34]] But if your Lordship should not think proper to reply, it is then to your tribunal that I shall feel compelled to appeal; after that to the tribunal of public opinion; and lastly, and above all, to that dread tribunal, which, holding the balance with an equal hand between tyrants and victims, secures in eternity the infallible triumph of all rights and the final chastisement of all injustice.
“I have the honour to be,” &c.
It was about this time that my petition to the British Parliament also appeared. I had forwarded it from the deserts of Tygerberg to London: but, whether it did not reach its address, or whether obstacles occurred to its being brought forward, not a word had been said about it. My return brought the circumstance to light. A member of the House of Commons, struck with the sensation which its publication had just caused, offered to present it himself; and for that purpose a paper was sent to me from England, to which I affixed my signature. But this formality was not sufficient; and this circumstance, added perhaps to other considerations, prevented its being laid before the House. I transcribe it here. It is so nearly allied to my subject that I trust I shall be forgiven for so doing. Besides, that document and others which are found in this volume have been mutilated, disfigured, and re-translated into French from a foreign text: I am therefore interested in their being restored in all their integrity. Besides, if they were not found here they might be considered as apocryphal, and that is what I wish to avoid.
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!