BONAPARTE ON THE QUARTER-DECK OF H. M. S. NORTHUMBERLAND.
(Drawn during his passage to St. Helena. Published, January 1, 1816, by Thomas Palser, Westminster Bridge Road.)
"He is extremely curious, and never passes anything remarkable in the ship, without immediately demanding its use, and inquiring minutely into the manner thereof. He also stops and asks the officers divers questions relative to the time they have been in the service, what actions, &c.; and he caused all of us to be introduced to him, the first day he came on board. He also asked several questions about the marines, particularly those who appeared to have been some time in the service, and about the warrant officers, midshipmen, seamen, &c. He was but a very short time on board when he asked that the boatswain might be sent for, in order that he might look at him, and was very inquisitive as to the nature of his duty. He dresses in green uniform, with red facings and edged with red, two plain gold epaulettes, the lapels of the coat cut round and turned back, white waistcoat and breeches, and military boots and spurs, the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour on his left breast. He professes his intention (if he is allowed to reside in England) to adopt the English customs and manners, and declares that he will never meddle with politics more. The Army, which left Paris, and united with others on the Loire, wanted him to rejoin them and resume his title, which he refused to do. He declares that not another 'goutte de sang' shall be shed on his account. Fortunate, indeed, it would have been if he had really been of this opinion some years back.
"His followers still treat him with the greatest respect, not one of them, not even the Duke of Rovigo himself, ever speaking to him, without being uncovered the whole time. He does not appear out until about half-past ten, though he rises about seven. He breakfasts in the French fashion at eleven, and dines at six. He spends most of the day alone in the after-cabin, and reads a great deal. He retires to bed about eight. He has not latterly been much upon the quarter-deck. His suite is composed of fifty people."
I give an illustration of "Bonaparte on the Quarter-deck of H.M.S. Northumberland, drawn during his passage to St. Helena," which fully bears out the above description.
On July 26th orders came for the Bellerophon to go to Plymouth, which being reached, two frigates, the Liffey, and Eurotas, were anchored, one on either side of her, and kept strict guard over her. No boat from the shore was allowed to come within a cable's length[6] of her, and ships' boats continually rowing round her, kept that space clear.
Visitors from London, and all parts of England, came to get a glimpse of him, and the sea was literally alive with boats of every description. The following is by an eye witness[7]:—
"There is nothing so dull as mere fact, you'll admit,
While you read my detail, unenlivened by wit.
My friends will believe, though they're told it in rhyme,
That I thought to return in a far shorter time.
When at once we're resolv'd, by half past on the move,
And by two, but a trio, we reach Mutton Cove;
When approaching the quay, such a rabble and rout,
That we ask, 'My good friend, what is all this about?'
'They are rowing a race, and some boats are come in,
While these people are waiting till t'others begin.'
Well aware of our folly, with risible lip,
The boatman we told to make haste to the ship;
On the colours of fish,[8] here by hampers-full landing,
We gaze for amuzement, while still we're kept standing;
At length to the Admiral's stairs we have got,
See his party on board, and hear tunes from his yacht.
The day is delightful, the gale just enough
For the sea to look lively, without being rough.
With those first at the ship, our sight costs the dearer,
As we've longer to wait, and not in the end, nearer;
For by land, and by water, so different the case is,
'Twas long before we were jam'd into our places;
But on further advice, we'll at present be dumb,
For half the spectators, you know, are now come.
In one boat, a bevy, all sarcenet and veil,
In the next some good fellows are toping their ale.
'Avast! here's the gun boat.' 'Aye, here it come smack.'
And the ladies cry, 'Captain, they'll drive us all back.'
Then some bully our men, with 'Skull out there, skull out.'
And others check these with, 'Mind what you're about.'
Here's a crazy old boat, laded dry with a shoe,
There, a gay painted barge is forced on our view;
In this, while Don Solus is jeered by the mob,
'See that empty boat, turn it out.' 'Here's a fine job.'
Cries one, of some dozens squeezed into the next,
'I've left the pork pie, Oh dear, I'm so vex'd.'
In the long boat, that shows a profusion of oar,
From the Captain bursts forth a most terrible roar
At his men; but the anger about whom, or what,
Though they may remember, we soon had forgot.
Here, infants were crying, mothers scolding outright,
While the next party laughs at some comical sight.
Now, watches and spy-glasses make their appearance,
And Impatience, that vixen, begins interference;
To beguile her, through portholes we eagerly stare,
For the nobles on deck are all taking the air.
'Hey-dey, what a bustle!' then 'All safe, all safe.'
The crowd is return'd to its chatter and laugh.
'Pray, what was the matter?' 'From the boat, near the ship,
A woman fell over, and so got a dip.'
But a hum of applause, yes, his triumph is full,
Yet this hum of applause has betrayed our John Bull,
'What hum of applause? come, I prithee, be brief.'
Why, John was delighted to see them ship beef.
With a smile 'tis observed by the Briton polite,
How the glee of the crowd was improv'd, by the sight,
For the rough, honest tar, had declared from his heart,
That he thought this a sight that would beat Bonaparte.
Some, again, with composure, predict peace and war,
Others look at the great folks, and fancy a star;
But we, much fatigued, six o'clock now approaching,
And on our good nature we thought them encroaching,
When boats are made bridges, nay, tempted to think
That through some of these freedoms, not strange we should sink.
But here I must mention, when all was most merry,
As here is each size, from the long-boat to wherry,
When the crowd should disperse, I was fearful, I own,
Lest your small boats, by barges, should then be run down.
But a truce with our hopes, our predictions and fears,
For now, yes, at last, our grand object appears;
And now, every eye to the ship is directed,
Though to see Bonaparte, I no longer expected;
For between us what number of men! and aghast
We stood, as still thicker and thicker the mast. [? mass]
But now see Napoleon, who seems in his figure,
What we call mediocre, nor smaller, nor bigger;
For, in spite of our fears, how it was, I can't tell,
What our distance allowed of, we saw very well.
But, in this we're full right, for now, hurry scurry,
Boat rows against boat, with the madness of fury;
The show was all over, but time was out staid
By some, and by others, attempts were still made
To get round the ship, in hopes Bonaparte might
At some place yet be seen, thus to perfect their sight."
This doggerel helps us to realize the intense desire of the British public to get, at least, a glimpse at Boney, that great bugbear, who for so many years had been so great a terror to them, and whose existence, every one, from the highest to the lowest, had acutely felt in that tenderest place of our social economy—the breeches pocket. They all but carried out the threat, made twelve years previously, of putting him in Pidcock's Menagerie, vide the following extracts from a contemporary pamphlet[9]:—