On the 6th they anchored off Start Point, and were soon joined by the Northumberland and two frigates, full of soldiers, who were to form the garrison of St. Helena. By order, the arms of Napoleon's suite were taken from them, but the ex-Emperor was allowed to retain his sword. All their money, diamonds, and saleable effects were put under seal, but Napoleon kept his plate, baggage, wines, and provisions. The search of his personal effects greatly exasperated him.
BOXIANA; OR, THE FANCY.
(Published by Mr. Jones, 5, Newgate Street, October 1, 1815.)
Between one and two o'clock p.m. of the 7th of August the transfer from the Bellerophon to the Northumberland was made, and then, as there was nothing else to wait for, "Cæsar and his fortunes" sailed from St. Helena.
There were but a very few satirical prints anent him published after his departure, and, I think, not one after the news of his safe arrival at St. Helena. There was a sense of relief that now he was powerless for mischief, and a revulsion of feeling set in. It was then the heyday of Boxing, and it was felt repugnant to all feelings of English manliness, to "hit a man when he was down." The Prince of Wales was severely remarked on for his conduct to his illustrious Captive, and the following poetry was exceedingly popular.
This illustration, which is separate from, but goes well with the song, is called "Boxiana, or the Fancy," and the poem is an "Epistle from Tom Cribb to Big Ben, containing some Foul Play in a Pugilistic Encounter," August, 1815:—
"What, Ben! my big hero, is this thy renown?
Is this the new Go—kick a man when he's down?
When the foe has knockt under, to tread on him then?
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben!
Foul! Foul! all the Lads of the Fancy exclaim—
Charley Shock is electrified—Belcher spits flame—
And Molyneux—aye, even Blackey, cries Shame!
Time was, when John Bull little difference spied,
'Twixt the foe at his feet, and the friend at his side;
When he found (such his humour in fighting and eating),
His foe, like his beefsteak, the better for beating!
But this comes, Master Ben, of your curst foreign notions,
Your trinkets, wigs, thingambobs, gold lace, and lotions;
Your Noyeau's Curacoa's, and the Devil knows what—
(One swig of Blue Ruin is worth the whole lot.)
Your great and small crosses (my eyes! what a brood!)
A cross buttock from me would do some of 'em good—
Which have spoil'd you, till hardly a drop, my old porpus,
Of pure English claret is left in your corpus.
And (as Jim says) the only one trick, good or bad,
Of the Fancy, you're up to, is fibbing, my lad!
Hence it comes, Boxiana, disgrace to thy page!—
Having floor'd, by good luck, the first Swell of the Age,
Having conquer'd the prime one that mill'd us all round,
You kick'd him, old Ben, as he gasp'd on the ground!—
Aye—just at the time to show spunk, if you'd any,
Kick'd him, and jaw'd, and lag'd[12] him to Botany!