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. 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 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?
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, 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.
Footnote 35:
The Statement of the Grievances of Longwood, addressed to Sir Hudson
Lowe.
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 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.