Betsy (Elizabeth) Balcombe - Recollections of the Emperor Napoleon, During the First Three Years of His Captivity on the Island of St. Helena

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Text originally published in 1845 under the same title.

Pickle Partners Publishing 2015, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publishers Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON, DURING THE FIRST THREE YEARS OF HIS CAPTIVITY ON THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA:

INCLUDING THE TIME OF HIS RESIDENCE AT HER FATHERS HOUSE, THE BRIARS,

BY MRS. ABELL,

(LATE MISS ELIZABETH BALCOMBE.)

Contents

THE writer of the following pages trusts she will not be thought presumptuous in presenting them to the public. Thrown at a very early age into the society of Napoleon, and of those who composed his suite, she considers it an almost imperative duty to communicate any fact or impression, which, though uninteresting in itself, may still be worth recording as relating to him, and as serving to elucidate his character. Could these recollections of the emperor have been published without having her name appended to them, they would long ago have appeared, but feeling that the sole merit to which they could lay claim consisted in their being faithful records of him, and that if produced anonymously, there would be no guarantee for their truth; being moreover desirous to shun publicity, and unequal to the task of authorship, the undertaking has been postponed from time to time, and, perhaps, would have been delayed still longer, but for the pressure of calamitous circumstances, which compels her to hesitate no more, but, with all their imperfections on their head, to send these pages at once into the world.

The authoress may compare her feelings, as she launches her little vessel on the waters, to those of Shelley, when, having exhausted his whole stock of paper, he twisted a bank-note into the shape of a little boat, and then committing it to the stream, waited on the other side for its arrival with intense anxiety. Her shipbuilding powers, she fears, are as feeble, her materials as frail; but she has seen the little Paper Nautilus floating with impunity and confidence on the bosom of that mighty ocean, which has engulfed many a noble vessel: accepting the augury, she in-trusts her tiny bark to the waves of public opinion, not with confidence, however, but with timidity and hesitation,yet is her solicitude not altogether unenlivened by the hope that it may reach its haven, if wafted by friendly breezes and favoured by propitious skies.

The writer must crave indulgence for the frequent mention of herself during the narrative. The nature of the subject renders this unavoidable.

LUCIA ELIZABETH ABELL.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON.

There points the Muse to strangers eye,

The graves of those that cannot die.

MY object in the following Memoir is to confine myself, as far as possible, to what concerns Napoleon personally. Having, however, many reminiscences, unconnected with him, of the happy clays of my childhood, and feeling that they might be interesting to the public, especially to those who visited the island during the emperors captivity there, I venture to insert them. A slight description of the localities connected with Napoleon will not, I trust, be considered uninteresting to my readers, and I may, perhaps, commence this slight memoir most properly, by a few remarks upon the general aspect of St. Helena, and of the impression conveyed by it, on first approaching its shores.

The appearance of St. Helena, on viewing it from the sea, is different from that of any land I ever saw, and is certainly but little calculated to make one fall in love with it at first sight. The rock, rising abruptly from the ocean, with its oblong shape and perpendicular sides, suggests to ones mind more the idea of a huge dark-coloured ark lying at anchor, floating on the bosom of the Atlantic, than of a land intended for the habitation and support of living beings; nor, on a nearer acquaintance, does its character become more amiable. If a stranger approach it during the night, the effect on coming on deck in the morning is most peculiar, and at first, almost alarming. From the great depth of water, ships are able to run very close in, to the land; and the eye, long accustomed to the expanse of sea and atmosphere, is suddenly startled by coming almost, as it seems, in contact with the dark threatening rock towering hundreds of feet into the air, far above the masts of the tallest vessel.

I was quite a child at the time of my first visit, and my terrors were increased by being told that the giant-snouted crag, which bore some resemblance to the head of a negro, when the breakfast bell struck, would devour me first, and afterwards the rest of the passengers and crew. I rushed instantly below, and hiding my face on my mothers lap, tremblingly announced our fate. It was not without much difficulty that she succeeded in soothing my terrors, by assurances of safety and protection. But I did not venture from under her wing until the dreaded eight bells had sounded, and the appearance of breakfast announced better things in store for us. I was told that even the mighty heart of Napoleon sank within him, when he first surveyed his future home; and as the Northumberland glided to her anchorage, revealing the galleries of the batteries on either side, bristling with cannon, and frowning heavily upon him; the despairing inscription which the beautiful language of his infancy had rendered familiar to him, seemed to have been inscribed on the gloomy rock