Leaving Bahia, we had to go a long way down the Southern Atlantic before we got a favourable wind.  We reached St. Helena at last—­a great black rock, a jagged volcanic island resembling Martinique, minus its splendid vegetation—­a scrap of Scotland set in mid-ocean, and swept incessantly by the Trade wind, which blows with wearisome continuance and gathers a thick and permanent cloud-clap above the isle.  It looked gloomy from the sea, and the impression on arrival there was gloomy too.  James Town, the capital, is simply a wretched village, stretching along a narrow valley, shut in by dreary-looking rocks crowned by forts, to which you climb by staircases counting six hundred steps.  The country around Plantation House, the Governor’s residence, the valley of the Tomb, the Tomb itself with the legendary willows, and Longwood, the prison house, all are equally gloomy, and equally calculated to kill the great genius banished thither, by inches.

The business which had brought me was quickly settled between myself and the Governor, General Middlemore.  The orders of the British Government were clear and precise, and the local authorities showed great goodwill in carrying them out.  They undertook the exclusive care of the exhumation and transport of the remains over British territory, and it was all done with the utmost propriety.  The only request I made and obtained was, that the coffin should be opened before it was handed over to us, so as to be sure that we were taking neither a hotbed of infection nor an imaginary corpse on board.  The Governor himself being ill I saw but little of him.  He commissioned the officer in command of the troops, Colonel Trelawny, of the Royal Artillery, to represent him.  He was a pleasant man, but decidedly eccentric.  His great mania was the study of genealogy, and he never failed to explain when we met that he was my cousin, and that we were both related to the late Sultan Mahmoud on the female side!

When all was ready the exhumation took place, and very imposing it was.  Everybody felt impressed when the coffin was seen coming slowly down the mountain side, to the firing of cannon, escorted by British infantry with arms reversed, the band playing, to the dull rolling accompaniment of the drums, that splendid funeral march which English people call The Dead March in Saul, but which is really no other than the ancient Catholic chant of Adeste Fideles.  General Middlemore, dropping with fatigue, formally handed over the body to me; and the coffin was lowered into the long-boat of the Belle-Poule, which then started for the ship.  The scene at that moment was very fine.  It was a striking moment A magnificent sunset had been succeeded by a twilight of the deepest calm.  The British authorities and the troops stood motionless on the beach, while our ship’s guns fired a royal salute.  I stood in the stern of my long-boat, over which floated a magnificent Tricolour flag worked by the ladies of St Helena.  Beside me were the generals and superior officers, M. de Chabot and M de las Gazes.  The pick of my topmen, all in white, with crape on their arms, and bareheaded like ourselves, rowed the boat in silence, and with the most admirable precision We advanced with majestic slowness, escorted by the boats bearing the staff.  It was very touching, and a deep national sentiment seemed to hover over the whole scene.