The ex-Governor searched the pages of this extraordinary work for a vindication of himself, but never a word that could be construed into real approval was there.  He obtained leave of absence from the Governor of Ceylon and made his way to England, ostensibly to vindicate his character.  He landed at St. Helena, paid a visit to Longwood, otherwise known as the “Abode of Darkness” since the Imperial tenant named it so when he gave O’Meara his benediction on the occasion of his last parting from him, when he was banished from the island.  Sir Hudson was shocked at seeing the place reverted back to a worse state than it was previous to the exiles being forced into it.  Then it was a dirty, unwholesome barn, overrun with vermin; now it was worse than a piggery.  The aspect touched a tender chord in this man who had been the cause of making the Emperor’s compulsory sojourn a sorrowful agony.

Reflections of all that happened during those five memorable years must have crowded in upon him and racked him with feelings of bitter remorse for his avoidable part in the cruel drama; and as he stood upon the spot that had been made famous by England’s voluntary captive, it was not unnatural that he should have been overcome by a strange and possibly a purifying sadness.  All of that which he had regarded in other days, under different conditions, as unjustifiable splendour had vanished.  The Imperial bedroom and study were now made use of to accommodate and give shelter to cows, horses, and pigs.  Other agricultural commodities were strewn about everywhere.  Nothing was left that would indicate that it was consecrated to fame and everlasting pity.  The triumph of death came to it only some six years before.  And now Sir Hudson Lowe, we doubt not, filled with pensive regret, looked down on the nameless tomb of the great captain, guarded by sentinels with fixed bayonets, ready to thrust them into any unauthorised intruder into the sacred precincts of the Valley of Napoleon, or the Geranium Valley, which is also known by the name of Punch Bowl.

Ah! what thickly gathering memories must have come to him in that solemn hour on that smitten rock of bitter and brutal vengeance!  All we shall ever know of that melancholy visit as it really affected Lowe has been told by his biographer.  We are left to imagine a good deal, and therefore must conclude that he would be less than human if he did not realise that the shadow of retribution was pursuing him.  If his thoughts of himself were otherwise, he was soon to be disillusioned.

He spent three days on the Rock, and had a good reception and send-off, and ere long made his appearance in London and presented himself to his quasi-friend, Bathurst, who, with an eye to his own and his colleagues’ interests, discouraged the idea of publishing an answer to Sir Walter Scott’s book.  Bathurst, in fact (with unconscious drollery), advised Lowe to hurry back to Ceylon without delay, lest meanwhile