“I was about the same period in Antwerp, and was present when the pictures which had been taken to Paris, arrived in carriages, and were escorted into the city by an English regiment, then in garrison there (either the 15th or 25th of infantry), preceded by the band of that regiment playing ‘God save the King,’ and accompanied by the members of the Academy of Antwerp, and the magistracy of the city. I own I felt all the pride of an Englishman at seeing these works of art, which British valour had regained, thus restored to the places from whence they had been pillaged.
In July, I went to Hungerford Stairs to gain what information I could respecting “Copper Holmes.” A waterman, whose face declared he had seen a few liberal days, accosted me with the usual question, “Oars, sculler?” I shook my head; but, upon a nearer approach, asked him the following question, “How long has Copper been dead?” “There sits his widow at that window mending her stockings,” said he; “we’ll go and put it to her.”
On approaching her the waterman said, “This gentleman wants to know how long Copper has been dead?” “How do you do?” said I, “your husband has often in my early days rowed me to Pepper Alley.” “He died,” said the woman (who retained enough in her care-worn features to induce me to believe she had been pretty), sticking her needle on her cap, “he died, poor fellow, on the 3rd of October, 1821, and a better man never trod shoe-leather. He was downright and honest, and what he said he would do, he did. I had been his wife two-and-twenty years; but he married me after he left the _Ark_. His first wife lived in the _Ark_ with her children.” “What vessel had the _Ark_ been?” “She had been a Westcountryman, and it cost him altogether (with her fittings-up with sheets of copper) one hundred and fifty pounds, and that gave him the name of ‘_Copper Holmes_.’ His Christian name was Thomas. Ay, Sir, his lawsuit with the City crippled him:[421] but I will say this for him, his Majesty had not a better subject than poor Copper.” While she uttered this declaration, both her eyes, which were seriously directed to her nose, were moistened with the tears of affectionate memory, which induced me to turn to my new acquaintance the waterman, and ask where he was buried? “In the Waterman’s churchyard, Sir, under the pump-pavement on the south side of St. Martin’s church.[422] Lord bless you! don’t you know the Waterman’s burying-ground? I could take you to the spot where fifty of us have been buried.” “What was his age?” “Sixty-six when he died.”