Chapter XVI: Part 16

When Napoleon was about ten years of age, Count Marbœuf obtained his admission to the military school at Brienne, near Paris. Regarded as a charity student by his companions, he was here subjected to neglects and taunts which stung his sensitive nature to the quick. When Napoleon was fifteen, he was promoted to the military school at Paris. On one occasion a mathematical problem of great difficulty was given to his class. Napoleon secluded himself in his room for seventy-two hours and solved the problem. Napoleon did not blunder into greatness. His achievements were not accidents. That he possessed native genius cannot be denied; but he also possessed that perseverance and application which alone can win the success which genius aspires to, but which only energy and perseverance can make possible. When Napoleon was sixteen years of age, he was examined for an appointment in the army. At the close of this examination, one of the professors wrote opposite the signature of Napoleon, “This young man will distinguish himself in the world, if favored by fortune.”

Napoleon secured the position of second lieutenant in a regiment of artillery. He was ordered to Lyons with his regiment. While there, the Academy at Lyons offered a prize for the best dissertation upon the question, “What are the institutions most likely to contribute to human happiness?” Napoleon won the prize. The English, uniting with the Royalists of France, had seized Toulon, a naval depot and arsenal of France. The Convention, the revolutionary government, promoted Napoleon to the rank of brigadier-general, and gave him the command of the artillery train at Toulon. It was here that his military abilities were noticed by the member of the Convention who afterwards proposed him as being the only man who could defend them against the mob, as we have already narrated. After quelling this formidable insurrection, Napoleon was enthusiastically received by the Convention. Five Directors were now chosen by the Convention, who should constitute the new Directory, and the Convention dissolved itself, surrendering the government into the hands of the Directory. Napoleon was appointed by them commander-in-chief of the Army of the Interior, and intrusted with the military defence and government of the metropolis. Having attained this high dignity, Napoleon placed his mother and the rest of his family in comfort.

Famine was great in Paris. The Revolution had left all industries paralyzed. The poor were perishing.

Napoleon immediately organized the National Guards, established order, and distributed wood and bread to the perishing citizens. It was at this time that he met his future wife, Josephine. She was a widow with two children. Her husband, the Viscount Beauharnais, had perished on the scaffold during the Revolution. On the 6th of March, 1796, Napoleon and Josephine were married. Napoleon was twenty-six years of age, Josephine being two years older. This marriage was one of ideal love. When Napoleon was crowned Emperor, he was privately married again by Cardinal Fesch, in accordance with the forms of the Church, which the Emperor had re-established.

Napoleon turned with disgust from the profligacy and dissipation which ever disgrace an army. To the defamations of his enemies who endeavored to malign his character, by accusing him of immorality, let his own words answer: “When I took command of the army of Italy, my extreme youth rendered it necessary that I should evince great reserve of manners and the utmost severity of morals. My supremacy could be retained only by proving myself a better man than any other man in the army. Had I yielded to human weaknesses, I should have lost my power.”

Napoleon was temperate in the extreme, and manifested the strongest disapproval for gaming. Napoleon’s first campaign in Italy was one of self-defence on the part of the French. France had renounced a monarchy and established a republic. The kings of Europe trembled. England was hovering around the coasts of France assailing every available point. Austria had marched an army of nearly two hundred thousand men to the banks of the Rhine. She had called into requisition her Italian possessions, and in alliance with the British navy the armies of the king of Sardinia together with the legions of Naples and Sicily, prepared to attack the French Republic.

The Directory said to the young commander-in-chief: “We can furnish you only men. The troops are destitute of everything, but we have no money to provide supplies.”

“Give me only men enough,” replied the undaunted Napoleon; “I will be answerable for the result.”

Leaving his bride in Paris, Napoleon hastened to Nice, the headquarters of the army of Italy.

Now the first of those wonderful proclamations rings out in the ears of the astonished troops. “Soldiers, you are hungry and naked; the government owes you much, and can pay you nothing. I come to lead you into the most fertile plains the sun beholds. There you will find abundant harvests, honor, and glory. Soldiers of Italy, will you fail in courage?”

This apparent stripling then assembles his generals, all war-worn chiefs. Amazed and speechless, they listen to his plans.

“The time has passed in which enemies are mutually to appoint the place of combat, advance, hat in hand, and say, ‘_Gentlemen, will you have the goodness to fire?_’ The art of war is in its infancy. Experienced generals conduct the troops opposed to us. So much the better, so much the better. It is not their experience which will avail against me. Mark my words: they will soon burn their books on tactics and know not what to do. Yes, gentlemen, the first onset of the Italian army will give birth to a new epoch in military affairs. As for us, we must hurl ourselves on the foe like a thunderbolt, and smite it. Disconcerted by our tactics, and not daring to put them into execution, they will fly before us as the shades of night before the uprising sun.”

And fly before him they did at the battle of Montenotte, regarding which Napoleon afterwards proudly said, “My title of nobility dates from the battle of Montenotte.”

The Austrians fled in one direction, the Sardinians in another, before this invincible conqueror, and Europe, amazed, inquired, Who is this young general who has blazed forth in such sudden and appalling splendor?

Meanwhile Napoleon issues this stirring proclamation:—

“Soldiers, you have gained in fifteen days six victories, taken one-and-twenty standards, fifty-five pieces of cannon, many strong places, and have conquered the richest part of Piedmont. You have gained battles without cannon; passed rivers without bridges; made forced marches without shoes; bivouacked without bread. The phalanxes of the republic, the soldiers of liberty, were alone capable of such services.”

The humiliated king of Sardinia sued for peace. It was the evening of the 10th of May, 1796. The Austrians had intrenched themselves on the banks of the River Po. As the French were making the terrible passage of the bridge of Lodi, in the face of the enemies’ fire, Napoleon seized a standard, shouting to his men, “Follow your general!” and plunging through the blinding smoke, he led his bleeding column forward, and the bridge was carried.

“This beardless youth,” said an Austrian general, indignantly, “ought to have been beaten over and over again; for whoever saw such tactics! The blockhead knows nothing of the rules of war. To-day he is in our rear, to-morrow on our flank, and the next day again in our front. Such gross violations of the principles of war are insufferable.”

And more insufferable still would his enemies find the tactics of the invincible Napoleon. Some of the veterans of the army jocosely promoted Napoleon to the rank of corporal, in honor of his bravery at the bridge of Lodi. When their general next appeared before his army, he was greeted with the shouts, “_Long live our little corporal!_” and even in the dignity of consul and emperor, Napoleon never lost this affectionate nickname amongst his troops, of whom he was the idol.

We have no space for details; the battles of Castiglione, Arcola, and the bloody conflict of Rivoli had been fought. The imperial court had sent out five armies against the French Republicans, and had encountered defeat and destruction at the hands of the beardless general, who they had disdainfully declared knew nothing about war tactics. Mantua had fallen, and the Austrians were driven from Italy. The Pope implored the clemency of the conqueror. But the Italian people everywhere hailed him as their deliverer. Still Austria refused to make peace with republican France, and the march to Vienna was commenced. Again one of those soul-stirring, inspiring proclamations was issued to his troops.

“Soldiers, the campaign just ended has given you imperishable renown. You have been victorious in fourteen pitched battles and seventy actions. You have taken more than a hundred thousand prisoners, five hundred field-pieces, two thousand heavy guns, and four pontoon trains. You have maintained the army during the whole campaign. In addition to this, you have sent six millions of dollars to the public treasury, and have enriched the National Museum with three hundred masterpieces of the art of ancient and modern Italy, which it has required thirty centuries to produce. You have conquered the finest countries of Europe. The French flag waves for the first time upon the Adriatic, opposite to Macedon, the native country of Alexander. Still higher destinies await you. I know that you will not prove unworthy of them. Of all the foes that conspired to stifle the Republic in its birth, the Austrian emperor alone remains before you. To obtain peace we must seek it in the heart of his hereditary state. You will there find a brave people, whose religion and customs you will respect, and whose property you will hold sacred. Remember that it is liberty you carry to the brave Hungarian nation.”

As he had to the Italian people, so also to the Austrian people Napoleon issued one of his glowing proclamations, assuring them that he was fighting not for conquest but for peace; that the _people_ of Austria would find in him a protector, who would respect their religion and defend all their rights.

All was consternation in Vienna. The people clamored for peace, and the Austrian emperor sent ambassadors to Napoleon. A treaty was signed, and Austria was conquered. Not a year had elapsed since this nameless young man of twenty-six, with thirty thousand ragged, starving troops, had dauntlessly undertaken this seemingly impossible enterprise. Now Italy was at his feet. Austria was forced to come to terms. All his foes were stunned into terror-stricken inaction.

Before the treaty of Campo Formio was signed, every possible endeavor was made to bribe Napoleon to make terms which should conduce to the advantage of his foes. The wealth of Europe was laid at his feet. Millions upon millions of gold were offered to him, but his noble spirit could not thus be tarnished.

Napoleon arrived in Paris on the 7th of December, 1797, having been absent about eighteen months. The Directory, jealous of Napoleon’s power and popularity, were forced by the enthusiasm of the people to prepare a triumphal festival for the delivery of the treaty of Campo Formio.

The magnificent palace of the Luxembourg was adorned for this gorgeous show. The walls were hung with glittering trophies; the vast galleries were crowded with those illustrious in rank; martial music rang out upon the air, and the thunders of the cannon mingled with the enthusiastic shouts of the rejoicing multitudes. Napoleon was introduced by Talleyrand in an eloquent speech. Calmly the great hero stood before the assembled multitude. His imposing presence required not the trappings of the bedecked and bejewelled grandees of the court. Majestic was his calm dignity as he addressed the people:—

“Citizens! the French people in order to be free had kings to combat. To obtain a constitution founded on reason, it had the prejudices of eighteen centuries to overcome. Priestcraft, feudalism, despotism, have successively, for two thousand years, governed Europe. From the peace you have just concluded dates the era of representative governments. You have succeeded in organizing a great nation, whose vast territory is circumscribed only because Nature herself has fixed its limits. You have done more. The two finest countries in Europe—formerly so renowned for the arts, the sciences, and the illustrious men whose cradle they were—see with the greatest hopes genius and freedom issuing from the tomb of their ancestors. I have the honor to deliver to you the treaty signed at Campo Formio, and ratified by the emperor. Peace secures the liberty, the prosperity, and the glory of the Republic. As soon as the happiness of France is secured by the best organic laws, the whole of Europe will be free.”

A wild burst of enthusiasm filled the air as Napoleon ceased speaking. The people shouted, “Live Napoleon, the conqueror of Italy, the pacificator of Europe, the saviour of France!”

Napoleon now laid aside the dress of a soldier. He attended constantly the meetings of the Institute, and immediately assumed a pre-eminence amongst those distinguished scholars as marked as he had already attained as a general.

Republican France was now at peace with all the world, England alone excepted. The Directory raised an army for the invasion of England, and gave Napoleon the command. Republicans all over Europe, England included, adored Napoleon as the great champion of popular rights. England trembled. It was necessary that the people should be taught to hate this man whom they now worshipped. The English press came to the rescue of the English government. The most malign and atrocious lies were published regarding Napoleon. He was represented as a demon in human form; a monster of profligacy and tyrannical ambition; a robber, plundering the nations for his own selfish aggrandizement. Regarding these bitter and false libels Napoleon said: “There is not one which will reach posterity. When I have been asked to cause answers to be written to them, I have uniformly replied, ‘My victories and my works of public improvement are the only response which it becomes me to make.’ When there shall not be a trace of these libels to be found, the great monuments of utility which I have reared, and the code of laws that I have formed, will descend to the most remote ages, and future historians will avenge the wrongs done me by my contemporaries.” Napoleon deeming an attack upon England too hazardous, the project was abandoned.

Then followed Napoleon’s expedition into Egypt. Volumes could be written upon each one of Napoleon’s marvellous campaigns, but we can merely give a slight outline. The famous battle of the Pyramids made Napoleon the undisputed conqueror of Egypt. “Soldiers!” he exclaimed, as he rode along the ranks, “from those summits forty centuries contemplate your actions.”

The name of Napoleon became suddenly as renowned in Asia and Africa as it had previously become in Europe. But twenty-one days had elapsed since he landed at Alexandria, and now he was sovereign of Egypt. The Egyptians welcomed him as a friend and liberator. He disclaimed all sovereignty over Egypt, and organized a government to be administered by the people themselves. In the mean time Lord Nelson learned that the French had landed in Egypt. He immediately proceeded thither. The famous battle of the Nile followed, in which the English were victorious. The French fleet had been destroyed, and Napoleon was cut off from Europe. All monarchical Europe rejoiced; all republican Europe mourned. Napoleon now undertook the Syrian expedition. With ten thousand men he commenced his march over the desert. We cannot describe their weary march through the burning sands, their sufferings from want, and the dreadful plague which soon broke out in the army. We can only note the siege of Acre. The subjugation of this fortress would have made Napoleon master of Syria. Sir Sidney Smith conducted the defence with the combined English and Turkish troops. It was here that the marvellous affection of Napoleon’s soldiers for their general was tested. Sir Sidney Smith circulated a proclamation, offering to convey every French soldier safely to France who would desert Napoleon. It is not known that a single man was false to Napoleon, whom all adored as a being seemingly more than mortal.

The siege had continued for sixty days. Napoleon had lost three thousand men by the sword and the plague. At this time fresh Turkish troops arrived to join his enemies; and deeming the enterprise hopeless, Napoleon abandoned the siege. Napoleon was as great in defeat as in success. Speaking of his power to endure trials, he said: “Nature seems to have calculated that I should endure great reverses. She has given me a mind of marble. Thunder cannot ruffle it. The shaft merely glides along.”

At midnight, on the 25th of July, 1799, Napoleon, with six thousand men, arrived within sight of the camp of the Turks, upon the shores of the Bay of Aboukir. Napoleon knew that the Turks were awaiting the arrival of the Mameluke cavalry from Egypt and of re-enforcements from Acre and other parts of Syria. Defeat to Napoleon now would have been utter ruin. But the terrific conflict which followed was not a defeat, but a victory so complete that the whole Turkish army was destroyed. Sir Sidney Smith fled in terror to his ships. Not a foe remained. In the enthusiasm of the moment, Kleber, who had just arrived with a division of two thousand men, for whom Napoleon had not waited, threw his arms around the neck of his adored chieftain, exclaiming, “Let me embrace you, my general; you are great as the universe!”

Napoleon now learned that France was in a terrible state of confusion. The imbecile government was despised. Plots, conspiracies, and assassinations filled the land. Napoleon determined to return to France. As he had no fleet, he could not take his army. The matter was therefore concealed from them. With a small retinue, Napoleon embarked, and sailed to France. Then followed the overthrow of the Directory. France had tried republicanism, and the experiment had failed. The people were too ignorant to govern themselves. The next morning after the overthrow of the Directory, the three consuls, Napoleon, Sièyes, and Ducos, met in the palace of the Luxembourg.

There was but one arm-chair in the room. Napoleon had seated himself in it. Sièyes exclaimed, “Gentlemen, who shall take the chair?”

“Bonaparte, surely,” said Ducos; “he already has it. He is the only man who can save us.”

“Very well, gentlemen,” said Napoleon, promptly; “let us proceed to business.”

And important business he soon despatched. The revolutionary tribunals had closed the churches and prohibited the observance of the Sabbath. Napoleon recalled the banished priests, opened the churches, and restored religious worship. The treasury was bankrupt. Napoleon replenished it. The army was starving and ragged. Napoleon addressed them with his thrilling words of sympathy, and clothed and fed them. The navy was dilapidated. In every port in France, at the magic word of this magnetic man, the sound of the ship-hammer was heard, and a fleet was prepared to send to Egypt to convey to France his soldiers left there. The Constitution was framed and adopted, and Napoleon was elected First Consul of France. Civil war was now at an end. Napoleon wrote two letters, one to the king of England, and the other to the emperor of Germany, endeavoring to arrange a general peace. Austria was inclined to listen to this appeal, but England demanded war. She would have no peace while France continued a republic. So Napoleon was forced to prepare for war.

“Moreau was sent with a magnificent army into Swabia, to drive back the Austrians towards their capital; Massena was appointed over the army of Italy, while Napoleon himself swept down from the heights of San Bernard, upon the plains of Lombardy.

“At the fierce-fought battle of Marengo he reconquered Italy, while Moreau chased the vanquished Austrians over the Danube. Victory everywhere perched on the French standards, and Austria was ready to agree to an armistice, in order to recover from the disasters she had suffered. The slain at Montibello, around Genoa, on the plains of Marengo, in the Black Forest, and along the Danube are to be charged over to the British government, which refused peace in order to fight for the philanthropic purpose of giving security to governments.

“Austria, though crippled, let the armistice wear away, refusing to make a treaty because she was bound for seven months longer to England. Bonaparte, in the mean time, was preparing to recommence hostilities. Finding himself unable to conclude a peace, he opened the campaign of Hohenlinden, and sent Macdonald across the Splugen. Moreau’s victorious march through Austria, and the success of the operations in Italy, soon brought Austria to terms, and the celebrated peace of Luneville, of 1801, was signed. The energy and ability, and above all, the success of the First Consul had now forced the continental powers to regard him with respect, and in some cases with sympathy, while England, by her imperious demands, had embroiled herself with all the northern powers of Europe.”

At length a general peace was concluded at Amiens, and the world was at rest. Napoleon was now the idol of France. Although his title was only that of First Consul, and France was nominally a republic, yet he was in reality the most powerful monarch in Europe. He ruled in the _hearts_ of forty millions of people. In 1803 the peace of Amiens was broken, and all impartial historians admit, and even English writers cannot deny the responsibility of this rupture rests with England. In that treaty it was expressly stipulated that England should evacuate Egypt and Malta, while France was to evacuate Naples, Tarento, and the Roman States. Napoleon had fulfilled his part of the agreement within two months after the peace. But the English were still in Alexandria and Malta. Napoleon was right, and England was entirely wrong. If a violation of a solemn treaty is a just cause for war, Napoleon was free from blame. England now drew Russia into this new alliance, then Austria and Sweden. Prussia refused to join the alliance, and sided with France. The bloody conflict began. For the slain left on the plains of Italy, for the tens of thousands strewn on the battle-field of Austerlitz, who is chargeable? Neither Napoleon nor France. Napier, in his “Peninsular War,” says:

“Up to the peace of Tilsit, the wars of France were _essentially defensive_; for the bloody contest that wasted the continent for so many years was not a struggle for pre-eminence between ambitious powers, nor for the political ascendency of one or other nation, _but a deadly conflict to determine whether aristocracy or democracy should predominate,—whether equality or privilege should henceforth be the principle of European governments_.”

“But how much does this ‘up to the peace of Tilsit’ embrace? First, all the first wars of the French Republic,—the campaigns of 1792, ’93, ’94, ’95, and the carnage and woe that made up their history; second, eleven out of the eighteen years of Bonaparte’s career,—the campaigns of 1796, in Italy and Germany, the battles of Montenotte, Millesimo, Dego, Lodi, Arcola, Castiglione, and Rivoli, the campaigns of 1797, and the bloody battle-fields that marked their progress. It embraces the wars in Italy and Switzerland while Bonaparte was in Egypt; the campaign of Marengo, and its carnage; the havoc around and in Genoa; the slain thousands that strewed the Black Forest and the banks of the Danube, where Moreau struggled so heroically; the campaign of Hohenlinden, and its losses. And yet this is but a fraction to what remains. This period takes in also the campaign of Austerlitz and its bloody battle, and the havoc the hand of war was making in Italy; the campaign of Jena, and the fierce conflicts that accompanied it; the campaign of Eylau and the battles of Pultusk, Golymin, Heilsberg, crowned by the dreadful slaughter of Eylau; the campaigns of Friedland and Tilsit, and the multitudes they left on the plains of Europe. All these terrible campaigns, with their immense slaughter, does an English historian declare to be the result of a defensive war on the part of France, not merely a defence of territory, _but of human rights against tyranny_. Let republicans ponder this before they adopt the sentiments of prejudiced historians, and condemn as a monster the man who was toiling over battle-fields to save his country from banded oppressors.”

The 2d of December, 1804, dawned clear and cold. It was Sunday, and upon this day Napoleon was to be crowned emperor at the church of Nôtre Dame. All Paris assembled to witness this imposing ceremony. The church was draped in costly velvet of richest hues. At one end a gorgeous throne was erected. The Emperor left the Tuileries in a splendid carriage, whose sides were of glass, thus allowing his magnificent robes to be seen. He wore a golden laurel wreath upon his head.

The acclamations of the immense crowds thronging the streets filled the air. As Napoleon entered the church, five hundred musicians intoned a solemn chant. The Pope anointed the Emperor and blessed the sword and the sceptre. Then Napoleon lifted the crown and placed it upon his own head. Napoleon then took up the crown intended for the Empress, and approaching Josephine as she knelt before him, he placed it tenderly upon her brow. Their eyes met for one moment in a long and loving gaze of mutual affection, and tears filled the eyes of the beautiful Josephine as she glanced with undisguised adoration upon the husband she so reverenced and worshipped. And the lofty arches of Nôtre Dame resounded with shouts of “_Vive l’Empereur!_”

The Cisalpine Republic had witnessed the change of France from a republic to an empire with great satisfaction. A deputation from Italy was now sent to Napoleon, begging him to assume the crown of Charlemagne. On the 20th of May, the coronation took place in the Cathedral of Milan. The ceremony was conducted with a magnificence not exceeded at Nôtre Dame. The iron crown of Charlemagne had reposed for a thousand years in the church of Monza. The Empress first appeared gorgeously dressed and glittering with jewels. Then Napoleon entered, arrayed in imperial robes, with the diadem upon his brow and the sceptre and crown of Charlemagne in his hands. He placed the crown upon his own head, saying, solemnly, “God has given it to me; woe to him who touches it!”

Meanwhile, hostilities had commenced in the midst of Germany. Austria and Russia had united with England. The Austrians had passed the Inn; Munich was invaded; war was inevitable.

Then followed the campaign of Ulm. Napoleon writes to Josephine, Dec. 5, 1805:—

“I have concluded a truce. The Russians have implored it. The victory of Austerlitz is the most illustrious of all which I have gained. We have taken forty-five flags, 150 pieces of cannon, and twenty generals. More than 20,000 are slain. It is an awful spectacle. I have beaten the Russian and Austrian armies commanded by the two emperors.”

In 1806 England, Russia, and Prussia formed a new alliance against the French. Then followed the bloody battles of Jena and Auerstadt. On the 28th of October Napoleon made a triumphal entry into Berlin, and established himself in the king’s palace. While there he visited the tomb of Frederick the Great, at Potsdam. The sword of the Prussian was suspended over his grave. Napoleon took it down, saying, “I will send it to the governor of the Invalides.” General Rapp ventured to reply, “Were I in your place, I should not be willing to part with this sword. I should keep it for myself.”

Napoleon jestingly answered, “_Have I not then a sword of my own, Mr. Giver of Advice?_” The Prussian monarchy was destroyed upon the fields of Jena and of Auerstadt. But England and Russia were yet clamorous for war. Again Napoleon tried to make overture for peace, again he was repulsed. Then followed the terrible battle-field of Eylau. Amid winter’s snow and ice and storms this famous battle was won. As Napoleon passed over the gory field after the awful carnage, he exclaimed with deep emotion, “To a father who loses his children victory has no charms.”

A dragoon, dreadfully shattered and bleeding from the effects of a cannon ball, raised his head from the bloody snow, and faintly said, “Turn your eyes this way, please your Majesty. I believe that I have got my death wound. I shall soon be in the other world. But no matter for that; _vive l’Empereur!_”

Napoleon immediately dismounted from his horse and took the hand of the wounded man, telling his aids to carry him to the ambulance. Large tears rolled down the cheeks of the dying dragoon, as he fixed his eyes upon that loved face, fervently exclaiming, “I only wish I had a thousand lives to lay down for your majesty.” Amidst a heap of dead, a feeble voice was heard crying, “_Vive l’Empereur!_” Half-concealed beneath a tattered flag lay a young officer. As Napoleon approached, he raised himself upon his elbow, though pierced with numerous wounds, and faintly cried: “God bless your majesty! farewell, farewell! Oh, my poor mother! To dear France my last sigh!” and falling back, was dead. Upon this dreadful battle-field, though it was after midnight, he wrote this fond note to Josephine:—

MY LOVE,—There was a great battle yesterday. Victory
remains with me, but I have lost many men. The loss of
the enemy, still more considerable, does not console
me. I write these two lines myself, though greatly
fatigued, to tell you that I am well, and that I love
you. Wholly thine,

NAPOLEON.

The peace of Tilsit was finally concluded, and Napoleon returned to Paris.

The French government at this time was composed of three houses,—the Senate, the Tribunate, and the Legislature. Napoleon blended the Tribunate and the Legislature in one. He formed the Council of State, or Cabinet, with the greatest care, choosing the most able men in every department. The meetings of the Council were held in the palace of the Tuileries or at St. Cloud. The most perfect freedom of discussion prevailed in the Council.

In September, 1808, occurred the memorable meeting of the emperors at Erfurth. Kings, princes, and courtiers came from all parts of Europe to witness the extraordinary spectacle. Napoleon was the gracious host who received them as his guests. No more gorgeous retinue had ever followed a monarch of the blood royal than surrounded the Emperor Napoleon as he left Paris for the appointed place of meeting. Amid all the royal magnificence which attended these imperial sovereigns, none appeared so majestic, so supremely commanding in their personal presence as Napoleon the Plebeian Monarch, who had raised himself by his own surprising and irresistible genius to the proudest place amidst the courts of Europe.

All the other sovereigns trembled before his amazing power; the imperialism of mind and genius compelled the homage of royal titles and royal blood.

We do not uphold that Napoleon’s career was free from error, and no greater blot tarnishes the brightness of his fame than his divorce of Josephine. From that moment Napoleon fell. From that moment Josephine mounted an eminence of self-sacrificing, unselfish devotion, of heart-martyrdom, never reached by woman before. Women have died for their husbands; but this was worse than death. Women have slaved and toiled, and been down-trodden by brutal husbands; but this was worse than that. Never before had woman stepped from so high an eminence of bliss into so deep an abyss of heart-desolating woe, and with self-renouncing, almost inconceivable, womanly devotion, allowed her royal place as wife to be taken by another, that thus a supposed political power might be gained by the idolized object of her affection; who, even though his cruel demand thus shattered her hopes, her heart, and her life, she was still unselfish enough to glory in her self-renunciatory sacrifice, for the still adored object of her love. No political excuse can cover this crime committed by Napoleon at the instigation of Fouché and other ambitious adherents, and worst of all, at the instigation of his own relations, whom historians acknowledge were the bitter enemies of his wife. No laxity of the times, in the sacred laws of marriage, which are the most solemn vows that human beings can take upon themselves, next to their vows to God, can excuse this blot upon Napoleon’s fame. By the very eminence of his genius above all other men, by the very exaltation of his lofty position, should he have made himself the model as an _upholder_, not a _desecrator_, of the most sacred human relation ever ordained by God.

“What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder!” was a weightier obligation than any supposed political advantage, more binding than any patriotism, more encumbent upon him than any duty of state or country. No political reasons can palliate in the least degree this crime; they only weakly _explain_, but do not in any manner excuse it. That Napoleon, with his marvellous self-sufficiency of will, and genius, and wise forethought, and keen-eyed intuition, could have been led into such a deplorable act, is past all comprehension. That it was the cruel and bitter mistake of his life, he himself has acknowledged. Napoleon said afterwards, “In separating myself from Josephine, and in marrying Maria Louisa, I placed my foot upon an abyss which was covered with flowers.”

It was an abyss deep and awful; and from this dark and direful abyss issued forth the horrible reptiles of disappointment, sorrow, and remorse, which thrust their cruel fangs into the quivering heart of the lonely exile at St. Helena. Perchance, in the silent anguish of his agonized but heroic soul, a dumb wail broke forth, “Ah, Josephine! my only love! bright star of my destiny! when I no longer gazed upward to thy heavenly light, but tempted by the demons of false counsel, followed an _ignis fatuus_ o’er the treacherous quicksands of political ambition, then did I find myself ingulfed in sorrows, and my heart was shrouded in the black darkness of a rayless night of hopeless despair. Had I been true to thee, perchance a just and righteous Providence might have been more merciful to me. Thou wert my star of hope and love! Thou wert ordained by heaven, my star of destiny! Bitterly do I remember thy prophetic words upon that memorable night, when the tie which bound us together was shattered by my blind ambition, ‘Bonaparte, behold that bright star; it is mine! and remember, to mine, not to thine, has sovereignty been promised. Separate, then, our fates, and your star fades!’

“Ah, Josephine, you were right! It is to you alone that I owe the only few moments of happiness I have known in the world!”

Yes, Josephine was right; that hour marked the commencement of the downfall of Napoleon. His star, which once blazed forth in matchless splendor in the heavens, was soon to sink forever. The two greatest errors of Napoleon were the conquest of Spain and the invasion of Russia. The first was unjust, the second was unfortunate. We can but give one picture of the Russian campaign. Napoleon and his army had marched in triumph more than two thousand miles from his capital. Victory had accompanied him. He had taken the metropolis of the most powerful nation on the continent, though that nation had been aided by England, Spain, Portugal, and Sweden. Moscow was in the possession of the French. Napoleon was established in the Krémlin.

It was the 16th of September, 1812. At midnight the cry of “Fire!” resounded through the streets. Moscow was in flames! Mines were sprung, shells burst, cannons were discharged, wagons of powder exploded; earthquake succeeded earthquake; volcano followed volcano of flame and smoke and burning projectiles, until the whole vast city was wrapped in one wild ocean of flame. Napoleon said of this awful sight: “It was a spectacle of a sea and billows of fire, a sky and clouds of flame; mountains of red rolling flames, like immense waves of the sea, alternately bursting forth and elevating themselves to skies of fire, and then sinking into the ocean of flame below. Oh! it was the most grand, the most sublime, the most terrific sight the world ever beheld.”

Nothing was left of Moscow save the remembrance of its former grandeur. Then followed the terrible retreat of the French army, through the cold and snow and winter storms. During this unfortunate expedition the entire army of Napoleon had been destroyed. “During the Russian campaign France is believed to have lost about three hundred and fifty thousand soldiers: a hundred thousand were killed in the advance and retreat, a hundred and fifty thousand died from hunger, fatigue, and the severity of the climate, and about a hundred thousand remained prisoners in the hands of the Russians, not more than half of whom ever returned to France.”

Still, notwithstanding the enormous wars in which Napoleon had been engaged, he had expended in works of public improvement, for the embellishment of France, in the course of nine years, more than two hundred millions of dollars. “These miracles,” says a French writer, “were all effected by steadiness of purpose, talent armed with power, and finances wisely and economically applied. If a man of the age of the Medici, or of Louis XIV., were to revisit the earth, and at the sight of so many marvels, ask how many ages of peace and glorious reigns had been required to produce them, he would be answered, ‘_Twelve years of war, and a single man!_’”

But the war was not over. With an army formed of fresh recruits, again Napoleon was forced to meet his foes. Then followed the battle of Lützen, which is regarded as one of the most brilliant proofs of Napoleon’s genius. But now many a Judas appeared in the midst of his supposed friends. General Jomini deserted the staff of Marshal Ney, and went over to the Emperor Alexander. Bernadotte, of Sweden, took up arms against the French; and General Moreau went over to the camp of the Allies.

After the disaster of Leipsic, and the losses sustained by different divisions of the army in that campaign, and the mortality which thinned so dreadfully the French armies on the Rhine, France felt herself exhausted and weak.

In this depressed state, the civilized world was preparing its last united onset upon her. From the Baltic to the Bosphorus, from the Archangel to the Mediterranean, Europe had banded itself against Napoleon. Denmark and Sweden had struck hands with Austria and Russia and Prussia and England; while, to crown all, the princes of the Confederation of the Rhine put their signatures to the league, and _one million and twenty-eight thousand men_ stood up in battle array on the plains of Europe to overthrow this mighty spirit that had shaken so terribly their thrones. And all this resistless host were pointing their bayonets towards Paris. What man or nation could meet such an overwhelming foe? Never did Napoleon’s genius shine forth with greater splendor than in the almost super-human exertions he put forth in this last great struggle for his empire. The Allies entered the capital, and Napoleon was compelled to abdicate, preferring exile, rather than involve France in more terrible bloodshed. He then penned this memorable abdication:—

“The allied sovereigns having declared that the Emperor Napoleon is the sole obstacle to the re-establishment of a general peace in Europe, the Emperor Napoleon, faithful to his oath, declares that he renounces, for himself and his heirs, the throne of France and Italy; and that there is no personal sacrifice, not even that of life itself, which he is not willing to make for the interests of France.”

Then followed his mournful farewell to his soldiers.

“As Napoleon arrived at the landing of the grand staircase, he stood for a moment and looked around upon the Guard drawn up in the court, and upon the innumerable multitude which thronged its surroundings. Every eye was fixed on him. It was a funereal scene, over which was suspended the solemnity of religious awe. Acclamations in that hour would have been a mockery. The silence of the grave reigned undisturbed. Tears rolled down the furrowed cheeks of the warriors, and their heads were bowed in overwhelming grief. Napoleon cast a tender and a grateful look over the battalions and the squadrons who had ever proved so faithful to himself and to his cause. Before descending to the courtyard, he hesitated for a moment, as if his fortitude were forsaking him. But immediately rallying his strength, he approached the soldiers. The drums commenced beating the accustomed salute. With a gesture Napoleon arrested the martial tones.” A breathless stillness prevailed. With a voice clear and firm,—every articulation of which was heard in the remotest ranks,—he said:—

“Generals, officers, and soldiers of my Old Guard, I bid you farewell. For five and twenty years I have ever found you in the path of honor and of glory. In these last days, as in the days of our prosperity, you have never ceased to be models of fidelity and of courage. Europe has armed against us. Still, with men such as you, our cause never could have been lost. We could have maintained a civil war for years. But it would have rendered our country unhappy. I have therefore sacrificed our interests to those of France. I leave you; but, my friends, _be faithful to the new sovereign whom France has accepted_. The happiness of France was my only thought; it shall ever be the object of my most fervent prayers. Grieve not for my lot; I shall be happy so long as I know that you are so. If I have consented to outlive myself, it is with the hope of still promoting your glory. I trust to write the deeds we have achieved together. Adieu, my children! I would that I could press you all to my heart. Let me at least embrace your general and your eagle.”

“Every eye was now bathed in tears. At a signal from Napoleon, General Petit, who then commanded the Old Guard, advanced and stood between the ranks of the soldiers and their emperor. Napoleon, with tears dimming his eyes, encircled the general in his arms, while the veteran commander, entirely unmanned, sobbed aloud. All hearts were melted, and a stilled moan was heard through all the ranks.

“Again the Emperor recovered himself, and said, ‘Bring me the eagle.’ A grenadier advanced, bearing one of the eagles of the regiment. Napoleon imprinted a kiss upon its silver beak, then pressed the eagle to his heart, and said, in tremulous accents, ‘Dear eagle, may this last embrace vibrate forever in the hearts of all my faithful soldiers! Farewell, again, my old companions, farewell!’”

But Elba could not long hold that daring, restless spirit. The next year he again unrolled his standard in the capital of France, and the army opened its arms to receive him. He at length staked all on the field of Waterloo. There the star of his destiny again rose over the horizon, and struggled with its ancient strength to mount the heavens of fame. The battle-cloud rolled over it, and when it again was swept away, that star had gone down, sunk in blood and carnage, to rise no more forever.

“Volumes have been written on this campaign and last battle; but every impartial mind must come to the same conclusion,—that Napoleon’s plans never promised more complete success than at this last effort. Wellington was entrapped, and with the same co-operation on both sides, he was lost beyond redemption. Had Blücher stayed away as Grouchy did, or had Grouchy come up as did Blücher, victory would once more have soared with the French eagles. It is in vain to talk of Grouchy’s having obeyed orders. It was plainly his duty, and his only duty, to detain Blücher or to follow him.”

Even yet Napoleon could have placed himself at the head of fifty thousand men in a few hours. He was entreated by his friends to grasp these powerful resources and again attack the foe. But treachery had already invaded the Chamber of Deputies. The wily Fouché—the same who had largely instigated the divorce of Josephine—had obtained the control, and joining with the Bourbons, persuaded the Chamber to demand the second abdication of the Emperor.

“Two regiments of volunteers from the Faubourg St. Antoine, accompanied by a countless multitude, marched to the gates of the Elysée. A deputation waited upon the Emperor, stating that the traitorous Chamber of Deputies was about to sell France again to the Bourbons, and entreating him to take the reins of government into his own hands, as on the 18th Brumaire.” The Emperor replied, “You recall to my remembrance the 18th Brumaire, but you forget that the circumstances are not the same. On the 18th Brumaire the nation was unanimous in desiring a change. A feeble effort only was necessary to effect what they so much desired. Now it would require floods of French blood, and never shall a single drop be shed by me in defence of a cause purely personal. Putting the brute force of the mass of the people into action would doubtless save Paris and insure me the crown without incurring the horrors of civil war, but it would likewise be risking thousands of French lives. _No! I like the regrets of France better than her crown._”

And so Napoleon, sacrificing himself to save the lives of the French people, dictated his second act of abdication, and resigned himself with amazing calmness to this overwhelming disaster. But when he threw himself upon the generosity of England, she treacherously entrapped him on the _Bellerophon_, and afterwards conveyed him as a captive to the desolate island of St. Helena, where she set spies over him to torture and insult him, and gloated with demoniacal cruelty over the reports they gave of his sufferings.

But England, with all her cunning and her base treachery, could not imprison the matchless mind and soul of the great Napoleon. Though his body was chained to a dreary rock-prison, his genius was still the royal emperor of the world. His wondrous sayings at St. Helena have become the text-books for the students of all climes.

An English writer, who holds the position of a professor in the University at Cambridge, in a work lately published, thus gives to Napoleon his place in history: “There are times—and these are the most usual—when the most wonderful abilities would not have availed to raise any man from such a station as that in which Napoleon was born to the head of affairs. But the last years of the eighteenth century formed an exceptional period, in which such an ascent was not only possible in France, but was quite possible without very extraordinary abilities. That particular part of Napoleon’s career to which the Alexanders and Hannibals can show nothing parallel, is, in fact, just the part which, in that exceptional time, was within the reach of an ordinary man. Thus the miracle of Bonaparte’s rise to power lies not so much in his personality as in the time.”

What a pity that this _English professor_ could not have happened to have lived when _ordinary_ men might have become so great!

One great secret of Napoleon’s success was the union of two striking qualities which are not often found together. His imagination was as ardent, and his mind as impetuous, as the most rash warrior; at the same time his judgment was as cool and correct as the ablest tactician. “His mind moved with the rapidity of lightning, and yet with the precision and steadiness of naked reason.” This power of thinking quick and thinking right is one of the rarest and yet most important qualities to insure success. As a military leader he has no superior in ancient or modern times. Instead of following what was then considered the scientific mode of warfare, he fell back upon his own genius, and originated tactics which filled his foes with horrified surprise. His power of combination was unequalled; his mind seemed vast enough for the management of the globe. And yet so perfect was the system and arrangement of his plans and thoughts that the slightest detail was never overlooked. His bravery amounted to rashness where his own life was concerned. He feared neither shot nor shell, and carelessly exposed himself whenever he thought his presence was needed, replying to his soldiers, who often besought him not to risk his life so recklessly, “Courage! the bullet that is to kill me is not yet cast.”

As a thinker and statesman, Napoleon was as remarkable as he was as a politician and general. His genius was universal. Had he not been a Napoleon, he might have been a Shakespeare or a Bacon. He condensed a volume into a sentence; his words were as keen as the blade of a Damascus sword, and as freighted with ominous meaning as the tides of the ocean. He knew men; he knew books; he knew nature. In twenty-five lessons Napoleon became so familiar with the English language that he could read any English book without difficulty.

Another remarkable trait in Napoleon was his self-sufficiency. That self-confidence, which in smaller men would have been mad folly, was in him the most far-seeing wisdom. He needed no opinions of other men to govern his actions. He was sufficient unto himself. He took counsel only of his own genius and reason and marvellous intuitions.

His self-reliance was his power in the midst of danger and difficulties. He believed God had given him a great part to play in the world’s drama, and he meant to play it well. His plans were almost the inspirations of prophetic foreknowledge.

Napoleon was also the greatest of statesmen. His conversations at St. Helena display his wonderful knowledge of men and governments and laws and administrative legislation. Nowhere else can be found such profound thoughts upon politics, war, sciences, arts, or religion. He has been accused of infidelity. But few declarations of the Divinity of Christ, ever uttered by mortal lips, have equalled in far-reaching apprehension, and also acknowledgment of the divine incomprehensibility of the mystery of the Godhead, as the sayings of Napoleon. Conversing with General Bertrand at St. Helena, Napoleon said:—

“I know men, and I tell you that Jesus Christ is not a man. Superficial minds see a resemblance between Christ and the founders of empires and the gods of other religions. That resemblance does not exist. There is between Christianity and all other religions whatsoever the distance of infinity. Paganism was never accepted as truth by the wise men of Greece, neither by Socrates, Pythagoras, Plato, Anaxagoras, nor Pericles. But on the other side, the loftiest intellects since the advent of Christianity have had faith, a living faith, a practical faith, in the mysteries and doctrines of the Gospel. Paganism is the work of man. What do these gods so boastful know more than other mortals? these legislators, Greek or Roman? this Numa? this Lycurgus? these priests of India or of Memphis? this Confucius? this Mohammed? Absolutely nothing. They have made a perfect chaos of morals. There is not one among them all who has said anything new in reference to our future destiny, to the soul, to the essence of God, to the creation. As for me, I recognize the gods and these great men as beings like myself. They have performed a lofty part in their times, as I have done. Nothing announces them divine. On the contrary, there are numerous resemblances between them and myself,—foibles and errors which ally them to me and to humanity.

“It is not so with Christ. Everything in him astonishes me. His spirit overawes me, and his will confounds me. Between him and whoever else in the world there is no possible term of comparison; his birth, and the history of his life; the profundity of his doctrine, which grapples the mightiest difficulties, and which is of those difficulties the most admirable solution; his Gospel, his apparition, his empire, his march across the ages and the realms,—everything is to me a prodigy, an insoluble mystery, which plunges me into a reverie from which I cannot escape, a mystery which is there before my eyes, a mystery which I can neither deny nor explain. Here I see nothing human.