Part 36
“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.
[Illustration: NAPOLEON AT FONTAINEBLEAU.]
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.