have just mentioned is the more ridiculous, since every individual
about me well knows how careless I am with regard to self-preservation.
Accustomed from the age of eighteen to be exposed to the connon-ball,
and knowing the inutility of precautions, I abandoned myself to
my fate. When I came to the head of affairs, I might still have
fancied myself surrounded by the dangers of the field of battle;
and I might have regarded the conspiracies which were formed against
me as so many bomb-shells. But I followed my old course. I trusted
to my lucky star, and left all precautions to the police. I was
perhaps the only sovereign in Europe who dispensed with a body-guard.
Every one could freely approach me, without having, as it were, to
pass through military barracks. Maria Lousia was much astonished
to see me so poorly guarded, and she often remarked that her father
was surrounded by bayonets. For my part, I had no better defense
at the Tuileries than I have here. I do not even know where to
find my sword," said he, looking around the room; "do you see it?
I have, to be sure, incurred great dangers. Upward of thirty plots
were found against me. These have been proved by authentic testimony,
without mentioning many which never came to light. Some sovereigns
invent conspiracies against themselves; for my part, I made it a
rule carefully to conceal them whenever I could. The crisis most
serious to me was during the interval from the battle of Marengo, to
the attempt of George Cadoudal and the affair of the Duke D'Enghien"
Napoleon now, with his accustomed vigor, took hold of the robbers an
and made short work with them. The insurgent armies of La Vendee,
numbering more than one hundred thousand men, and filled with
adventurers and desperadoes of every kind, were disbanded when their
chiefs yielded homage to Napoleon. Many of these men, accustomed to
banditti warfare, took to the highways. The roads were so infested
by them, that travailing became exceedingly perilous, and it was
necessary that every stage-coach which left Paris should be accompanied
by a guard of armed soldiers. To remedy a state of society thus
convulsed to its very centre, special tribunals were organized,
consisting of eight judges. They were to take cognizance of all such
crimes as conspiracies, robberies, and acts of violence of any kind.
The armed bands of Napoleon swept over France like a whirlwind.
The robbers were seized, tried, and shot without delay. Order was
at once restored. The people thought not of the dangerous power
they were placing in the hands of the First Consul. They asked only
for a commander, who was able and willing to quell the tumult of
the times. Such a commander they found in Napoleon. They were more
than willing to confer upon him all the power he could desire. "You
know what is best for us;"" said the people of Napoleon. "Direct
us what to do, and we will do it." It was thus that absolute power
came voluntarily into his hands. Under the circumstances it was
so natural that it can excite no suspicion. He was called First
Consul. But he already swayed a scepter more mighty than that of the
Caesars. But sixteen months had now elapsed since Napoleon landed
at Frejus. In that time he had attained the throne of France. He had
caused order and prosperity to emerge from the chaos of revolution. By
his magnanimity he had disarmed Russia, by his armies had humbled
Austria, and had compelled continental Europe to accept an honorable
peace. He merited the gratitude of his countrymen, and he received
it in overflowing measure. Through all these incidents, so eventful
and so full of difficulty, it is not easy to point to a single act
of Napoleon, which indicates a malicious or an ungenerous spirit.
"I fear nothing," said Napoleon at St. Helena, "for my renown.
Posterity will do me justice. It will compare the good which I
have done with faults which I have committed. If I had succeeded
I should have died with the reputation of being the greatest man
who ever existed. From being nothing I became, by my own exertions,
the most powerful monarch of the universe, without committing
any crime. My ambition was great, but it rested on the opinion of
the masses. I have always thought that sovereignty resides in the
people. The empire, as I had organized it, was but a great republic.
Called to the throne by the voice of the people, my maxim has always
been a career open to talent without distinction of birth . It is
for this system of equality that the European oligarchy detests
me. And yet in England talent and great services raise a man to
the highest rank. England should have understood me."
The French Revolution," said Napoleon, "was a general movement of
the mass of the nation against the privileged classes. The nobles
were exempt from the burdens of the state, and yet exclusively
occupied all the posts of honor and emolument. The revolution
destroyed these exclusive privileges, and established equality of
rights. All the avenues of wealth and greatness were equally open
to every citizen, according to his talents. The French nation
established the imperial throne, and placed me upon it. The throne
of France was granted before to Hugh Capet, by a few bishops and
nobles. The imperial throne was given to me, by the desire of the
people."
Joseph Bonaparte was of very essential service to Napoleon in the
diplomatic intercourse of the times. Lucien also was employed in
various ways, and the whole family were taken under the protection
of the First Consul. At St. Helena Napoleon uttered the following
graphic and truthful eulogium upon his brothers and sisters: "What
family, in similar circumstances, would have acted better? Every
one is not qualified to be a statesman. That requires a combination
of powers which does not often fall to the lot of any one. In this
respect all my brothers were singularly situated; they possessed
at once too much and too little talent. They felt themselves too
strong to resign themselves. blindly to a guiding counselor, and
yet too weak to be left entirely to themselves. But take them all
in all I have certainly good reason to be proud of my family. Joseph
would have been an honor to society in any country, and Lucien
would have been an honor to any assembly; Jerome, as he advanced
in life, would have developed every qualification requisite
in a sovereign. Louis would have been distinguished in any rank
or condition of life. My sister Eliza was endowed with masculine
powers of mind; she must have proved herself a philosopher in her
adverse fortune. Caroline possessed great talents and capacity.
Pauline, perhaps the most beautiful woman of her age, has been and
will continue to the end of her life, the most amiable creature in
the world. As to my mother, she deserves all kinds of veneration.
How seldom is so numerous a family entitled to so much praise. Add
to this, that, setting aside the jarring of political opinions, we
sincerely loved each other. For my part, I never ceased to cherish
fraternal affection for them all. And I am convinced that in their
hearts they felt the same sentiments toward me, and that in case
of need, they would have given me every proof of it."
The proud old nobility, whom Napoleon had restored to France,
and upon many of whom he had conferred their confiscated estates,
manifested no gratitude toward their benefactor. They were sighting
for the re-enthronement of the Bourbons, and for the return of the
good old times, when all the offices of emolument and honor were
reserved for them and for their children, and the people were
but their hewers of wood and drawers of water. In the morning, as
beggars, they would crowd the audience-chamber of the First Consul
with their petitions. In the evening they disdained to honor his
levees with their presence. They spoke contemptuously of Josephine,
of her kindness and her desire to conciliate all parties. They
condemned every thing that Napoleon did. He, however, paid no heed
to their murmurings. He would not condescend even to punish them
by neglect. In that most lofty pride which induced him to say that,
in his administration he wished to imitate the elemency of God , he
endeavored to consult for the interests of all, both the evil and
the unthankful. His fame was to consist, not in revenging himself
upon his enemies, but in aggrandizing France.
At this time Napoleon's establishment at the Tuileries rather resembled
that of a very rich gentleman, than the court of a monarch. Junot,
one of his aids, was married to Mademoiselle Permon, the young
lady whose name will be remembered in connection with the anecdote
of "Puss in Boots." Her mother was one of the most haughty of the
ancient nobility, who affected to look upon Napoleon with contempt
as not of royal blood. The evening after her marriage Madame Junot
was to be presented to Josephine. After the Opera she drove to the
Tuileries. It was near eleven o'clock. As Josephine had appointed
the hour, she was expected. Eugene, hearing the wheels of the carriage,
descended to the court-yard, presented his arm to Madame Junot,
and they entered the large saloon together. It was a magnificent
apartment, magnificently furnished. Two chandeliers, surrounded
with gauze to soften the glare, shed a subdued and grateful light
over the room. Josephine was seated before a tapestry-frame working
upon embroidery. Near her sat Hortense, sylph-like in figure,
and surpassingly gentle and graceful in her manners. Napoleon was
standing near Josephine, with his hands clasped behind him, engaged
in conversation with his wife and her lovely daughter. Upon the
entrance of Madame Junot Josephine immediately arose, took her
two hands, and, affectionately kissing her, said, "I have too long
been Junot's friend, not to entertain the same sentiments for his
wife; particularly for the one he has chosen."
"Oh, Josephine!" said Napoleon, "that is running on very fast.
How do you know that this little pickle is worth loving. Well,
Mademoiselle Loulou (you see that I do not forget the names of my
old friends), have you not a word for me!" Saying this, he gently
took her hand and drew her toward him.
The young bride was much embarrassed, and yet she struggled to
retain her pride of birth. "General!" she replied, smiling, "it is
not for me to speak first."
"Very well parried," said Napoleon, playfully, "the mother's spirit!
And how is Madame Permon?"
"Very ill, general! For two years her health has caused us great
uneasiness."
"Indeed," said Napoleon," so bad as that? I am sorry to hear it;
very sorry. Make my regards to her. It is a wrong head, a proud
spirit, but she has a generous heart and a noble soul. I hope that we
shall often see you, Madame Junot. My intention is to draw around
me a numerous family, consisting of my generals and their young
wives. They will be of my wife and of Hortense, as their husbands
are my friends. But you must not expect to meet here your acquaintances
of the ancient nobility. I do not like them. They are my enemies,
and prove it by defaming."
This was but the morning twilight of that imperial splendor which
afterward dazzled the most powerful potentates of Europe. Hortense,
who subsequently became the wife of Louis Bonaparte, and the mother
of Louis Napoleon, who, at the moment of this present writing, is
at the head of the government of France, was then seventeen years
of age. "She was," Madame Junot, "fresh as a rose. Though her fair
complexion was not relieved by much color, she had enough to produce
that freshness and bloom which was her chief beauty. A profusion of
light hair played in silken locks around her soft and penetrating
blue eyes. The delicate roundness of her figure, slender as
a palm-tree, was set off by the elegant carriage of her head. But
that which formed the chief attraction of Hortense was the grace
and suavity of her manners, which united the Creole nonchalance
with the vivacity of France. She was gay, gentle, and amiable. She
had wit, which, without the smallest ill-temper, had just malice
enough to be amusing. A polished and well-conducted education had
improved her natural talents. She drew excellently, sang harmoniously,
and performed admirably in comedy. In 1800, she was a charming young
girl. She afterward became one of the most amiable princesses in
Europe. I have seen many, both in their own courts and in Paris,
but I have never known one who had any pretensions to equal talents.
She was beloved by every one. Her brother loved her tenderly. The
First Consul looked upon her as his child."
Napoleon has been accused of an improper affection for Hortense. The
world has been filled with the slander. Says Bourrienne, "Napoleon
never cherished for her any feeling but a real paternal tenderness.
He loved her after his marriage with her mother, as he would have
loved his own child. At least for three years I was a witness
to all their most private actions, and I declare I never saw any
thing that could furnish the least ground for suspicion, nor the
slightest trace of a culpable intimacy. This calumny must be classed
among those which malice delights to take in the character of men
who become celebrated, calumnies which are adopted lightly and without
reflection. Napoleon is no more. Let his memory be accompanied only
by that, be it good or bad, which really took place. Let not this
reproach be made a charge against him by the impartial historian.
I must say, in conclusion, on this delicate subject, that his
principles were rigid in an extreme degree, and that any fault of
the nature charged, neither entered his mind, nor was in accordance
with his morals or his taste."
At St. Helena Napoleon was one day looking over a book containing
an account of his amours. He smiled as he glanced his eye over the
pages, saying, "I do not even know the names of most of the females
who are mentioned here. This is all very foolish. Every body knows
that had no time for such dissipation."
One beautiful evening, in the year 1815, the parish priest of San
Pietro, a village a few miles distant from Sevilla, returned much
fatigued to his little cottage, where he found his aged housekeeper,
the Senora Margarita, watching for him. Notwithstanding that one is
well accustomed to the sight of poverty in Spain, it was impossible
to help being struck by the utter of destitution which appeared
in the house of the good priest; the more so, as every imaginable
contrivance had been restored to, to hide the nakedness of the
walls, and the shabbiness of the furniture. Margarita had prepared
for her master's super a rather small dish of olla-podriga , which
consisted, to say the truth, of the remains of the dinner, seasoned
and disguised with great skill, and with the addition of some sauce,
and a name . As she placed the savory dish upon the table, the
priest said: "We should thank God for this good supper, Margarita:
this olla-podriga makes one's mouth water. My friend, you ought
to be grateful for finding so good a supper at the house of your
host!" At the word host, Margarita raised her eyes, and saw a
stranger, who had followed her mater. Her countenance changed, and
she looked annoyed. .......... She glanced indignantly first at
the unknown, and then at the priest, who, looking down, said in a
low voice, and with the timidity of a child: "What is enough for
two, is always enough for three; and surely you would not wish that
I should allow a Christian to die of hunger? He has not tasted food
for two days."
"A Christian! He is more like a brigand!" and Margarita let the
room, murmuring loudly enough to be heard.
Meanwhile, the unwelcome guest had remained standing at the door.
He was a man of great height, half-dressed in rags and covered
with mud; while his black hair, piercing eyes, and carbine, gave
him an appearance which, though hardly prepossessing, was certainly
interesting. "Must I go?" said he.
The priest replied with an emphatic gesture: "Those whom I bring
under my roof are never driven forth, and are never unwelcome. Put
down your carbine. Let us say grace, and go to table."
"I never leave my carbine, for, as the Castilian proverb says, "Two
friends are one.' My carbine is my best friend; and I always keep
it beside me. Although you allow me to come into your house, and
do not oblige me to leave until I wish to do so, there are others
who would think nothing of hauling me out, and perhaps, with me
feet foremost. Come--to your good health, mine host, and let us to
supper."
The priest possessed an extremely good appetite, but the voracity
of the stranger soon obliged him to give up, for not contented with
eating, or rather devouring, nearly the whole of the olla-podriga,
the guest finished a large loaf of bread, without leaving a crumb.
While he ate, he kept continually looking round with an expression
of inquietude: he started at the slightest sound; and once, when
a violent gust of wind made the door bang, he sprang to his feet,
and seized his carbine, with an air which showed that, if necessary,
he would sell his life dearly. Discovering the cause of the alarm,
he reseated himself at table, and finished his repast.
"Now," said he, "I have one thing more to ask. I have been wounded,
and for eight days my wound has not been dressed. Give me a few
old rags, and you shall be no longer burdened with my presence."
"I am in no haste for you to go," replied the priest, whose quest,
notwithstanding his constant watchfulness, had conversed very
entertainingly. "I know something of surgery, and will dress your
wound."
So saying, he took from a cupboard a case containing every thing
necessary, and proceeded to do as he had said. The stranger had
bled profusely, a ball having passed through his thigh; and to have
traveled in this condition, and while suffering, too, from want of
food, showed a strength, which seemed hardly human.
"You can not possibly continue your journey to-day," said the
host. "You must pass the night here. A little rest will get up your
strength, diminish the inflammation of your wound, and--"
"I must go to--day, and immediately," interrupted the stranger.
"There are some who wait for me," he added with a sigh--"and there
are some, too,who follow me." And the momentary look of softness
passed from his features between the clauses of the sentence, and
gave place to an expression almost of ferocity. "Now, is it finished?
That is well. See, I can walk as firmly as though I had never been
wounded. Give me some bread: pay yourself for your hospitality with
this piece of gold, and adieu."
The priest put back the gold with displeasure. "I am not an innkeeper,
said he; "and I do not sell my hospitality."
"As you will, but pardon me; and now farewell, my kind host."
So saying he took the bread, which Margarita, at her master's command,
very unwillingly gave him, and soon his tall figure disappeared
among the thick foliage of a wood which surrounded the house, or
rather the cabin. An hour had scarcely passed, when musket-shots
were heard close by, and the unknown reappeared, deadly pale, and
bleeding from a deep wound near the heart.
"Take these," said he, giving pieces of gold to his late host;
"they are for my children--near the stream--in the valley."
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deadly agency, which it had power to exert. Even the roadway leading
up and down the mountain is not always safe, it would seem, from
these dangerous intruders. It is rocky and solitary, and is bordered
every where with gloomy ravines and chasms, all filled with dense and
entangled thickets, in which, and in the cavernous rocks of which
the strata of the mountain are composed, wild beast and noxious
animals of every kind find a secure retreat. The monks relate that
not many years ago a servant of the convent, who had been sent
down the mountain to Haifa, to accompany a traveler, was attacked
and seized by a panther on his return. The panther, however, instead
of putting his victim immediately to death, began to play with him
as a cat plays with a mouse which she has succeeded in making her
prey-holding him gently with her claws, for a time, and then, after
drawing back a little, darting upon him again, as if to repeat and
renew the pleasure of capturing such a prize. This was continued so
long, that the cries of the terrified captive brought to the spot
some persons that chanced to be near, when the panther was terrified
in her turn, and fled into the forests; and then the man was rescued
from his horrible situation unharmed.
For these and similar reasons, travelers who ascend to the convent
of Mt. Carmel, enjoy but little liberty there, but most confine
their explorations in most cases to the buildings of the monks,
and to some of the nearest caves of the ancient recluses. Still
the spot is rendered so attractive by the salubrity of the air,
the intrinsic beauty of the situation, the magnificence of the
prospect, and the kind and attentive demeanor of the monks, that
some visitors have recommended it as a place of permanent resort
for those who leave their homes in the West in pursuit of health,
or in search of retirement and repose. The rule that requires those
who have been guests of the convent more than two weeks to give
place to others more recently arrived, proves in facto be no serious
difficulty. Some kind of an arrangement can in such cases always,
be made, though it is seldom that any occasion arises that requires
it. The quarters, too, though plain and simple are comfortable and
neat, and although the visitor is somewhat restricted, from causes
that have already been named, in respect to explorations of the
mountain itself, there are many excursions that can be made in the
country below, of a very attractive character. He can visit Haifa,
he can ride or walk along the beach to Acre; he can go to Nazareth,
or journey down the coast, passing round the western declivity of
the mountain. In these and similar rambles he will find scenes of
continual novelty to attract him, and be surrounded every where
with the forms and usages of Oriental life.
The traveler who comes to Mt. Carmel by the way .......... of Nazareth
and the plain of Esdraelon, in going away from it generally passes
round the western declivity of the mountain, and thence proceeds
to the south, by the way of the sea. On reaching the foot of
the descent, where the mountain mule-path comes out into the main
road, as shown upon the map near the commencement of this article,
he turns shorts to the left, and goes on round the base of the
promontory, with the lofty declivities of the mountain on one hand,
and a mass of dense forests on the other, lying between the road
and the shore. As he passes on, the road, picturesque and romantic
from the beginning becomes gradually wild, solitary, and desolate.
It leads him sometimes through tangled thickets, sometimes under
shelving rocks, and sometimes it brings him out unexpectedly to
the shore of the sea, where he sees the surf rolling in upon the
beach at his feet, and far over the water the setting sun going
down to his rest beneath the western horizon. At length the twilight
gradually disappears, and as the shades of the evening come on,
lights glimmer in the solitary villages that he passes on his way;
but there is no welcome for him in their beaming. At length when
he deems it time to bring his day's journey to an end, he pitches
his tent by the wayside in some unfrequented spot, and before he
retires to rest for the night, comes out to take one more view of
the dark and sombre mountain which he is about to leave forever. He
stands at the door of his tent, and gazes at it long and earnestly,
before he bids it farewell, equally impressed with the sublime
magnificence of its situation and form, and with the solemn grandeur
of its history.
France was now at peace with all the world. It was universally
admitted that Napoleon was the great pacificator. He was the idol
of France. The masses of the people in Europe, every where regarded
him as their advocate and friend, the enemy of aristocratic usurpation,
and the great champion of equality. The people of France no longer
demanded liberty . Weary years of woe had taught them gladly
to relinquish the boon. They only desired a ruler who would take
care of them, govern them, protect them from the power of allied
despotism, and give them equal rights. Though Napoleon had now but
the title of First Consul, and France was nominally a republic,
he was in reality the most powerful monarch in Europe. His throne
was established in the hearts of nearly forty millions of people.
His word was law.