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._”
[Illustration: NAPOLEON ON BOARD THE BELLEROPHON.]
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.
“Jesus borrowed nothing from our sciences. His religion is a revelation
from an intelligence which certainly is not that of man. One can
absolutely find nowhere, but in him alone, the imitation or the example
of his life. He is not a philosopher, since he advances by miracles,
and from the first his disciples worshipped him. He persuades them
far more by an appeal to the heart, than by any display of method and
of logic. Neither did he impose upon them any preliminary studies or
any knowledge of letters. All his religion consists in _believing_.
In fact, the sciences and philosophy avail nothing for salvation. He
has nothing to do but with the soul, and to that alone he brings his
Gospel. The soul is sufficient for him, as he is sufficient for the
soul. I search in vain in history to find a parallel to Jesus Christ,
or anything which can approach the Gospel. Neither history, nor
humanity, nor the ages, nor nature, can offer me anything with which I
am able to compare it or explain it. The more I consider the Gospel,
the more I am assured that there is nothing there which is not beyond
the march of events, and above the human mind.
“You speak of Cæsar, of Alexander, of their conquests, and of the
enthusiasm they enkindled in the hearts of their soldiers; but can
you conceive of a dead man making conquests with an army faithful and
entirely devoted to his memory? My armies have forgotten me, even
while living, as the Carthaginian army forgot Hannibal. Such is our
power! A single battle lost crushes us, and adversity scatters our
friends.
“Can you conceive of Cæsar, the eternal emperor of the Roman Senate,
from the depths of his mausoleum governing the empire, watching over
the destinies of Rome? Such is the history of the invasion and conquest
of the world by Christianity. Such is the power of the God of the
Christians, and such is the perpetual miracle of the progress of the
faith and of the government of his Church. Nations pass away, thrones
crumble, but the Church remains. In every other existence but that of
Christ, how many imperfections! From the first day to the last he is
the same, always the same, majestic and simple, infinitely firm and
infinitely gentle. Christ proved that he was the Son of the Eternal
by his disregard of time. All his doctrines signify one and the same
thing,—_Eternity_.
“The Gospel is not a book; it is a living being, with an action, a
power which invades everything that opposes its extension. Behold it
upon this table, this Book surpassing all others” (here he solemnly
placed his hand upon it); “I never omit to read it, and every day with
the same pleasure. Nowhere is to be found such a series of beautiful
ideas, admirable moral maxims, which defile like the battalions of a
celestial army, and which produce in our soul the same emotion which
one experiences in contemplating the infinite expanse of the skies,
resplendent in a summer’s night with all the brilliance of the stars.
Not only is our mind absorbed; it is controlled, and the soul can never
go astray with this Book for its guide. Once master of our spirit, the
faithful Gospel loves us. God even is our Friend, our Father, and
truly our God.
“What a proof of the divinity of Christ! With an empire so absolute, he
has but one single end,—the spiritual amelioration of individuals, the
purity of conscience, the union to that which is true, the holiness of
the soul. So that Christ’s greatest miracle undoubtedly is the reign of
charity.
“Behold the destiny near at hand of him who has been called the great
Napoleon! What an abyss between my deep misery and the eternal reign of
Christ, which is proclaimed, loved, adored, and which is extending over
all the earth. Is this to die? Is it not rather to live? The death of
Christ! It is the death of God.” Turning to General Bertrand, “If you
do not perceive that Jesus Christ is God, very well; then I did wrong
to make you a general.” At length came the last, though to Napoleon
most welcome, summons. A few days before his death, he awoke one
morning, saying, “I have just seen my good Josephine, but she would not
embrace me. She disappeared at the moment when I was about to take her
in my arms. She was seated there. It seemed to me that I had seen her
yesterday evening. She is not changed. She is still the same, full of
devotion to me. She told me that we were about to see each other again,
never more to part.”
The disease progressed rapidly, and the dying hour drew near. It was
the month of May, 1821. A violent storm raged with wild fury on that
rocky prison-isle, as the spirit of the great Napoleon was freeing
itself from its earthly fetters. His few faithful friends who shared
his exile, stood weeping around his couch. In the solemn silence
of that sacred hour his loved voice was once more faintly heard:
“_France! Army! Head of the Army! Josephine!_” and the heart of
Napoleon I. ceased to beat. “_Isle of Elba! Napoleon!_” had been the
last words of the loving and forgiving Josephine. “France! the Army!
Josephine!” were the last images which lingered in the heart, and the
last words which trembled on the lips of the dying emperor.
“When the prejudice, and falsehood, and hatred of his enemies shall
disappear, and the world can gaze impartially on this plebeian soldier,
rising to the throne of an empire, measuring his single intellect
with the proudest kings of Europe, and coming off victorious from the
encounter, rising above the prejudices and follies of his age, ‘making
kings of plebeians, and plebeians of kings,’ grasping, as by intuition,
all military and political science, expending with equal facility his
vast energies on war or peace, turning with the same profound thought
from fierce battles to commerce, and trade, and finances; when the
world can calmly thus contemplate him, his amazing genius will receive
that homage which envy and ignorance and hatred now withhold.
“And when the intelligent philanthropist shall understand the political
and civil history of Europe, and see how Napoleon broke up its systems
of oppression and feudalism, proclaiming human rights in the ears
of the world, till the continent shook with the rising murmurs of
oppressed man; study well the changes he introduced, without which
human progress must have ceased; see the great public works he
established, the institutions he founded, the laws he proclaimed, and
the civil liberty he restored; and then, remembering that the bloody
wars that offset all these were waged by him in self-defence, and were
equal rights struggling against exclusive despotism, he will regret
that he has adopted the slanders of his foemen and the falsehoods of
monarchists.”
[Illustration: THE ROCK AT ST. HELENA.]
Alexander’s conquests were only for selfish glory; he cared not for his
people, and little for his soldiers. Cæsar’s triumphs were for his own
personal honor and power. The wars of Frederick the Great were nearly
all unjust and aggressive, and he openly asserted his selfish ambition.
But Napoleon, equalling them all in the brilliancy of his conquests,
stands so far above them, as the idol of his people and his soldiers,
as a man of incorruptible character, in the midst of temptations as
great as any which have beset mortal men, as an intellectual genius,
with a mind so phenomenal as to make him almost a miracle in far-seeing
intuitions and marvellous accomplishment,—that he must be acknowledged,
not only as the most famous of all the rulers of the world, but as
the greatest uninspired man that ever lived. The history of most men
terminates with the grave. But Napoleon’s story ended not with his
lonely death upon the dreary Isle of St. Helena. Each year his memory
was growing brighter. Each year the French people realized more and
more the irreparable loss they had sustained. The heart-melting story
of his hardships at St. Helena was told over and over again in his
beloved France, till at last the nation rose as one man to do his
memory honor. Just twenty-five years from the time when Napoleon was
landed a captive upon the Island of St. Helena, his sacred remains
were brought from their humble resting-place upon that rocky isle, and
placed in the magnificent mausoleum prepared for them in the Church of
the Invalides. On the anniversary of the great victory of Austerlitz,
the two funeral frigates entered the harbor of Cherbourg. Three ships
of war, the _Austerlitz_, the _Friedland_, and the _Tilsit_,
immediately encircled the ship which bore the sacred remains. All the
forts, batteries, and warships fired a salute. All France flocked to
the cities and villages through which the funeral cortège was to pass.
At four o’clock, on the afternoon of the 14th of December, 1840,
the flotilla arrived at Courbevoie, a small village four miles from
Paris. Here the remains were to be transferred from the steamer to the
shore. As the funeral barge sailed up the Seine, a colossal statue of
Josephine, which had been erected on the shore, offered an appropriate
and fitting welcome. Her fair form and face seemed to greet the return
of her idolized husband. Maria Louisa, the daughter of the Cæsars,
was then living ingloriously at Parma. No one thought of her. But at
last Josephine and Napoleon were united together in sacred memories on
earth, as their spirits had already been reunited in heaven.