The Boys' Book of Rulers

“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.

“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.