Our pictures change little as they show the next stage of Napoleon's progress. For when in the summer of 1801 he is made Consul for life, he appears still to be the same ardent lover of liberty that he was when he became First Consul. He is still the idol of the French people—as well he may be—for what ruler has ever done so much for them? When once things are in his own hands he codifies the laws, gives security to all forms of religion, and organizes the educational system of France. He does everything possible for the rebuilding of the state. He regulates taxes, that the burden may fall equitably on all classes. He helps manufactures of every kind. He proves himself a masterly road-builder. He establishes museums, and orders the construction of great public buildings. In peace he seems to be greater even than he has shown himself in war. He encourages literature, art, and music, and makes Paris so beautiful that its citizens are justified in their pride.

He surrounds himself with capable men. In no way does he more clearly show his own superiority than by letting it be seen that he is free from jealousy. He is always ready to reward publicly those who help him in any of his undertakings. Not all Napoleon's plans are carried out during his Consulship, but they are begun with such vigor that no one doubts that they will be completed. The country is the better for his firm hand. Yet in some ways we admired him more in his earlier years. His ambition now casts a shadow that should warn him that the middle way is the best.

In one way at least Napoleon's ambitions do not get the better of him. As he advances in power he does not forget old friends. They share his prosperity, these schoolmates and associates of his earlier years. They are given honors that some of them find it hard to wear gracefully.

"Here we are at the Tuileries," he exclaims to an old friend, when made Consul for life. "We must remain here."

In the short breathing spell made possible by the Peace of Amiens, France accomplishes more in all directions than the other countries of Europe. Yet those whose sight is clearest may, perhaps, see a cloud likely to deepen and blur the picture. Does it come from England, now making great efforts to gather her strength for a long contest? Or does the growing ambition of Napoleon mean the overthrow of the very things he is working for?

Though the gorgeous spectacle of the Imperial Coronation in the great Cathedral has seldom been surpassed, we incline to turn away from it. It had been better for Napoleon to remain First Consul rather than to make himself Emperor. His plain gray suit became him better than this trailing cloak of purple velvet embroidered in gold and trimmed with ermine. We recognize the golden bees, and the insignia of the Legion of Honor, but the diamond collar and the great Pitt diamond blazing in the pommel of his sword seem unsuited to the young Corsican who once delighted in simplicity. The laurel wreath that he first wears suits him better than the Imperial crown that he takes from the hands of the Pope and places on his own head. But the Pope has anointed him, and Napoleon is now Emperor of that shadowy Holy Roman Empire, for which in the past rivers of blood have been shed.

Is Napoleon really happier now than when he roamed, a fearless boy, over the rough hills of Corsica? Is Josephine as contented wearing the crown of an Empress as she was wandering light-hearted in the forests of Martinique? Josephine is indeed fond of jewels and beautiful clothes, and nothing could be more splendid than her coronation robe of white satin and silver and gold, with its ornaments of pearls and diamonds. But Josephine has a long memory. She often recalls the poverty of her childhood, of her early married life. When Empress she tells one of the ladies in attendance on her that no present ever made her happier than a pair of shoes given her for Hortense, her little daughter, who otherwise would have had to go barefoot part of her voyage from Martinique to France.

Josephine is a sensible woman. She is not ashamed of her early poverty. Like Napoleon she had suffered during the Revolution and had even for a time been thrown into prison. Like Napoleon she, too, had sometimes not known when she should get her next meal. She had even had to borrow money to pay her rent. She had suffered everything, when the execution of her first husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, during the Reign of Terror, had left her and her two children destitute.

All the circumstances of her past life may not have flashed before Josephine's mind at the moment of the Coronation. Yet it is not improbable that wearing the crown and realizing the responsibilities of her new position, she may have sighed for a day of freedom from care, such as she had known in Martinique.

On that December day in 1805 when Napoleon puts on the Imperial crown more than three years have passed since England signed the short-lived Peace of Amiens. The war that is now renewed between France and England is to continue until Waterloo. As Emperor, however, Napoleon seems to be master of Europe. All the European courts, except England, Russia, and Sweden, acknowledge his new title.

So we turn to a new picture. It is the eve of Austerlitz. Napoleon walks among the soldiers, who are resting in camp, awaiting the struggle. When his men recognize him, they surround him, they rush ahead of him, holding aloft long poles on which are fastened burning wisps of straw.

"It is the anniversary of the Coronation," they shout as they light his way. The next day when they measure their strength with Russia and Austria, the soldiers of the Empire are victorious. Another scene now stands out vividly. Alexander of Russia is coming to meet Napoleon. At Tilsit on a raft in the river Niemen the two Emperors greet each other with a kiss.

"I hate the English as much as you," cries the impulsive Alexander. "I will be your second in all that you do against them."

The next day we see the King of Prussia arriving half-heartedly at Tilsit. Friedland has done its work, and for the time Prussia is humbled.

Brilliant though the panorama of Napoleon's life is after Tilsit, we view with wonder rather than approval the striking pictures as they present themselves one by one. We observe the wild enthusiasm of the French people for their Emperor after Ulm and Austerlitz and Hohenlinden. Even the battle of Trafalgar—a victory for England—does not dampen their ardor. But Napoleon himself grows careful, and tries to keep from the army the news of his loss on the sea.

Prussia is humbled, Austria wishes to make terms, Napoleon has some successes in Spain, and he hopes to injure England. Though we may not discover this at first, his interference in the affairs of Spain hastens the Emperor's downfall. Although he succeeds in having his brother Joseph made King of Spain, he cannot keep him on the throne.

His ambition increases. His family try to persuade him to divorce Josephine, that he may strengthen himself by a second marriage with some royal princess.

We look at the family group of the Bonapartes. With Napoleon at the height of his power, we count the titles.

Joseph, at first King of Naples, is King of Spain; Louis, King of Holland; Jerome, King of Westphalia; Lucien, a Prince of the Empire, later repudiates the title; Eliza, Grand Duchess of Tuscany; Pauline, Princess Borghese; and Caroline is Queen of Naples; Josephine's daughter, Hortense, is Queen of Holland; and EugÈne, her son, is a Prince. Old Madame Bonaparte, the devoted mother, is not sure that the glory of the family will last forever. Of the treasures lavished on her by Napoleon, she puts aside a portion that may be of service when the possible rainy day comes.

Josephine is the idol of the French people. But Bonaparte ambition extends even to them. In these uncertain days France might be stronger if its Emperor were free to marry into a Royal family.

We note Josephine's anxiety as she studies Napoleon. But she sees no change in his love for her children. EugÈne is his adopted heir. Hortense is married to Napoleon's brother Louis. Josephine hopes that those who advise the Royal Alliance may not prevail. Her tears are useless, and when Napoleon decides she has to yield.

The first of April, 1810, less than five years from the date of the Coronation, Napoleon is the centre of another brilliant ceremony. This is the day of his marriage with Maria Louisa, daughter of the Emperor of Austria. A year later fickle Paris is in a state of feverish excitement over the birth of the King of Rome. Napoleon, rejoicing in his little son, seems at the height of his power.

Looking at Napoleon now, we must admit that he has become an autocrat. Yet he is not a despot in the ordinary sense. Though he may like power in itself, for what it brings to him, he cares still for the prosperity of France. The country needs his strong guidance. Outside of France he has enemies on all sides. While he does not admit it, things are against him in Spain; and then, as if losing his head, he decides to march into Russia. The Emperor of Russia is now his bitter enemy. The kiss of Tilsit was soon wiped away.

If we could, we would close our eyes to the next terrible scene. Before us marches the best of the young manhood of France—hundreds of thousands of men—to a certain death. Here is the greatest army of the time, and at Borodino we see "the bloodiest fight of the century." For the French the victory is almost worse than a defeat, since they are thus beguiled farther into Russia. No one can paint adequately the horrors of that bitter campaign. Of the hundreds of thousands who had crossed the Niemen a few months earlier, only twenty thousand frost-bitten spectres stagger again over the bridge in the middle of December.

Napoleon's thoughts are gloomy enough as he rides desperately back to France, leaving his fragment of an army in charge of Murat. No one envies him now, with the world against him. Soon he hears that Joseph has been driven from Spain. Already he feels the strength of the coalition formed to overthrow him. Does he realize that Austria is no longer his friend—that Prussia is ready to fall upon him? All Germany is waking to new life, and to a great extent its energy is the result of the teachings of Napoleon himself. We see him struggling to hold his own, unwilling to admit that he has lost anything. There is likely to be discontent in France. The flower of French youth has gone with the army, and there are hardly men enough to till the ground. We glance hastily at the passing pictures. The victory at Dresden is more than balanced by the disasters at Kulm and Leipzig. The campaign of 1813 is fatal to Napoleon, who still trusts to his star.

So we pass on to the last scenes of the panorama.

It is a Sunday in January, 1814. Napoleon is in Paris, intending in a few days to go to the front. He and the Empress are holding a reception at the Tuileries, and there is a brilliant throng in the great salon. All eyes are on the Emperor and Empress as they enter the apartment. Napoleon holds by the hand a fair-haired boy of three, the little King of Rome. The child wears the uniform of the National Guard of Paris. Courtiers, crowding around the group, bow and smile. But as he scans their faces with his keen eye, Napoleon reads who are his enemies, who his friends. There are many officers of the National Guard present, and it is to them perhaps that the Emperor especially addresses himself.

"Gentlemen," he cries, "I am about to set out for the army. I intrust to you what I hold dearest in the world—my wife and my son."

Although those present do not dream that the end of Napoleon's reign is so near, they show great emotion. Tears fall and sobs are heard on all sides as his appeal reaches their hearts. Many of those present at the Tuileries this afternoon—even those nearest him—will never see Napoleon again.

In less than two days the Emperor bids his last farewell to Maria Louisa and their little son. The Empress is to be Regent during his absence. Joseph is appointed Lieutenant of France.

Then we look on the sad picture of Napoleon's last campaign, when he meets his match in the dogged Blucher. Before the end of February, Napoleon has to admit that he is conquered. He accepts the terms made by the Allies. They give him the island of Elba for a time, with money enough to keep up a certain small grandeur. Pensions are provided for Maria Louisa and the King of Rome, and even for the other Bonapartes.

It is a curious spectacle—Napoleon amusing himself with Elba, as if it were a big toy. One day he increases his standing army, the next he annexes a neighboring island. His mother and some of his family are with him, but Maria Louisa has returned to her father with the little King of Rome.

But Napoleon and his friends have been making their plans, and we are dazzled, as the world was then, by his rapid march across France, by the demonstrations of his soldiers and the vigor of the short, sharp campaign and the greatness of Wellington's victory. Yet Quatre Bras and Waterloo are soon overshadowed by the rock of St. Helena.

Betsy Balcombe, Napoleon's young neighbor, well knew the story of Napoleon. She could see as plainly as we can to-day the pictures revealed in the panorama of his life. Perhaps she stood too near him, perhaps she was too young to draw the lesson that we of to-day draw from his meteoric career. Perhaps her sympathy for him in all that he had to bear at St. Helena blinded her to the fact that he was himself to a certain extent to blame for his own downfall. He reached too far, his ambition was too great. As First Consul, depending on the votes of the people, he might have been stronger than he was as Emperor. The good that he did France was fairly balanced by the fearful loss of life in his long wars.

Napoleon's one thought was to carry out his own plans without counting the cost in men. Yet putting aside the question of the vast loss of life in his wars and the sorrow that resulted, we may see that his career was not wholly bad for Europe.

Although ambition and selfishness may have prompted much that he did, he really wished to promote the welfare of France. To-day that country is farther ahead than would have been possible but for Napoleon. Many of the institutions that have most advanced her originated with the First Emperor. Other countries besides France benefited by Napoleon's energy. He showed several of them how to realize their ideals of independence.

It is true that the constitutions he gave to various states of Europe—as well as to France—after his downfall were for a time cancelled. Still, in the end, his ideas prevailed, and except for Napoleon not only a French Republic would have been slower in establishing itself, but also a free Italy, and even a United Germany might have arrived less quickly.

The sadness of Napoleon's last years modified the judgments of many who had been his bitter enemies. His personal charm made those who knew him forget the general selfishness of his whole career. Yet in weighing all that can be said for and against him, it would be unfair to have the balance against him. That Napoleon whom Betsy Balcombe knew at The Briars—fun-loving and considerate of those about him—was as truly Napoleon as the man before whom many had trembled—whom his enemies had so criticised—to look at him as his young neighbor looked at him is to understand a little the secret of his influence.