There is no doubt that Napoleon had more personal feeling against Prussia than against any foe he had heretofore met, England excepted. In fact, the manner in which Prussia had acted justified much of this enmity. She had tried to blow hot and cold, run with the hare and hold with the hounds in so shameless a manner that even Charles Fox, the sweetest tempered of men, had denounced her to the English Parliament in the bitterest of terms. She had toyed with England, sworn and broke faith with Russia, dallied with and deluded Austria, trifled with and played false to Napoleon, and finally, after taking the Hanover bribe from him, had sent the Duke of Brunswick to St. Petersburg to assure Alexander that Frederick William III. was still his friend, and that the apparent alliance with Napoleon meant no more than that Prussia was glad to get Hanover.

It is no wonder that Napoleon had declared that Prussia was for sale to the highest bidder, and that she would be his because he would pay most. He had paid the price,—Hanover. When he saw that Prussia meant to keep the price, and not the contract, his feeling was that of the average man who finds that where he thought he had made a good trade, he has been swindled.

Therefore, when the Queen of Prussia, Prince Louis, the Duke of Brunswick, and the war party generally, showed their determination to break faith with him; when the young officers insulted his embassy; when the Prussian army launched themselves against a member of his Confederation of the Rhine, Napoleon was genuinely incensed. They had shown him no consideration, and he was inclined to show them none.

He roughly denounced the conduct of the Duke of Weimar, when speaking to the Duchess in her own palace; but when she courageously defended her absent husband, Napoleon’s better nature prevailed, he praised her spirit, and became her friend.

The Duke of Brunswick, mortally wounded at AuerstÄdt, sent a messenger to Napoleon praying that his rights as Duke of Brunswick might be respected. Napoleon answered that he would not spare the duke, but would respect the general; that Brunswick would be treated as a conquered province, but that the Duke himself should have that consideration shown him which, as an old man and a brave soldier, he deserved. At the same time, and as additional reason for not sparing the Duke as a feudal lord, Napoleon reminded him of the time when he had advanced into France with fire and sword, and had proclaimed the purpose of laying Paris in ashes. The son of the dying Duke took this natural reply much to heart, and swore eternal vengeance against the man who sent it.

Napoleon understood very well that the war had been brought on by the feudal powers in Germany,—those petty lords who had dukedoms and principalities scattered throughout the land, miniature kingdoms in which these lords lived a luxurious life at the expense of the peasantry. These feudal chiefs were desperately opposed to French principles, and dreaded the Confederation of the Rhine. Every elector, prince, duke, or what not, expected, with trembling, the day when he might be “mediatized,” and his little monopoly of a kingdom thrown into the modernized confederation. Hence their eagerness for war, and hence Napoleon’s bitterness toward them. It went abroad that he said that he would make the nobles of Prussia beg their bread. He may have said it, for by this time he was no longer a mute, all-concealing sphinx. He had become one of the most talkative of men; therefore, one of the most imprudent. Unfortunately, he did nothing to separate the cause of the German people from that of the German nobles. His heavy hand fell upon all alike; and it was his own fault that the national spirit of Germany rose against him finally, and helped to overthrow him. Not only did he speak harshly, imprudently of the Prussian nobles, he committed the greater blunder of reviling the Queen. True, she had well-nigh said, as a French empress said later, “This shall be my war!” She had inspired the war party by word and by example. In every way known to a beautiful young sovereign, she had made the war craze the fashion. She had done for Prussia what EugÉnie afterward did for France,—led thousands of brave men to sudden death, led her country into a colossal smash-up. EugÉnie’s husband, swayed by an unwomanly wife, lost his liberty and his throne. By a mere scratch did Louisa’s husband, as blindly led, escape the same fate. A brazen but patriotic lie, told by old BlÜcher to the French general, Klein,—“an armistice has been signed,”—saved Frederick William III. from playing Bajazet to the French Tamerlane. A political woman was ever Napoleon’s “pet aversion.” In his creed the place held by women was that of mothers of numerous children, breeders of stout soldiers, wearers of dainty toilets, companions of a lustful or an idle hour, nymphs of the garden walks, sirens of the boudoir, nurses of the sick, comforters of grief, censer bearers in the triumphal progress of great men. A woman who would talk war, put on a uniform, mount a horse, and parade at the head of an army, aroused his anger and excited his disgust. This feeling was the secret of his dislike to the Queen of Prussia, and of his ungentlemanly references to her in his bulletins. But while those references were such as no gentleman should have made, they were infinitely more delicate than those in which the royalist gentlemen of Europe were constantly alluding to Napoleon’s mother, his sisters, his wife, his step-daughter, and himself. It is only fair, in trying to reach just conclusions, to remember the circumstances and the provocations under which a certain thing is said or done. If we constantly keep in view this standard in weighing the acts and words of Napoleon, it will make all the difference in the world in our verdict. Napoleon was no passionless god or devil. His blood was warm like ours; his skin was thin like ours; a blow gave him pain as it pains us; slanders hurt him as they hurt us; infamous lies told about his wife, sisters, and mother wrung from him the same passionate outcries they would wring from us. And this fact also must be kept in mind: before Napoleon stooped to make any personal war upon his sworn enemies, he had appealed to them, time and again, to cease their personal abuse of him and his family.

On October 27, 1806, Napoleon made his triumphal entry into Berlin, giving to the corps of Davoust the place of honor in the march. It was a brilliant spectacle, and the people of Berlin who quietly looked upon the scene were astonished to see the contrast between the Emperor’s plain hat and coat, and the dazzling uniforms of his staff.

Says Constant: “We came to the square, in the middle of which a bust of Frederick the Great had been erected. On arriving in front of the bust, the Emperor galloped half around it, followed by his staff, and, lowering the point of his sword, he removed his hat and saluted the image of Frederick. His staff imitated his example, and all the general officers ranged themselves in semicircle around the monument, with the Emperor. His Majesty gave orders that each regiment as it marched past should present arms.”

The Prince Hatzfeldt brought the keys of the city to the conqueror, and Napoleon at once organized a new municipal government, putting Hatzfeldt at the head of it. The Prince, instead of being faithful to the confidence Napoleon placed in him, used his position to gather information about French forces and movements. This information he forwarded to the fugitive king, Frederick William. Hatzfeldt may not have realized that his conduct was that of a spy; may not have understood that holding an office by Napoleon’s appointment he must be loyal to Napoleon. Serving two masters under such circumstances was a risky business, and Hatzfeldt found it so. His letter to the King was intercepted, and brought to Napoleon. The Prince was about to be court-martialled and shot. Already the necessary orders had been given, when the Princess Hatzfeldt, wife of the accused, gained access to the palace, and threw herself at Napoleon’s feet. A woman in tears—a genuine woman and genuine tears—Napoleon could never resist; and Hatzfeldt was saved, as the Polignacs had been, by the pleadings of a devoted woman.

After Waterloo, the Duke of Wellington, confident now that he was the greatest man that ever walked upon the earth, bought Canova’s statue of Napoleon, carried it to London, stood it up in his hall, and made of it a hat-rack, umbrella-stand, and cloak-holder. It would seem that the men who say that Napoleon had no generous, chivalrous instincts have failed to see in Wellington’s conduct any evidence of indelicacy of feeling. These critics, however, are confident that, in seizing as trophies the sword and sash of Frederick the Great, as Napoleon did at this time, he committed a most outrageous act. It may fairly be argued that the rule as to trophies is not so clear as it might be. The law seems to be obscure, and the decisions conflicting. So far as can be gathered from a reading of a number of authorities, the rule seems to be that after a conqueror has overthrown his enemy, he can take whatever his taste, fancy, and greed suggest.

Of course we are here speaking of Christians—civilized, complacent, watch-me-and-do-as-I-do Christians. It will be found that they have taken any sort of plunder which can be carted away. All over England is the loot of India; all over Spain that of South America and Mexico; and in sundry portions of these United States may be found articles of more or less value which used to belong to China or the Philippines. They—the Christians—have taken the ornaments from the bodies of the wounded and the dead; have wrenched from arms, and fingers, and necks, and ears, the jewels of man, woman, and child; have robbed the temple and the shrine; have not spared the idol, nor the diamonds that blazed in its eyes; have taken sceptre, and sword, and golden throne; have stripped the palace, and robbed the grave. A dead man of to-day and a dead man of thousands of years ago, are as one to the remorseless greed of the Christians. In the name of science the mummy is despoiled; in the cause of “advancing civilization” the warm corpse of the Chinaman or the Filipino is rifled. When we find among the crown jewels of Great Britain the “trophies” wrenched from the living and the dead in Hindustan; when we see the proud people of the high places wearing the spoil of Egyptian sepulchres, it is difficult to know where the line is which separates legitimate from illegitimate loot. Consequently, we are not certain whether Napoleon was right or wrong in robbing the tomb of Frederick the Great of the sash and sword.

While at Berlin, Napoleon issued his famous Berlin Decree. The English, repeating the blow they had aimed at France during the Revolution, had (1806), by an “Order in Council,” declared the entire coast of France in a state of blockade. In other words, Great Britain arrogated to herself the right to bottle up Napoleon’s Empire, the purpose being to starve him out.

By way of retaliation, he, in the Berlin Decree, declared Great Britain to be in a state of blockade. It is curious to notice in the books how much abuse Napoleon gets for his blockade, and how little England gets for hers. Usually in trying to get at the merits of a fight for the purpose of fixing the blame, the question is, “Who struck the first blow?” This simple rule, based on plain common sense, seems to be lost sight of here entirely.

When England struck at Napoleon with a sweeping blockade which affected eight hundred miles of his coast, had he no right to strike back? The Berlin Decree was no more than blow for blow.

There can be no doubt that in this commercial war Napoleon got the worst of it. England suffered, but it was for the want of markets. Continental Europe suffered, but it was for the want of goods.

Napoleon’s Continental system, about which so much has been said, was, after all, nothing more than a prohibitory tariff. In course of time it would have produced the same effect as a prohibitory tariff. The Continent would have begun to manufacture those goods for whose supply it had heretofore depended upon England. In other words, the blockade, shutting off the supply of certain cloths, leather goods, hardware, etc., would have forced their production on the Continent. A moderate tariff stimulates home production in the ratio that it keeps out foreign competition. A prohibitive tariff, shutting off foreign wares entirely, compels the home production of the prohibited articles. Napoleon’s Continental system, prohibiting all English goods, would inevitably have built up manufactories of these goods on the Continent. During the years when these enterprises would have been getting under way, the people of the Continent would have suffered immense loss and inconvenience; but in the long run the Continent would have become the producer of its own goods, and Great Britain would have been commercially ruined. This Napoleon saw; this the English Cabinet saw: hence the increasing bitterness with which this death struggle between the two went on.

The great advantage of England was that she had the goods ready for market, and the Continent wanted them. The enormous disadvantage of Napoleon was that he neither had the goods nor the men ready to take hold and manufacture them. The all-important now was on the side of England. The ink was hardly dry on the Berlin Decree before Napoleon himself had to violate it. He needed enormous supplies for his army in the winter campaign he was about to begin. Continental manufactories did not produce what he wanted, England did, and Napoleon’s troops were supplied with English goods. What the master did, his minions could imitate. All along the coast French officials violated the law, sold licenses, winked at smuggling at so much per wink, and feathered their nests in the most approved and gorgeous style. The Continental system did great damage to England, since it drove her trade into tortuous, limited channels. It did great damage to the Continent, since it worked inconvenience to so many who needed English goods, and so many who had Continental produce to sell to England. But it never had a fair test, did not have time to do its work, and therefore has been hastily called Napoleon’s crowning mistake. Failing to get a fair trial for his system, it collapsed, and must therefore be called a blunder; but it must be remembered that its author believed he could get a fair trial for it; that he worked with tremendous tenacity of purpose for many years to bring Continental Europe to accept and enforce it. Could he have done so, the candid reader must admit that he would have smitten England’s manufactures, her commercial life, as with a thunderbolt. It should also be remembered that to Napoleon’s policy, so much resisted then, France owes many of those manufactures which constitute her wealth at the present day.