Tilsit is generally considered the high-water mark of Napoleon’s power. Not yet forty years of age, he was lord of lords and king of kings. With Russia for an ally, Continental Europe was at his mercy. Adding Westphalia and, also, enlarged Saxony to the Confederation of the Rhine, the Empire was guarded upon the west, from the North Sea to the Mediterranean, by an unbroken line of feudatory states. In all these subject lands the principles of the French Revolution took the form of law. The Code NapolÉon, with its civil equality, jury trials, uniformity of taxes, publicity of legal proceedings, drove out the mediÆval abuses which had so long robbed the people in the name of government. To his brother Jerome Napoleon wrote: “Be a constitutional king. Your people ought to enjoy a liberty, an equality, a well-being unknown heretofore to the Germans.” And the Emperor reminded Jerome that if he gave his people the benefits of a wise and liberal administration, they would never wish to return to the barbarous rule of Prussia. Rule your kingdom wisely and liberally, said Napoleon, and “this kind of government will protect it more powerfully than fortresses or the armies of France.”

Far-reaching as was the sweep of Napoleon’s sword, that of his Code went farther. The soldier of the Revolution could never go as far as its principles. In the hour of its deepest humiliation Prussia dropped the system of Frederick, a worn-out garment, and clad itself anew. She freed the serf, abolished caste, opened all careers to merit, made military service universal, and gave partial self-government to towns and cities. Under the ministry of Stein, Prussia was born again, and the greatness of modern Germany dates from the reorganization which followed Jena—a greatness which, when analyzed, is seen to consist in calling in the Prussian people to resurrect a nation which class legislation and the privileged nobles had led to perdition.

In measuring the results of the French Revolution and of Napoleon’s victories, let us remember what Germany was in the eighteenth century. Let us not forget that the great mass of the people were serfs chained to the soil, mere implements of husbandry, burdened with the duty of feeding the nation in time of peace, and fighting for it in time of war, but uncheered by the hope of ever becoming more than serfs. Let us remember that the great rights of the citizen had no legal existence, that the arbitrary will of the lord was the peasant’s law. In the very provinces out of which Napoleon fashioned the kingdom of Westphalia a legitimate, divine-right prince had sold to an equally God-appointed king of Great Britain some thousands of soldiers to fight against the revolted colonists in North America. In the very cities which the Code NapolÉon now entered and ruled, might still be seen the foul dungeons where alleged culprits were secretly tried, secretly tortured, and secretly done to death with atrocities which might have shamed a savage.

With Napoleon himself, however, imperialism had become a fixed creed. Ever since Austerlitz, he had affected greater reserve, exacted a greater deference, obeyed and enforced a more rigid etiquette. Oriental baseness of flattery pampered his pride; opposition to his will was not dreamt of in his empire; pestiferous intriguers like Madame de StaËl lived in exile; pert maids of honor like Mademoiselle de Chevreuse were sent away and silenced; secret enemies, embryo traitors like Talleyrand and Bernadotte, fawned and flattered like the others, greedily clutching at all he flung to them,—money, titles, estates. The Grand Monarch himself never lived in greater pomp than this “Corsican upstart.” The formulas of divine right usurped the old popular phrases, and “Napoleon by the grace of God Emperor, etc.,” was the style of imperial proclamations. “Religious veneration” was claimed for the eagles of the army; and the priests taught the children that “to honor and serve the Emperor is to honor and serve God.” No toil was spared to make the ceremonial at the palace conform to Bourbon precedent. The hero of Austerlitz and Jena consented to be tutored by the Campans, De SÉgurs, Narbonnes, and De BrÉzÉs of etiquette. When Louis XVIII. came to the throne in 1814, he apparently discovered but one serious fault in all of Napoleon’s imitation Bourbonism—his dinner had not been escorted from kitchen to dining room by a squad of soldiers.

Turkey had not nursed any very great degree of wrath against Napoleon, on account of his attempt upon Egypt; she had recognized his greatness and had become his ally. During the campaign in Poland, while Napoleon’s army was weltering in the mud, which caused indignant French soldiers to exclaim, “Is this what the Poles have the impudence to call their country?” England had sent a fleet to Constantinople to bully the Sultan into joining the league against France.

The terror of the unprepared Turk was profound, and he was about to submit; but it so happened that Napoleon was represented there by a man of courage and ability—General SÉbastiani. Through his advice, and inspired by his confidence, the Sultan parleyed with the English, temporized, gained time, manned defences, and prepared for a struggle. A letter from Napoleon came at the right moment, exhorting and promising, as no one but Napoleon could exhort and promise. French diplomats steadied the nerves of the Commander of the Faithful, while French officers directed the work on the fortresses, so that when the English admiral was finally told that Turkey would resist his insolent demands, the Turks were all ready for battle, and the English were not. They had forced their way into Turkish waters, killing and wounding as they came; they now sailed away, pursued and bombarded, losing many in killed and wounded as they escaped.

Failing here, they determined to make sure of Denmark. By the Treaty of Tilsit the two Emperors contemplated a union of all the Continental powers against English commerce. Great Britain believed that Denmark would be forced to enter this league—but she had no proofs, so far as historians know. At any rate, no hostile steps had been taken by either Emperor: Napoleon had merely instructed Talleyrand to enter into negotiations with Denmark. Upon the plea that Napoleon meant to seize the Danish fleet, Great Britain determined to take charge of it herself, despite the fact that Denmark was at peace with her, had given no cause for war, and was even then represented at London by a resident, friendly minister. Concealing her purpose, smiling upon this duped minister to the last, Great Britain launched fleet and army against an unsuspecting people. Appearing before Copenhagen in force, the British demanded that the Danish fleet be given up to England in pledge, “until the peace.”

Taken at disadvantage though they were, the Danes could not at once yield to so shameful a humiliation, and the English opened fire. For three days and nights the devoted city was shelled, and all the horrors of war inflicted upon it. For three days the British guns roared, strewing the streets with dead men, dead women, dead children; while eight hundred homes were in ruins or on fire. Then the Danes yielded, their city was looted, their ships taken away, and the exulting marauders sailed back to England towing their prizes, to be welcomed with rapturous enthusiasm.

To the Berlin Decree of Napoleon, Great Britain retorted with another “Order in Council.” She declared that she would search all merchant vessels, and that neutrals should not be allowed to trade unless they had touched at a British port and paid duties there. Here was another violation of all law,—an insolent invasion of the right of neutrals to do business, save in contraband of war. Napoleon’s counter shot was the Milan Decree, in which he very naturally declared that any ship submitting to such demands as England had made, should be treated as an English ship. Why not? It is apparent enough, that if neutral ships did business under English rules, paying duties at English ports, such ships were practically doing business as English ships.

Strange are the verdicts of history. Napoleon gets almost all the blame for this commercial war, in which he was first struck by England, and in which each of his decrees was but an attempt to ward off the blows England aimed at him.

To make a success of his Continental system, it was necessary that the entire seacoast of the Continent should be closed to English goods. In theory, the system was in force throughout the Continent, with the important exceptions of Spain and Portugal. To close the long line of seaboard these countries presented, was Napoleon’s first purpose in meddling with their affairs.

Spain had been his ally, but had, perhaps, never had her heart in the alliance. At all events, when the great Bourbon conspiracy against Napoleon’s life was on foot, in 1803, some of the accomplices of Georges had entered France under the protection of Spanish passports. Nevertheless, Spain had paid rich subsidies into Napoleon’s coffers, and had sent her ships to be destroyed by Nelson at Trafalgar. So burdensome had become the alliance that Spain had grown tired of it. While Napoleon was involved with Prussia, and previous to Jena, the Spaniards had been called to arms by Godoy, the Prince of The Peace, real ruler of the kingdom. Napoleon believed that this call to arms was a measure of hostility to the French. The victory of Jena, however, changed the situation, and Godoy humbly came to terms with the winner.

Now again, in 1808, a treaty was made between France and Spain. Portugal, virtually an English colony, and ruled from London, was to be conquered, and divided between France and Spain. A French army, under Junot, marched through Spain into Portugal, and captured Lisbon (November, 1807). The royal house of Braganza made its escape to Brazil. Its throne was declared vacant by Napoleon, and the French took full possession of the country. But for Junot’s rashness and rapacity, it seems that the Portuguese, as a general thing, would have been quite contented with the change of masters.

In Spain itself fateful events were on foot. The old king, Charles IV. was a Bourbon, densely ignorant, extremely religious, and devoid of any real character. His queen was a woman of some ability and force of character, but she had become infatuated with a common soldier, Manuel Godoy, and both she and her husband were governed by the favorite.

The heir to the throne, Ferdinand, prince of the Asturias, was a young man of obstinate temper, full of duplicity and cruelty. He was loved by the Spanish people, partly because he was their handsome young prince-royal, and partly because it was known that he hated Godoy.

The old king was made to believe that his son meant to have him assassinated. He appealed to Napoleon for protection against Ferdinand. At the same time this prince requested of Napoleon the hand of a Bonaparte princess in marriage. Thus both factions looked to France, and the French Emperor used each against the other.

The Spaniards rose against Godoy, a mob wrecked his palace, and he fled for his life, hiding himself in a roll of matting in a loft. Forced out by hunger, he was seen, captured, and about to be torn to pieces when he was rescued by the guards of Ferdinand, and taken, amid blows and curses, to the barracks. The terrified old king abdicated in favor of his son; and on March 20, 1808, Ferdinand entered Madrid in triumph, to the frantic delight of the people.

French armies had already been massed in Spain, and some of the strongest fortresses seized by unscrupulous trickery. Murat was in chief command, and he marched upon the Spanish capital in overwhelming numbers—unresisted because the French were believed to be coming as friends of Ferdinand.

The old king, Charles IV., protested to Napoleon that his abdication had been made under duress; he prayed for help against his son. To Napoleon applied Ferdinand, also; for Murat held Madrid with forty thousand troops, and he had not yet recognized the title of the new king.

In April, 1808, the Emperor himself came to Bayonne, moving soon into the chÂteau of Marrac, which was surrounded by a lovely park “on the banks of the silver Nive.” The place is now a ruin, the house having been gutted by fire in 1825, and the park being now used for the artillery of the garrison. But when Napoleon came there in 1808, soon to be joined by Josephine and the court, it was a place of beauty. Biarritz, the fashionable watering-place of to-day, was then unknown; but along the same shore where summer visitors now stroll, Napoleon romped with Josephine, “chasing her along the sands, and pushing her into the sea at the edge of the tide, until she was up to her knees in water.” They bathed and played together, “and the great Emperor, England’s ‘Corsican Ogre,’ used to hide her satin shoes on the sands while she was in the water, and not allow us to bring them to her, but made her walk from the beach to the carriage barefooted, which gave him immense delight.”

All was very gay at the chÂteau of Marrac, everything free, easy, joyous, etiquette somewhat shelved. For instance, it is related that Josephine’s harpsichord needed tuning, that a man was called in to tune it, that Josephine, who was unknown to the tuner, leaned her arms on the harpsichord, chatting very familiarly with the tuner, that her dress was so plain (and perhaps slovenly) that the amorous tuner took her to be a lady’s-maid, accessible to kisses, that he assured her she was much prettier than the Empress, and that he was just about to kiss her, when the door opened and in walked the Emperor! Josephine laughed, Napoleon laughed, the tuner fled,—leaving his tools,—deaf to Napoleon’s call for him to come back.

Equally true, perhaps, is another story of the same date. There was a ball at the chÂteau of Marrac, the windows were open, the night being warm. At a pause in the music, a lady stepped out upon the balcony, seen by the sentinels, who likewise saw an officer follow her and kiss her. The sentinels knew him—it was the Little Corporal. But he saw them also, and his sharp word of command rang out, “Shoulder arms!” “Right about turn!” They turned, and they stayed turned, fixed and immovable, until the relief came an hour or so later.

So much for the bright side of this famous picture.

By the most astonishing series of duplicities and perfidies, Napoleon gathered into his snare at Bayonne all the contending parties of the Spanish trouble,—King Charles, the Queen, Godoy, Ferdinand, and Don Carlos, Ferdinand’s younger brother.

These Bourbons washed their dirty family linen in his presence, appealing to him against each other. Ferdinand’s royal father shook a cane over his head and cursed him; Ferdinand’s royal mother reviled him, and told him that the king, her husband, was not his father; and Godoy, the paramour of the wife and mother, sat down to meat with King and Queen, indispensably necessary to both. Charles IV., fond of pleasure and ease, resigned the crown of Spain to Napoleon; Ferdinand was asked to do likewise. He refused, and it was not till there had been an uprising in Madrid, cruelly suppressed by Murat, who lost nearly a thousand men, that he yielded. The revolt had been laid at his door, and Napoleon had threatened to treat him as a rebel.

Charles and Ferdinand became grandees of France, with princely revenues; in return Napoleon received Spain and its magnificent dependencies (May, 1808).

Calling Joseph Bonaparte from Naples to wear this new crown, Napoleon wished to give to the transfer some show of national consent. He summoned an assembly of Spanish prelates and grandees to Bayonne (June, 1808). They came, but as they came the ground upon which they walked was hot with revolt. All Spain was spontaneously and furiously running to arms. The assembly at Bayonne accepted Joseph and the constitution which Napoleon had prepared.

In all courts and cabinets Napoleon’s conduct was hotly discussed; in most of them it was furiously condemned. True, he had not used Spain much more unscrupulously than he had treated Venice; nor, indeed, more perfidiously than England had dealt with India, Russia with Poland, Prussia with Silesia. But there were two considerations which weighed heavily against Napoleon: he was not a legitimate king, and he was getting more than his share. The small men began to ask, one the other, concerning the meat upon which this our CÆsar fed; and to say, one to the other, that they, the small men, might, by union and patience and perseverance, pull the big man down.

The more closely his statecraft is studied, the more clearly will it be seen that in all things he conformed to orthodox standards. He was neither better nor worse than others. His march to power was bridged with broken promises, pitiless deeds, utter disregard of human life, and the rights of other peoples. A foe was an obstacle, which must be got out of the way. If fair means would answer, well and good; if fair means would not answer, then foul methods would be used. Precisely the same principles have been constantly practised by all conquerors, all conquering nations. Russia, England, Prussia, France—the same policy built empires for each. The Russian Czar, Alexander, fawned upon the Swedish minister, swearing friendship and good intentions when the Russian legions were already on the march to seize Finland. Russian faith was solemnly pledged afterward to the Finns themselves, that their autonomy, their local institutions, should never be destroyed. In our own day, we have seen a most Christian Czar violate this written contract and pitilessly Russianize helpless Finland.

England’s empire is built on force and fraud; Prussia’s greatness rests on Frederick’s crime against Silesia: France under Napoleon merely conformed to the well-known precedents. Ambitious and despotic, he made war upon the weak, to shut out English goods, to cripple English commerce, and to bring her to terms of peace. This was bad enough, but we have lived to see things that were worse. We have seen England make war upon China to compel her to open her ports to the deadly opium trade—deadly to the Chinese, but most profitable to the English trader. We have lived to see a Dutch republic trampled out of existence because it would not allow English gold-miners to rule it.

Let us put away cant and lies and hypocrisy; let us frankly admit that Napoleon was a colossal mixture of the good and the bad, just as Cromwell was, just as Richelieu, Frederick, and Bismarck were. Those retained attorneys of royalism, clericalism, and absolutism, who gravely compile huge books to prove that Napoleon was a fiend, an evil spirit struggling against light, are the absurdest mortals extant. Even Spain now knows better; and the national revolt there at this era is against the very system the great democratic despot would have overthrown. “Down with the Jesuits!” they cry in all the cities of Spain in this year 1901. They are just a century behind time. Napoleon, a hundred years ago, put down the Jesuit and his Inquisition, swept feudalism away, gave just laws and representative government to a priest-ridden, king-accursed people. They were not ready for the boon, and repelled it. With mad infatuation Spaniards listened to monk and grandee and English marplot. Passion flamed, and reason fled. Blind hatred of all things French took possession of men, women, and children throughout the land. Peasants were even more frantic than princes and peers. Deeds of heroism, of self-sacrifice, of cruelty were done which amazed the world. By desperate persistence, the Spaniards succeeded in getting back their good old system—Bourbon king, privileged aristocracy, priestly tyranny, feudal extortions. Great Britain kindly sent armies and subsidies to aid the good work. Spain got the old system back, and much good has it done her. It has eaten the heart out of a great people, made her name a byword among nations, stranded her in the race of human progress. To-day she comprehends what she lost a hundred years ago.