'M. Portalis has notified to me the existence of several ecclesiastical journals and the inconveniences which may result from the spirit in which they are conducted, and (above all) from the diversity of opinions on matters of religion. My intention, consequently, is that the religious journals cease to appear, and that they be united in a single journal, which shall take charge of all the subscribers (abonnés). As this journal is to be specially devoted to the instruction of ecclesiastics, it will be called "Journal des Curés." The conductors (redacteurs) will be named by the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris.'

This certainly was one most effective way of checking the controversial spirit of the clergy, which they are in the habit of indulging with little regard to the real interests of religion or the Church.

In November, 1806, he writes from Berlin to order a continuation of Millot's 'Elements of French History' in a proper spirit, and directly afterwards comes a letter to Cambacères :

'If the army strives to do honour to the nation as much as possible, it must be owned that the men of letters do all they can to dishonour it. I read yesterday the bad verses sung at the opera. Why do you suffer them to sing impromptus at the opera? This is only proper at the Vaudeville. People complain that we have no literature: this is the fault of the Minister of the Interior.'

This is quite in the tone of Mummius at Corinth. The fact is, his head was completely turned after Austerlitz,―

'Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.'

The interviews at Tilsit shew to what extent the balance of his mind had been destroyed by habitual falsehood, by the absence of any fixed standard of right and wrong, and by the blind confidence engen

dered by success. He was throughout deceiving himself instead of Alexander, who reaped all the substantial benefits of the treaty, and gave nothing in return but promises, which were (as they were sure to be) broken or nullified by events. All was delusion, nought was truth. In this respect (as M. Lanfrey observes) he would be disadvantageously contrasted with Frederic, who, coolly analysing the motives of his own policy, attributed it to ambition, interest, and the desire of being talked about. Nor do the last days of the Exile of St. Helena, even in the luminous pages of M. Thiers, present anything equal to the 'sublime quarter of an hour' of the dying Augustus, when he smilingly asked his friends whether he had played the drama of life well. Bonaparte had utterly lost (if he ever possessed) the faculty of self-examination. Nothing, he persistently maintained, that he had ever thought or done, was wrong in motive or in act. If his life was to live over again, he would live (with rare exception) as he had lived it. He should appear (he boasted) before his Maker without a fear. He passed most of his time in putting the best face on the inculpated passages of his reign, in falsifying history, in draping his own figure for posterity. He was rapt up in his fame, like the beautiful Lady Coventry in her beauty: who took to her bed when she found it going, and died with a looking-glass in her hand. Plain truth to him was like woollen to Pope's coquette:

"Odious in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke"
(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke) :
"No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face;
One would not sure be frightful when one's dead ;-
And-Betty-give this cheek a little red."'

For Betty' read Las Casas or Montholon, and the parallel is complete.

In April, 1806, he wrote to Prince Eugene :

'I am not in the habit of looking for my political opinions

in the advice of others, and my people of Italy who know me ought not to forget I have more knowledge of affairs in my little finger than they in all their heads put together. And when at Paris, where there is more enlightenment than in Italy, people are silent and do homage to the opinion of a man who has proved that he saw farther and better than others, I am astonished that they have not the same condescension in Italy.'

Fatuity had reached its acme when he could delude himself into the belief that the servile obedience he commanded was the willing tribute to his sagacity. The effect of this overweening self-sufficiency, combined with his astounding energy and activity, was to allow no independent field of action or development to any high order of talent or capacity, civil or military. Zeal, readiness, bravery, with intelligence enough to obey orders, were the sole qualifications in request. He demanded unscrupulous instruments-not honest or wise advisers-and woe to the statesman who insinuated a caution, the administrator who remonstrated against an oppressive impost, the commander who revolted against cruelty, or the diplomatist who hesitated at a lie. The race of civil functionaries were stunted in their growth morally and intellectually, like the rank and file of the army physically: each department of the State was depressed to a dead level of mediocrity. The eminent jurists to whom the completion of the Code was intrusted, would have done far better without his intervention. M. Lanfrey shews that, to give him the credit of having planned or initiated this work, is altogether a mistake; and that his administrative reforms were marked neither by originality nor stability. A single article of his Decree of March, 1812, will serve to show the spirit of his commercial legislation:

6

Art. 3. It is forbidden to all our subjects, of whatever quality or condition, to make purchases or provision of grain

or flour, to keep, store, or make them a subject of speculation.'

Military genius was never allowed fair play at any epoch of his career. The most promising generals, the possible competitors for fame, were treated like Massena and Moreau,

'And all the budding honours on thy crest
I'll crop to make a garland for my head.'

Bonaparte's invariable practice was to concentrate all
his best troops in the army which he commanded in
person, and to send his generals on expeditions for
which their resources were notoriously inadequate.
If a movement or manœuvre ordered by him failed, he
as invariably denied the order, or asserted that it was
not executed in the proper spirit or as he intended it.
Thus the disaster at Kulm was imputed to Vandamme,
and the collapse at Waterloo to Ney and Grouchy.
Knowing literally nothing of naval matters, foolishly
imagining that the tactics for fleets and armies were
the same, he compelled Villeneuve to put to sea and
encounter certain destruction at Trafalgar. When the
admiral-a man of proved skill and courage-pointed
out the inevitable results of leaving Cadiz, his pitiless
master writes,' Villeneuve is a wretch who should be
ignominiously dismissed. Without combination, with-
out courage, without public spirit, he would sacrifice
everything, provided he could save his skin. Let my
squadron set sail: let nothing stop it! it is
that my squadron does not remain at Cadiz.'

my will

It left Cadiz accordingly, and within fifteen days it was no more. His first exclamation on hearing the event was: 'I cannot be everywhere!' another astounding instance of fatuity. The entire responsibility was flung upon the unhappy admiral-who had gallantly done his dutyin terms that drove him to suicide. The morning after the receipt of a despatch from the Minister of Marine, he was found lifeless, with six stabs from a knife in the

region of the heart. The fragment of a letter to his wife ends thus: What happiness that I have no child to receive my horrible inheritance, and be loaded with the weight of my name! Ah, I was not born for such a lot: I have not sought it: I have been dragged into it in my own despite. Adieu, adieu. . .

Such things make the blood boil, and they abound in the annals of this crowned scoundrel (scélérat couronné) as M. Lanfrey, hurried away by just indignation, designates him. How many broken hearts, how many desolated homes, how many blighted careers, how many ruined reputations, have gone to make this man the world's wonder! What torrents of blood and tears have been shed to float his name on the floodtide of immortality,

'Linked with one virtue and a thousand crimes.'

But that one virtue was military genius, and because it brought military grandeur to the French, they were, and are, proud of him, nay, proud of the laurelled and gilded chains he riveted on them, though the laurels have faded, and the gilding is rubbed off.

An English traveller, stopping at a French hotel before the Revolution, came upon a Frenchman mercilessly horsewhipping his valet in the corridor, and after rescuing the man, told him that he ought to take legal proceedings for the assault. He drew himself up and replied: 'I would have you know, sir, that my master is too great a man for that. He could have a lettre-de-cachet for the asking.' 'Confound the fellow!' exclaimed the traveller; he was proud of having a master who could treat him like a dog.' Had not the collective nation something of the same feeling? Were they not proud of a master who could treat them like dogs, who could make them crouch at his feet when he was not hounding them on to their prey? Do they not occasionally cast a longing lingering look