Part 2

And now the violences of late committed, and the anarchy existing not only in Paris, but in all districts of France, had roused the indignation of Europe. Francis II., Emperor of Austria, entered into an alliance with the king of Prussia, hostilities were threatened, and the Assembly declared for war, on the 20th of April, 1792. An invasion of the Austrian Netherlands was attempted; but the French soldiers fled upon the first sight of the Prussian columns, and General Rochambeau laid down his command. On the 25th of July, the Duke of Brunswick, who commanded the allies, issued a violent and imprudent manifesto, declaring himself authorized to support the royal authority in France; to destroy the city of Paris; and to pursue with the extremity of military law all those who were disposed to resist the policy of Europe. He at the same time put his immense army in motion, and advanced over the frontier with 70,000 Prussians and 68,000 Austrians and emigrant French. Perhaps no effort on the part of his most eager enemy could have so injured the cause and periled the safety of Louis XVI. The Assembly replied by fitting out an army of 20,000 national volunteers, and giving the command to General Dumouriez. Brunswick took Verdun and Longwy, and advanced toward the capital, confident of victory; but, being met by the active and sagacious Dumouriez, was forced to retreat. Verdun was won back again on the 12th, and Longwy on the 18th of October. An Austrian army, engaged in the siege of Lille, was compelled to abandon the attempt; and Custine on the Rhine took possession of Trèves Spires, and Mayence. War having also been declared against the King of Sardinia, Savoy was taken; and the great victory of Jemappes, won by General Dumouriez, on the 6th of November, subjected the whole of the Austrian Netherlands, with the exception of Luxembourg, to the power of France. On all sides the national troops repelled the invaders, resumed the offensive, and asserted the independence of a victorious revolution.

In the meantime, enraged at this interference of the foreign powers, and fluctuating (according to the reports from the scene of war) between apprehension and exultation, the Parisian mob and the extreme republican party came to regard the king with increased enmity. He was named in the Assembly with violent opprobrium; the mob, incited to fury by Robespierre and his associates, demanded the abolition of the royal authority; and on the 10th of August the palace of the Tuileries was attacked. The national guards, who had been appointed to the defence of the courtyards, went over to the insurgents, and pointed their cannon against the chateau. Only the gallant Swiss were left, and they, overpowered by numbers and fighting gallantly to the last, were literally cut to pieces. The king and his family escaped to the National Assembly, and on the 14th were removed to the old Temple prison. From this time the reign of terror may properly be said to have begun. The chronicles of September are written in blood. Supreme in power as in crime, the party of the Fédérés, or Red Republicans, secured the barriers, sounded the tocsin, and proceeded to clear the prisons by an indiscriminate massacre. Nobles and priests, aged men and delicate women, all who were guilty of good birth, loyalty, or religion, were slain without distinction. The inmates of the Abbaye, the Conciergerie, the Carmes, La Force, and the Bicêtre were all murdered, after a hideous mockery of trial, at which neither innocence nor evidence availed. The head of the beautiful and hapless Princess de Lamballe was paraded about Paris on a pike, and displayed before the eyes of the wretched prisoners in the Temple, whose confidential friend and companion she had been. Mademoiselle de Sombreuil only saved her father’s life by drinking a goblet of blood. Mademoiselle Cazotte flung herself between her father and the murderers. Instances of the sublimest resignation, of the loftiest courage, are abundant amid the records of this appalling period. Thirteen thousand souls are said to have been sacrificed in Paris alone, and similar massacres were perpetrated at Orleans, at Rheims, at Lyons, and at Meaux. On the 21st of September, the legislative assembly, having presided for the allotted space of one year, was succeeded by a new body of representatives, chiefly consisting of the extreme republican party, and known by the name of the National Convention. To abolish the statutes of the kings, to leave the offices of government open to men of every condition, to persecute the members of the more moderate faction, and to impeach the king before the bar of the convention, were among the first acts of the new government.

On the 11th of December, 1792, Louis, still placid and dignified, appeared before the tribunal of his enemies. He was accused of plots against the sovereignty of the people—of intrigues with the European powers—of tampering with Mirabeau, since dead—in short, of everything that might be construed into an effort for life, liberty, or prerogative. His trial lasted for more than a month, and during that time he was separated from his family. Hitherto Louis and his wife had at least shared their sorrows, and, by employing themselves in the education of the Dauphin, had beguiled somewhat of the tedious melancholy of prison life. Now it was over, and they were to meet but once again—to bid farewell. On Christmas day the king drew up his will, and on the following morning was summoned to the Convention for the purpose of making his defense. This paper was read by his counsel, and, at its conclusion, Louis spoke a few simple words relative to his own innocence and the affection which he had always felt toward his people. He was then conducted back to the Temple, and the discussions went on till the 15th of January, 1793, when it was resolved to put to the vote the three great questions of culpability, of the expediency of an appeal to the people, and of the nature of the punishment to be inflicted. On Tuesday, the 15th, the first two questions were put, and the replies recorded. By all the king was voted guilty, and by a majority of two to one the appeal to the people was negatived. On Wednesday, the 16th, the question of punishment was in like manner propounded. The agitation of Paris was something terrible to witness. A savage mob gathered about the doors of the Assembly, heaping threats upon all who dared to be merciful. Even those who most desired to save the king became intimidated, and some who had spoken bravely in his favor the day before now decreed his death. From Wednesday to Sunday morning this strange scene lasted. Seven hundred and twenty-one members, in slow succession, with trembling, with confidence, with apologetic speech, or fierce enforcement, mounted the tribune one by one, gave in their “Fate-word,” and went down to hear the judgment of their successors. Paine, the English democrat, entered his name on the side of mercy. Louis Égalité, Duke of Orleans, and father to the late Louis Philippe, had the unparalleled infamy to vote for death. Even the brave President Vergniaud, who had pleaded for Louis with passionate earnestness only a day or two before, wavered in his allegiance at the last, and spoke the fatal word. At length, when all had voted, death was found to be decreed by a majority of twenty-six voices. The king’s counsel appealed against the sentence; but the appeal was rejected, and the Assembly recommenced voting, to fix the time of execution. Death without delay—death within four-and-twenty hours, was the result. On Sunday morning, January the 20th, the messengers of the Convention told Louis he must die. A priest, a delay of three days, and an interview with his family, was all that he asked. They granted him the first and last request; but the delay was refused. In the evening he was permitted to see his wife, sister and children. They met in a chamber with glass doors, through which the municipal guards watched all the cruel scene. Falling into each other’s arms, they were for some time speechless with sorrow, and the conversation that ensued was interrupted by cries and sobs. Then the king rose, promising to see them again on the morrow, and so ended this agony of two hours. About midnight, having recovered his serenity, and prayed with his confessor, the Abbé Edgeworth, he went to bed and slept soundly. Waking at five, he heard mass and received the sacrament. At eight the municipals summoned him to execution, and, willing to spare the feelings of those whom he loved, he left without a second farewell. There was a silence of death upon all the city. Silent were the lines of soldiers—silent the gazing multitudes—silent the eighty thousand armed men who guarded with cannon the space around the scaffold. Through all these rolled the solitary carriage, and to these the king, advancing suddenly as the last moment came, said in an agitated voice, “Frenchmen, I die innocent. I pardon my enemies, and I hope that France.…” At this moment he was seized by the executioners, the drums beat and drowned his voice, and in a few seconds he was no more. All at once the strange silence was broken—the executioner upheld the severed head—the shouts of the wild populace filled the air—and then they gradually cleared off, and the business of the day went on in Paris as if no unusual thing had been done. Such was the end of Louis XVI., a virtuous and well-intentioned sovereign, on the 21st of January, 1793.—_Edwards._

X.—THE GREAT FRENCH REVOLUTION (1792-1796).

The government, after the king (Louis XVI.) was deposed, was placed in the hands of the National Assembly—or Convention, as it now called itself—of deputies chosen by the people.

There is nothing but what is sad and terrible to be told of France for the next four or five years, and the whole account of what happened would be too hard for you to understand, and some part is too dreadful to dwell upon.

The short account of it is that, for years and years before, the kings, the nobles, and some of the clergy too, had cared for little but their own pride and pleasure, and had done nothing to help on their people—teach, train, or lead them. So now these people were wild with despair, and when the hold on them was a little loosened, they threw it off, and turned in furious rage upon their masters. Hatred grew, and all those who had once been respected were looked on as a brood of wolves, who must be done away with, even the young and innocent. The king, queen, his children, and sister (Madame Elizabeth), were shut up in a castle called the Temple, because it had once belonged to the Knights Templar, and there they were very roughly and unkindly treated. A national guard continually watched them, and these men were often shockingly rude and insulting to them, though they were as patient as possible. Great numbers of the nobles and clergy were shut up in the other prisons; and when news came that an army of Germans and emigrant nobles was marching to rescue the king, a set of ruffians was sent to murder them all, cutting them down like sheep for the slaughter, men and women all alike. The family in the Temple were spared for the time, but the emigrant army was beaten at Jemappes; and the brave nobles and peasants who had risen in the district of La Vendée, in hopes of saving them, could not make head against the regular French army, all of which had joined in the Revolution, being angered because no one not of noble birth could be an officer. All his friends did for the king only served to make his enemies hate him trebly; and three men had obtained the leadership who seemed to have had a regular thirst for blood, and to have thought that the only way to make a fresh beginning was to kill every one who had inherited any of the rights that had been so oppressive. Their names were Marat, Danton, and Robespierre; and they had a power over the minds of the Convention and the mob which no one dared resist, so that this time was called the Reign of Terror. A doctor named Guillotin had invented a machine for cutting off heads quickly and painlessly, which was called by his name; and this horrible instrument was set up in Paris to do this work of cutting off the old race. The king—whom they called Louis Capet, after Hugh, the first king of his line—was tried before the Assembly, and sentenced to die. He forgave his murderers, and charged the Irish clergyman, named Edgeworth, who was allowed to attend him in his last moments, to take care that, if his family were ever restored, there should be no attempt to avenge his death. The last words of the priest to him were: “Son of St. Louis, ascend to the skies.”

The queen and her children remained in the Temple, cheered by the piety and kindness of Madame Elizabeth until the poor little prince—a gentle, but spirited boy of eight—was taken from them, and shut up in the lower rooms, under the charge of a brutal wretch (a shoemaker) named Simon, who was told that the boy was not to be killed or guillotined, but to be “got rid of”—namely, tormented to death by bad air, bad living, blows and rude usage. Not long after, Marie Antoinette was taken to a dismal chamber in the Conciergerie prison, and there watched day and night by national guards, until she too was brought to trial, and sentenced to die, eight months after her husband. Gentle Madame Elizabeth was likewise put to death, and only the two children remained, shut up in separate rooms; but the girl was better off than her brother, in that she was alone, with her little dog, and had no one who made a point of torturing her.

Meanwhile the guillotine was every day in use. Cart-loads were carried from the prisons—nobles, priests, ladies, young girls, lawyers, servants, shopkeepers—everybody whom the savage men who were called the Committee of Public Safety chose to condemn. There were guillotines in almost every town; but at Nantes the victims were drowned, and at Lyons they were placed in a square and shot down with grape shot.

Moreover, all churches were taken from the faithful. A wicked woman was called the Goddess of Reason, and carried in a car to the great cathedral of Notre Dame, where she was enthroned. Sundays were abolished, and every tenth day was kept instead, and Christianity was called folly and superstition; in short, the whole nation was given up to the most horrible frenzy against God and man.

In the midst, Marat was stabbed to the heart by a girl named Charlotte Corday, who hoped thus to end these horrors; but the other two continued their work of blood, till Robespierre grew jealous of Danton, and had him guillotined; but at last the more humane of the National Convention plucked up courage to rise against him, and he and his inferior associates were carried to prison. He tried to commit suicide with a pistol, but only shattered his jaw, and in this condition he was guillotined, when the Reign of Terror had lasted about two years.

There was much rejoicing at his fall; prisons were opened, and people began to breathe freely once more. The National Convention governed more mildly and reasonably; but they had a great deal on their hands, for France had gone to war with all the countries round; and the soldiers were so delighted at the freedom they had obtained, that it seemed as if no one could beat them, so that the invaders were everywhere driven back. And thus was brought to light the wonderful powers of a young Corsican officer, Napoleon Bonaparte, who had been educated, at a military school in France, as an engineer. When there was an attempt of the mob to rise and bring back the horrible days of the Reign of Terror, Colonel Bonaparte came with his grape shot, and showed that there was a government again that must be obeyed, so that some quiet and good order was restored.

Some pity had at last been felt for the poor children in the Temple. It came too late to save the life of the boy, Louis XVII., as he is reckoned, who had for the whole ninth year of his life lain alone in a filthy room, afraid to call any one lest he should be ill-used, and without spirit enough to wash himself, so that he was one mass of sores and dirt; and he only lingered till the 8th of June, 1795, when he died, thinking he heard lovely music, with his mother’s voice among the rest. In the end of the same year his sister was released, and went to Russia to join her uncle, who had fled at the beginning of the Revolution, and was now owned by the loyal among the French as Louis XVIII.

In the meantime the French army had beaten the Germans on the frontier, and had decided on attacking their power in the north of Italy. Bonaparte made a most wonderful passage of the Alps, where there were scarcely any roads but bridle-paths, and he gained amazing victories. His plan was to get all the strength of his army up into one point, as it were, and with that to fall upon the center of the enemy; and as the old German generals did not understand this way of fighting, and were not ready, he beat them everywhere, and won all Lombardy, which he persuaded to set up for a republic, under the protection of the French.

All this time, the French were under so many different varieties of government, that you would not understand them at all; but that which lasted longest was called the Directory. People were beginning to feel safe at last; the emigrants were coming home again, and matters were settling down a little more.—_Yonge._

XI.—NAPOLEON I. (1796-1814.)

When Bonaparte had come back from Italy, he persuaded the Directory to send him with an army to Egypt to try to gain the East, and drive the English out of India. He landed in Egypt, and near Grand Cairo gained the battle of the Pyramids, and tried to recommend himself to the people of Egypt by showing great admiration for Mahomet and the Koran. But his ships, which he had left on the coast, were attacked by the English fleet, under Sir Horatio Nelson, and every one of them taken or sunk except two, which carried the tidings home. This was the battle of the Nile.

The Sultan of Turkey, to whom Egypt belonged, fitted out an army against the French, and Bonaparte marched to meet it half way in the Holy Land. There he took Jaffa, cruelly massacred the Turkish garrison, and beat the Sultan’s army at Tabor: but Acre was so bravely and well defended, under the management of a brave English sailor, Sir Sidney Smith, that he was obliged to turn back without taking it. He led his troops back, suffering sadly from hunger and sickness, to Egypt, and there defeated another Turkish army in the battle of Aboukir. However, he there heard news from home which showed him that he was needed. The French had, indeed, gone on to stir up a revolution both in Rome and Naples. The pope was a prisoner in France, and the king of Naples had fled to Sicily; but the Russians had come to the help of the other nations, and the French had nearly been driven out of Lombardy. Beside, the Directory was not able to keep the unruly people in order; and Napoleon felt himself so much wanted, that, finding there were two ships in the port, he embarked in one of them and came home, leaving his Egyptian army to shift for themselves.

However, he was received at home like a conqueror; and the people of France were so proud of him, that he soon persuaded them to change the Directory for a government of three consuls, of whom he was the first. He lived in the Tuileries, and began to keep something very like the old court; and his wife, Josephine, was a beautiful, graceful, kind lady, whom every one loved, and who helped very much in gaining people over to his cause. Indeed, he gave the French rest at home, and victories abroad, and that was all they desired. He won back all that had been lost in Italy; and the battle of Marengo, on the 14th of June, 1800, when the Austrians were totally routed, was a splendid victory. Austria made peace again, and nobody was at war with France but England, which conquered everywhere by sea, as France did by land. The last remnant of the French army in Egypt was beaten in Alexandria, and obliged to let the English ships transport them to France; and after this there was a short peace called the peace of Amiens, but it did not last long; and as soon as Bonaparte had decided on war, he pounced without notice on every English traveler in his dominions, and kept them prisoners till the end of the war.

He had made up his mind to be Emperor of the French, and before declaring this, he wanted to alarm the old royalists; so he sent a party to seize the Duke d’Enghien (heir of the princes of Condé), who was living at Baden, and conduct him to Vincennes, where, at midnight, he was tried by a sham court-martial, and at six in the morning brought down to the courtyard, and shot, beside his own grave.

After this every one was afraid to utter a whisper against Bonaparte becoming emperor, and on the second of December, 1804, he was crowned in Notre Dame, with great splendor. The pope was present, but Bonaparte placed the crown on his own head—a golden wreath of laurel leaves; and he gave his soldiers eagle standards, in memory of the old Roman Empire. He drew up an excellent code of laws, which have been used ever since in France, and are known by his name; and his wonderful talent did much to bring the shattered nation into order. Still, England would not acknowledge his unlawful power, and his hatred to her was very great. He had an army ready to invade England, but the English fleet never allowed him to cross the Channel; and his fleet was entirely destroyed by Lord Nelson, at the great battle of Trafalgar, on the 21st of October, 1805.

But Napoleon was winning another splendid victory at Ulm, over the Austrians; and not long after, he beat the Prussians as entirely at Jena, and had all Germany at his feet. He was exceedingly harsh and savage to the good and gentle queen Louisa, when she came with her husband to try to make better terms for her country, thus sowing seeds of bitter resentment, which were to bear fruit long after. The Russians advanced to the aid of Germany, but the battles of Eylau and Friedland made them also anxious for peace. There never, indeed, was a much abler man than Napoleon; but he had no honor, honesty or generosity, and had very little heart amid all his seeming greatness. He made his family kings of conquered countries. His brother Louis was King of Holland; Jerome, of Westphalia, and the eldest brother, Joseph, King of Naples; but in 1808, he contrived to cheat the King of Spain of his crown, and keep him and his son prisoners in France, while Joseph was sent to reign in Spain, and General Murat, the husband of his sister Caroline, was made King of Naples. The Portuguese royal family were obliged to flee away to Brazil; but the Spaniards and Portuguese would not submit to the French yoke, and called the English to help them. So year after year the Duke of Wellington was beating Napoleon’s generals, and wearing away his strength; but he still went on with his German wars, and in 1809, after two terrible battles at Aspern and Wagram, entered Vienna itself. Again there was a peace; and Napoleon, who was grieved to have no child to leave his empire to, had the wickedness and cruelty to decide on setting aside his good, loving Josephine, and making the Emperor Francis, of Austria, give him his young daughter, Marie Louise. In 1810, the deed was done; and it was said that from that time all his good fortune left him, though he had one little son born to him, whom he called King of Rome.