" Napoleon, possibly, never had a
true friend in his life. He certainly never deserved one. Each year saw
him surrounded by new associates, whom he meant to sacrifice, if he
could.
UPON THE BLOODY FIELD OF ASPERN AND ESSLING,
he offered up Marshal Lannes. He was forced to stand by that brave dying
man and listen to his awful reproaches. So, again, in the terrible
carnage of Spain at Eylau, at Borodino, Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden,
Leipsic, Hanau, everywhere, he was compelled to hear the outspoken
protests of the men who had held the ladder for him--to stamp his foot
at the constant declarations of "Dukes," "Princes," and "Kings," that he
was a monster whose thirst demanded only human blood. At last, the whole
world cried out that it had had
"ENOUGH OF BONAPARTE!"
The expression became a war-cry, and the world escaped from the baleful
sceptre under whose shadow it had too long suspired. "What millions died
that Caesar might be great!" cries Campbell. "None think the great
unhappy but the great," says Young. They deserve their unhappiness. It
is the mess of pottage to obtain which they have sold everything.
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