FullReads

“The pen is mightier than the sword.”

Great men are not the less liable or addicted to very small, and very mean, and sometimes very rascally acts, but they are always fortunate in having any amount of panegyric graven on marble slabs, shafts and pillars, o’er their dust, and eulogistic and profound histories written in memories of the deeds of renown and glory they have executed. An American 74-gun ship would hardly float the mountains of tomes written upon Bonaparte and his brilliant career, as a soldier and a conqueror; but how precious few, insignificant pages do we ever see of the misdeeds, tyrannies and acts of petty and contemptuous meanness so great a man was guilty of! Why should authors and orators be so reluctant to tell the truth of a great man’s follies and crimes, seeing with what convenience and fluency they will lie for him? We contend, and shall contend, that a truly great man cannot be guilty of a small act, and that one contemptible or atrocious manifestation in man, is enough to sully–tarnish the brightness of a dozen brilliant deeds; but apparently, the accepted notion is– vice versa.

In 1830, there lived in the city of Philadelphia, a barber, a poor, harmless, necessary barber. His antique, or most curious costume, attracted much attention about the vicinity in which he lived, and no doubt added somewhat to the custom of his shop, itself a bijou as curious almost as the proprietor. But as our story has but little to do with the queer outside of the barber or his shop, and we do not now purpose a whole history of the man, we shall at once proceed to the pith of our subject–the Emperor and the poor Author, or Napoleon and his Spies–and in which our aforesaid Philadelphia barber plays a conspicuous part.

Some of the writers, a few of those partially daring enough to give an impartial expose of the history of the Bonapartean times, seem to think that Napoleon committed a great error in his accession to the throne, by doubting the stability of his reign, and having pursued exactly measures antipodean to those necessary to seat him firmly in the hearts of the people, and cement the foundation of his newly-acquired power. But we don’t think so; the means by which he obtained the giddy height, to a comprehensive mind like his, at once suggested the necessity of vigilance, promptness, and unflinching execution of whatever act, however tyrannous or heartless it might have been, his unsleeping mind suggested–

“Crowns got with blood, by blood must be maintained.”

Jealous and suspicious, he sought to shackle public opinion–the fearful hydra to all ambitious aspirants–to know all secrets of the time and states, and render one half of the great nations he held in his grasp spies upon the other! The most profligate principles of Machiavel sink into obscurity when contrasted with the Imperial Espionage of Napoleon. When no longer moving squadrons in the tented field–whole armies, like so many pieces of chess in the hands of a dexterous player–he sat upon his throne, reclined upon his lounge or smoked in his bath, organized and moved the most difficult and dangerous forces in the world– an army of Spies!

All ages, from that of infancy to decrepitude–all conditions of life, from peer to parvenu–from plough to the anvil–pulpit to the bar–orators and beggars, soldiers and sailors, male and female of every grade–men of the most insinuating address, and women of the most seductive ages and loveliness, grace and beauty were enlisted and trained to serve–in what the pot-bellied, bald-headed little monster of war used to call his Cytherian Cohort! Snares set by these imperial policemen were difficult to avoid, from the almost utter impossibility of suspicioning their presence or power.