Napoleon said of himself: ‘I was an obstinate and inquisitive child. I was extremely headstrong; nothing overawed me, nothing disconcerted me. I made myself formidable to the whole family. My brother Joseph was the one with whom I was oftenest embroiled; he was bitten, beaten, abused: I went to complain before he had time to recover his confusion.’

At ten years of age, through the medium of his patron, Count Marbœuf, he was sent to the military school at Brienne, which he entered on April 23, 1779. Here he was shy and reserved, and not at all liked by his schoolfellows, who twitted him with his poverty, the country whence he came, his name, and made reflections on his mother; the last particularly exasperating him. His veracious Hudibrastic historian says: —

 
When he two years at school had been,
He proved more violent and mean:
Unlike his sprightly fellow boys,
Amused with playthings and with toys;
At shuttlecock he’d never stop,
Nor deign to whip the bounding top.
His garden was his sole delight,
Which ne’er improv’d his mental sight;
But thus in childhood serv’d to show
He was to all mankind a foe.
His schoolfellows, in keen sedateness,
He robb’d to prove his urchin greatness:
Deluded by his wheedling art,
Some cheerfully resign’d a part
Of their possessions, and to these }
He added what he chose to seize; }
Then, planting it with num’rous trees }
And putting palisades all round,
He strutted monarch of the ground;
 

* * * * *

* * * * *

 
’Twas on a welcome festive morn,
For some great saint divinely born.
No matter why, it was a jolly day,
Boys must be merry on a holiday;
And now behold their bulging pockets,
Enrich’d with pistols, squibs, and rockets —
When some, but humbly begg’d his pardon
Threw fireworks into Boney’s garden;
’Twas chiefly manag’d by the breeze
Which sent them ’mong his plants and trees;
Bursting, the cracks were oft repeated,
Nap’s ears were with the thunder greeted;
Th’ explosions discomposed, I wot,
Th’ arrangement of the lovely spot.
Nap saw it with corroding spite,
And now began his lips to bite;
But strove his anger to restrain,
Until revenge he could obtain.
For weeks he plann’d what he should do,
And in about a month or two
Contrived his infamous design,
By having made a kind of mine
Beside the garden; where, in haste,
Long trains of gunpowder he plac’d;
Deliberately now, as stated,
He for the little fellows waited;
And just as they were passing through it,
A lighted bit of stick put to it;
The boys were suddenly alarm’d,
And some were miserably harm’d,
While all, with fright and consternation,
Were in a state of perturbation.
Th’ heroic Boney, with a club,
Now came the sufferers to drub;
But soon the master was in sight,
Which put the Conqueror to flight.
 

CHAPTER IV

NAPOLEON AT THE ECOLE MILITAIRE – PERSONAL DESCRIPTION —PUSS IN BOOTS– VISIT TO CORSICA – SOLICITS SERVICE IN ENGLAND – REPORTED VISIT TO LONDON – SIEGE OF TOULON

On October 14 or 17, 1784, he left Brienne for the Ecole Militaire at Paris.

Gillray, when he drew the picture (on next page) of the abject, ragged, servile-looking Napoleon, could hardly have realised the fact that Napoleon was then over fifteen years of age, and that, having been already five years at a military school, he must necessarily have carried himself in a more soldierly manner. He stayed at the Ecole Militaire till August 1875, when he obtained his brevet of second lieutenant of Artillery in the regiment of La Fère. Madame Junot²⁰ tells an amusing anecdote of him at this period, which I must be pardoned introducing here, as it helps us to imagine his personal appearance. ‘I well recollect that on the day when he first put on his uniform, he was as vain as young men usually are on such an occasion. There was one part of his dress which had a very droll appearance – that was his boots. They were so high and wide, that his little thin legs seemed buried in their amplitude. Young people are always ready to observe anything ridiculous; and, as soon as my sister and I saw Napoleon enter the drawing-room, we burst into a loud fit of laughter. At that early age, as well as in after life, Bonaparte could not relish a joke; and when he found himself the object of merriment, he grew angry.

‘My sister, who was some years older than I, told him that since he wore a sword he ought to be gallant to ladies; and, instead of being angry, should be happy that they joked with him. “You are nothing but a child – a little pensionnaire,” said Napoleon, in a tone of contempt. Cecile, who was twelve or thirteen years of age, was highly indignant at being called a child, and she hastily resented the affront by replying to Bonaparte, “And you are nothing but a puss in boots.” This excited a general laugh among all present, except Napoleon, whose rage I will not attempt to describe. Though not much accustomed to society, he had too much tact not to perceive that he ought to be silent when personalities were introduced, and his adversary was a woman.

‘Though deeply mortified at the unfortunate nickname which my sister had given him, yet he affected to forget it; and to prove that he cherished no malice on the subject, he got a little toy made, and gave it to me. This toy consisted of a cat in boots, in the character of a footman running before the carriage of the Marquis de Carabas. It was very well made, and must have been rather expensive to him considering his straitened finances. He brought along with it a pretty little edition of the popular tale of Puss in Boots, which he presented to my sister, begging her to keep it as a token of his remembrance.’

Napoleon afterwards frequently called Junot, Marquis de Carabas, and, on one occasion, Madame Junot, in badinage, reminded Napoleon of his present to her, at which he got very angry.

During his sub-lieutenancy he was very poor, yet he managed to go to Corsica for six months, whilst Paoli, who had been living in England, was there. There is a curious idea that, about this time (mentioned in more places than one²¹), he applied for service under the British Government.

 
At this time Bonaparte scarce knew
What for his maintenance to do —
So he sat down, and quickly wrote
A very condescending note,
(Altho’ a wretched scrawl when written),
Which to a Chieftain of Great Britain,
He, soon as possible, dispatch’d,
In which he swore he was attach’d
Unto the British Constitution,
And therefore form’d the resolution
Of fighting in that country’s cause,
For George the Third, and for his laws,
If that his services were needed,
And to his wishes they acceded.
It seems that Bonaparte could trade well,
He’d fight for any one that paid well;
But he a disappointment got,
Because his services were not
By Britain’s chief Commander tried;
The rank he sought for was denied.
This was the cause of great displeasure,
It mortified him above measure,
And he gave England now as many a
Curse, as before he e’er gave Genoa.
 

Nay, more extraordinary than all, it was even pretended that he lived some time in England. The Birmingham Journal of April 21, 1855, affirms, on the authority of Mr. J. Coleman of the Strand, who is now 104 years of age, and whose portrait and biographical sketch appeared in the Illustrated London News, Feb. 1850, and who knew perfectly well M. Bonaparte, who, while he lived in London, which was for five weeks, in 1791 or 1792, lodged in a house in George Street, Strand, and whose chief occupation appeared to be taking pedestrian exercise in the streets of London. Hence his marvellous knowledge of the great metropolis, which used to astonish any Englishmen of distinction, who were not aware of the visit. I have also heard Mr. Matthews, the grandfather of the celebrated comedian, Mr. Thomas Goldsmith of the Strand, Mr. Graves, Mr. Drury, and my father, all of whom were tradesmen in the Strand, in the immediate vicinity of George Street, speak of this visit. He occasionally took his cup of chocolate at the Northumberland, occupying himself in reading, and preserving a provoking taciturnity to the gentlemen in the room; though his manner was stern, his deportment was that of a gentleman.’

Timbs²² endorses this statement, in identically the same words of a portion of the above, which he fathers on old Mr. Matthews, the bookseller in the Strand, but we must recollect that Mr. Timbs was writing the ‘Romance of London.’

A personal description of Napoleon in 1793 may be interesting, especially as it comes from a trustworthy pen.²³ ‘At that period of his life Bonaparte was decidedly ugly; he afterwards underwent a total change. I do not speak of the illusive charm which his glory spread around him, but I mean to say that a gradual physical change took place in him in the space of seven years. His emaciated thinness was converted into a fulness of face, and his complexion, which had been yellow, and apparently unhealthy, became clear and comparatively fresh; his features, which were angular and sharp, became round and filled out. As to his smile, it was always agreeable. The mode of dressing his hair, which has such a droll appearance as we see it in the prints of the bridge of Arcola, was then comparatively simple, for young men of fashion (the Muscadins), whom he used to rail at so loudly at that time, wore their hair very long. But he was very careless of his personal appearance; and his hair, which was ill-combed and ill-powdered, gave him the look of a sloven. His little hands, too, underwent a great metamorphosis: when I first saw him, they were thin, long, and dark; but he was subsequently vain of the beauty of them, and with good reason.

‘In short, when I recollect Napoleon entering the courtyard of the Hotel de la Tranquillité in 1793, with a shabby round hat drawn over his forehead, and his ill-powdered hair hanging over the collar of his great-coat, which afterwards became as celebrated as the white plume of Henry IV., without gloves, because he used to say they were an useless luxury, with boots ill-made and ill-blackened, with his thinness and his sallow complexion; in fine, when I recollect him at that time, and think what he was afterwards, I do not see the same man in the two pictures.’

He was fortunate in obtaining a higher rank in the army, being promoted to be commandant of artillery, and he joined the army besieging Toulon on September 12, 1793. He found his chief, General Cartaux, incompetent, and, from representations made to Paris, Cartaux was superseded. There was very hard fighting at Toulon before it was taken, Admiral Hood, and General O’Hara, commanding the British forces. The latter being taken prisoner, much disheartened the English, but, at the final assault, when the town was retaken by the French, the English and Spanish gunners died fighting at their posts.

Our metrical History of Napoleon says, —

 
The first shell ’gainst Toulon, ’tis said,
The hand of Bonaparte had sped.
 

The vengeance of the French, on entering the town, was terrible; but many thousands had taken shelter on board the British ships, leaving only a few hundreds to be executed ‘according to law.’ Our poem somewhat exaggerates.

 
One of the Jacobins, whom Hood
Had sent to prison for no good —
A noted character indeed —
By the republicans was freed.
As vengeance he on all design’d
Who to the English had been kind,
Or in their dreadful situation
Promoted the Capitulation,
This miscreant selected then
One thousand and four hundred men,
Whom they determin’d to assassinate —
A testimony of surpassing hate;
And Boney was, with general voice,
For executioner their choice.
Indeed the choice was very good,
For Boney was a man for blood.
In sets, it was these wretches’ lot,
To be brought forward to be shot:
Nap gave the order with composure,
The loaded guns were pointed so sure
A dreadful carnage soon ensued —
A carnage – horrible when view’d.
Yet, gallant Boney, with delight,
Remain’d spectator of the sight.
Nay, more, himself vers’d in hypocrisy,
He thought he might perhaps some mock’ry see:
So ‘Pardon! pardon!’ loud he said,
To know if they were really dead;
Some, who had counterfeited death,
Rose up, and were deprived of breath!
Poor souls! they knew not when he said it
His word was not deserving credit.
However two there were more wise, }
Who, having put on death’s disguise, }
Could not be tempted thus to rise, }
But tarried till the wolves were gone,
And then – a father found his son!