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was jealous； that he was criminally intimate with his own sistersin short；
there was no crime； however revolting； with which these calumniators
were not hasty to charge the emperor。
This same vindictive hatred was visited also upon all associated with
Bonaparte in the conduct of affairs at that time。 Murat was ‘‘a brute and
a thief''； Josephine； Hortense； Pauline； and Mme。 Letitia were courtesans；
Berthier was a shuffling； time…serving lackey and tool； Augereau was a
bastard； a spy； a robber； and a murderer； Fouche was the incarnation of
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every vice； Lucien Bonaparte was a roue and a marplot； Cambaceres was a
debauchee； Lannes was a thief； brigand； and a poisoner； Talleyrand and
Barras werewell； what evil was told of them has yet to be disproved。
But you would gather from contemporaneous English publications that
Bonaparte and his associates were veritable fiends from hell sent to
scourge civilization。 These books are so strangely curious that we find it
hard to classify them： we cannot call them history； and they are too
truculent to pass for humor； yet they occupy a distinct and important place
among Napoleonana。
Until William Hazlitt's life of Bonaparte appeared we had no English
treatment of Bonaparte that was in any sense fair； and； by the way；
Hazlitt's work is the only one in English I know of which gives the will of
Bonaparte； an exceedingly interesting document。
For a good many years I held the character of Napoleon in light esteem；
for the reason that he had but small regard for books。 Recent revelations；
however； made to me by Dr。 O'Rell （grandnephew of ‘‘Tom Burke of
Ours''）； have served to dissipate that prejudice； and I question not that I
shall duly become as ardent a worshipper of the Corsican as my doctor
himself is。 Dr。 O'Rell tells meand his declarations are corroborated by
Frederic Masson and other authorities that Bonaparte was a lover and a
collector of books； and that he contributed largely to the dignity and the
glorification of literature by publishing a large number of volumes in the
highest style of the art。
The one department of literature for which he seems to have had no
liking was fiction。 Novels of all kinds he was in the habit of tossing into
the fire。 He was a prodigious buyer of books； and those which he read
were invariably stamped on the outer cover with the imperial arms； at St。
Helena his library stamp was merely a seal upon which ink was smeared。
Napoleon cared little for fine bindings； yet he knew their value； and
whenever a presentation copy was to be bound he required that it be bound
handsomely。 The books in his own library were invariably bound ‘‘in
calf of indifferent quality；'' and he was wont； while reading a book； to fill
the margin with comments in pencil。 Wherever he went he took a library
of books with him； and these volumes he had deprived of all superfluous
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margin； so as to save weight and space。 Not infrequently when hampered
by the rapid growth of this travelling library he would toss the ‘‘overflow''
of books out of his carriage window； and it was his custom （I shudder to
record it！） to separate the leaves of pamphlets； magazines； and volumes by
running his finger between them； thereby invariably tearing the pages in
shocking wise。
In the arrangement of his library Napoleon observed that exacting
method which was characteristic of him in other employments and
avocations。 Each book had its particular place in a special case； and
Napoleon knew his library so well that he could at any moment place his
hand upon any volume he desired。 The libraries at his palaces he had
arranged exactly as the library at Malmaison was； and never was one book
borrowed from one to serve in another。 It is narrated of him that if ever a
volume was missing Napoleon would describe its size and the color of its
binding to the librarian； and would point out the place where it might have
been wrongly put and the case where it properly belonged。
If any one question the greatness of this man let him explain if he can
why civilization's interest in Napoleon increases as time rolls on。 Why is
it that we are curious to know all about himthat we have gratification in
hearing tell of his minutest habits； his moods； his whims； his practices； his
prejudices？ Why is it that even those who hated him and who denied his
genius have felt called upon to record in ponderous tomes their
reminiscences of him and his deeds？ Princes； generals； lords； courtiers；
poets； painters； priests； plebeiansall have vied with one another in
answering humanity's demand for more and more and ever more about
Napoleon Bonaparte。
I think that the supply will； like the demand； never be exhausted。 The
women of the court have supplied us with their memoirs； so have the
diplomats of that period； so have the wives of his generals； so have the
Tom…Dick…and…Harry spectators of those kaleidoscopic scenes； so have his
keepers in exile； so has his barber。 The chambermaids will be heard from
in good time； and the hostlers； and the scullions。 Already there are
rumors that we are soon to be regaled with Memoirs of the Emperor
Napoleon by the Lady who knew the Tailor who Once Sewed a Button on
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the Emperor's Coat； edited by her loving grandson； the Duc de Bunco。
Without doubt many of those who read these lines will live to see the
time when memoirs of Napoleon will be offered by ‘‘a gentleman who
purchased a collection of Napoleon spoons in 1899''； doubtless； too； the
book will be hailed with satisfaction； for this Napoleonic enthusiasm
increases as time wears on。
Curious； is it not； that no calm； judicial study of this man's character
and exploits is received with favor？ He who treats of the subject must be
either a hater or an adorer of Napoleon； his blood must be hot with the
enthusiasm of rage or of love。
To the human eye there appears in space a luminous sphere that in its
appointed path goes on unceasingly。 The wise men are not agreed
whether this apparition is merely of gaseous composition or is a solid body
supplied extraneously with heat and luminosity； inexhaustibly； some argue
that its existence will be limited to the period of one thousand； or five
hundred thousand； or one million years； others declare that it will roll on
until the end of time。 Perhaps the nature of that luminous sphere will
never be truly known to mankind； yet with calm dignity it moves in its
appointed path among the planets and the stars of the universe； its fires
unabated； its luminosity undimmed。
Even so the great Corsican； scrutinized of all human eyes； passes along
the aisle of Time enveloped in the impenetrable mystery of enthusiasm；
genius； and splendor。
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XVIII
MY WORKSHOP AND OTHERS
The women…folk are few up there； For 't were not fair； you
know； That they our heavenly bliss should share Who vex us
here below！ The few are those who have been kind To
husbands such as we： They knew our fads and didn't mind
Says Dibdin's ghost to me。
It has never been explained to my satisfaction why women； as a class；
are the enemies of books； and are particularly hostile to bibliomania。 The
except