The English were particularly active in disseminating libels upon

Napoleon; they charged him in their books and pamphlets with
murder, arson, incest, treason, treachery, cowardice, seduction,

hypocrisy, avarice, robbery" target="_blank" title="n.抢劫(案)；盗取">robbery, ingratitude, and jealousy; they said
that he poisoned his sick soldiers, that he was the father of

Hortense's child, that he committed the most atrocious cruelties
in Egypt and Italy, that he married Barras' discarded mistress,

that he was afflicted with a loathsome disease, that he murdered
the Duc d'Enghien and officers in his own army of whom he was

jealous, that he was criminally intimate with his own sisters--in
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 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 were--well, 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 scourgecivilization. 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 me--and 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 superfluousmargin, 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, therebyinvariably 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
him--that 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, plebeians--all 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 the Emperor's Coat, edited by her lovinggrandson, 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 luminoussphere 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 luminoussphere 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.

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 exceptions met with now and then simply prove
the rule. Judge Methuen declares that bibliophobia is but one

phase of jealousy; that one's wife hates one's books because she
fears that her husband is in love, or is going to be in love,