is　literature　is　so　extensive　that　it　seems　an　impossibility　that　anything　like　a　complete　collection　should　be　got　together；　to　say　nothing　of　the　histories；　the　biographies；　the　volumes　of　reminiscence　and　the　books　of　criticism　which　the　career　of　the　Corsican　inspired；　there　are　Napoleon　dream…books；　Napoleon　song…books；　Napoleon　chap…books；　etc。；　etc。；　beyond　the　capability　of　enumeration。
  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；　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　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　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　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　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。
  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；　with　those　companions　of　his　student　　hours。　　If；　instead　of　being　folios；　quartos；　octavos；　and　the　like；　the　Judge's　books　were　buxom；　blithe　maidens；　his　wife　could　hardly　be　more　jealous　of　the　Judge's　attentions　to　them　than　she　is　under　existing　circumstances。　　On　one　occasion；　having　found　the　Judge　on　two　successive　afternoons　sitting　alone　in　the　library　with　Pliny　in　his　lap；　this　spirited　lady　snatched　the　insidious　volume　from　her　husband's　embraces　and　locked　it　up　in　one　of　the　kitchen　pantries；　nor　did　she　release　the　object　of　her　displeasure　until　the　Judge　had　promised　solemnly　to　be　more　circumspect　in　the　future；　and　had　further　mollified　his　wife's　anger　by　bringing　home　a　new　silk　dress　and　a　bonnet　of　exceptional　loveliness。
  Other　instances　of　a　similar　character　have　demonstrated　that　Mrs。　Methuen　regards　with　implacable　antipathy　the　volumes　upon　which　my　learned　and　ingenious　f