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Page 48
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 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
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 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.
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