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.

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 th