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.