But he was greater as a man than as a warrior or statesman; greater in that rare and subtle personal quality which made men love him. Men went down on their knees and wept at sight of him when he came home from Elba—rough men whose hearts were untrained, and who loved naturally and spontaneously the thing which was lovable. It was only selfish, warped, abnormal natures, which had been stifled by etiquette and diplomacy and self-interest, who abandoned him. Where nature lived in a heart, Napoleon’s sway was absolute. It was not strange. He was in everything a natural man; his imagination, his will, his intellect, his heart, were native, untrained. They appealed to unworldly men in all their rude, often brutal strength and sweetness. If they awed them, they won them. This native force of Napoleon explains, at least partially, his hold on men; it explains, too, the contrasts of his character. Never was there a life lived so full of lights and shades, of majors and minors. It was a kaleidoscope, changing at every moment. Beside the most practical and commonplace qualities are the most idealistic. No man ever did more drudgery, ever followed details more slavishly; yet who ever dared so divinely, ever played such hazardous games of chance? No man ever planned more for his fellows, yet who ever broke so many hearts? No man ever made practical realities of so many of liberty’s dreams, yet it was by despotism that he gave liberal and beneficent laws. No man was more gentle, none more cruel. Never was there a more chivalrous lover until he was disillusioned; a more affectionate husband, even when faith had left him; yet no man ever trampled more rudely on womanly delicacy and reserve. He was valorous as a god in danger, loved it, played with it; yet he would turn pale at a broken mirror, cross himself if he stumbled, fancy the coffee poisoned at which an enemy had looked. He was the greatest genius of his time, perhaps of all time, yet he lacked the crown of greatness—that high wisdom born of reflection and introspection which knows its own powers and limitations, and never abuses them; that fine sense of proportion which holds the rights of others in the same solemn reverence it demands for its own. CHAPTER XXIII THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON—REMOVAL OF NAPOLEON’S REMAINS FROM ST. HELENA TO THE BANKS OF THE SEINE IN 1840 _It is my wish that my ashes may repose on the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French people, whom I have loved so well._—TESTAMENT OF NAPOLEON, 2d Clause. He wants not this; but France shall feel the want Of this last consolation, thought so scant; Her honor, fame, and faith demand his bones, To rear above a pyramid of thrones; Or carried onward, in the battle’s van, To form, like Guesclin’s dust, her talisman. But be it as it is, the time may come, His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska’s drum.