“Ah, you have never had a Napoleon to plunder and burn your country houses,” sighed the Emperor, almost apologetically, once, when talking of his English visit: “your Reynoldses and Gainsboroughs, where would they have been if Napoleon’s Marshals or his soldiers had seen them? Perhaps burnt or destroyed, or sent to the Louvre. Think what it must mean to the children of a house to _live_ with one of those pictures, to absorb it unconsciously into their mentalities; they _must_ grow up with a love of beautiful things--they cannot help it. We have nothing of the kind; our houses were stripped and burnt.” I suggested something about Cromwell and the way his gentle Ironsides in their zeal smashed up the beautiful sculptures of our cathedrals and stabled their horses in the naves. “Though the horses did less damage than the men,” I conceded. “Ah, Cromwell!” he replied: “Cromwell did nothing in comparison with Napoleon; besides, that was much further back--long ago--Gainsborough and Reynolds not yet born. All our art treasures were absolutely destroyed, burnt, by Napoleon. Art and War cannot live side by side. We have had too much fighting, and now must recreate, rebuild almost from the beginning.” “Yes, it is lucky for us that we live on an island, and that the French fleet met its Trafalgar,” I said. “Nelson saved our art-treasures for us, I suppose.” “I expect he did,” returned His Majesty, nodding his head emphatically. “So you recognize that, do you?” and he turned away laughing and still nodding vigorously, thinking, I am sure, a good deal about Nelson and the fleet. Nobody has ever accused the Emperor of being a diplomatist. He himself believes that he is very astute and can see farther than most men. He is, so to speak, a little blinded by his own brilliancy, by the versatility of his own powers, which are apt to lead him astray. He has never acquired the broad, tolerant outlook of a man who tries to view things from another’s standpoint. He has, in fact, only one point of view--his own--and a certain superficiality characterizes his thought. He has a marvellous memory for facts, deduces hasty inferences, is too prompt in decision, relies perhaps too entirely on his own judgment and his own personal desires and experiences; he does not, in fact, give himself time and opportunity to think things out, to weigh consequences, and he has, unfortunately, few really great minds around him. Conscientious, hard-working men in plenty, but the man of imagination, of original conception, of new ideas--and there are many such men in Germany--does not seem to be admitted to his councils. A great statesman is not at hand just now--one who can impress his thought on the Emperor’s receptive mind and guide his activities, the wonderful forces of his mind, into the best avenues for their development.