sure but he had better have lost his best park of
artillery, or had his
best
regiment drowned in the sea, than shot that poor German Bookseller,
Palm! It was a palpable tyrannous
murderousinjustice, which no man, let
him paint an inch thick, could make out to be other. It burnt deep into
the hearts of men, it and the like of it; suppressed fire flashed in the
eyes of men, as they thought of it,--waiting their day! Which day _came_:
Germany rose round him.--What Napoleon _did_ will in the long-run
amount to
what he did
justly; what Nature with her laws will
sanction. To what of
reality was in him; to that and nothing more. The rest was all smoke and
waste. _La carriere ouverte aux talens_: that great true Message, which
has yet to
articulate and
fulfil itself everywhere, he left in a most
in
articulate state. He was a great _ebauche_, a rude-draught never
completed; as indeed what great man is other? Left in _too_ rude a state,
alas!
His notions of the world, as he expresses them there at St. Helena, are
almost tragical to consider. He seems to feel the most unaffected surprise
that it has all gone so; that he is flung out on the rock here, and the
World is still moving on its axis. France is great, and all-great: and at
bottom, he is France. England itself, he says, is by Nature only an
appendage of France; "another Isle of Oleron to France." So it was by
_Nature_, by Napoleon-Nature; and yet look how in fact--HERE AM I! He
cannot understand it: inconceivable that the
reality has not corresponded
to his
program of it; that France was not all-great, that he was not
France. "Strong delusion," that he should believe the thing to be which
_is_ not! The
compact, clear-seeing,
decisive Italian nature of him,
strong,
genuine, which he once had, has enveloped itself, half-dissolved
itself, in a turbid
atmosphere of French fanfaronade. The world was not
disposed to be trodden down underfoot; to be bound into masses, and built
together, as _he_ liked, for a
pedestal to France and him: the world had
quite other purposes in view! Napoleon's
astonishment is
extreme. But
alas, what help now? He had gone that way of his; and Nature also had gone
her way. Having once parted with Reality, he tumbles
helpless in Vacuity;
no
rescue for him. He had to sink there, mournfully as man seldom did; and
break his great heart, and die,--this poor Napoleon: a great
implement too
soon wasted, till it was
useless: our last Great Man!
Our last, in a double sense. For here finally these wide roamings of ours
through so many times and places, in search and study of Heroes, are to
terminate. I am sorry for it: there was pleasure for me in this business,
if also much pain. It is a great subject, and a most grave and wide one,
this which, not to be too grave about it, I have named _Hero-worship_. It
enters deeply, as I think, into the secret of Mankind's ways and vitalest
interests in this world, and is well worth explaining at present. With six
months, instead of six days, we might have done better. I promised to
break ground on it; I know not whether I have even managed to do that. I
have had to tear it up in the rudest manner in order to get into it at all.
Often enough, with these
abrupt utterances thrown out isolated,
unexplained, has your tolerance been put to the trial. Tolerance, patient
candor, all-hoping favor and kindness, which I will not speak of at
present. The
accomplished and
distinguished, the beautiful, the wise,
something of what is best in England, have listened
patiently to my rude
words. With many feelings, I
heartily thank you all; and say, Good be with
you all!
End