fidelity. Political and geographical ruin have
written one last royal title across the sky; the loss of palace and
capital and territory have but isolated and made evident the people that
has not been lost; not laws but the love of exiles, not soil but the
souls of men, still make certain that five true words shall yet be
written in the corrupt and fanciful chronicles of mankind: "The King of
the Belgians."

It is a common phrase, recurring constantly in the real if rabid
eloquence of Victor Hugo, that Napoleon III. was a mere ape of Napoleon
I. That is, that he had, as the politician says, in "L'Aiglon," "le
petit chapeau, mais pas la tete"; that he was merely a bad imitation.
This is extravagantly exaggerative; and those who say it, moreover,
often miss the two or three points of resemblance which really exist in
the exaggeration. One resemblance there certainly was. In both Napoleons
it has been suggested that the glory was not so great as it seemed; but
in both it can be emphatically added that the eclipse was not so great
as it seemed either. Both succeeded at first and failed at last. But
both succeeded at last, even after the failure. If at this moment we owe
thanks to Napoleon Bonaparte for the armies of united France, we also
owe some thanks to Louis Bonaparte for the armies of united Italy. That
great movement to a freer and more chivalrous Europe which we call
to-day the Cause of the Allies, had its forerunners and first victories
before our time; and it not only won at Arcola, but also at Solferino.
Men who remembered Louis Napoleon when he mooned about the Blessington
_salon_, and was supposed to be almost mentally deficient, used to say
he deceived Europe twice; once when he made men think him an imbecile,
and once when he made them think him a statesman. But he deceived them a
third time; when he made them think he was dead; and had done nothing.

In spite of the unbridled verse of Hugo and the even more unbridled
prose of Kinglake, Napoleon III. is really and solely discredited in
history because of the catastrophe of 1870. Hugo hurled any amount of
lightning on Louis Napoleon; but he threw very little light on him. Some
passages in the "Chatiments" are really caricatures carved in eternal
marble. They will always be valuable in reminding generations too vague
and soft, as were the Victorians, of the great truth that hatred is
beautiful, when it is hatred of the ugliness of the soul. But most of
them co