It was Napoleon, not Josephine, except in her pride, who suffered.

Who shall tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about Hamilton; about Burr; about Caesar, Caligula and Cleopatra?
Did Washington, when he was angry, swear like a trooper?
What was the matter with Nero?
IV One evening Edward King and I were dining in the Champs Elysees when he said: "There is a new coon--a literary coon--come to town.

He is a Scotchman and his name is Robert Louis Stevenson." Then he told me of Dr.Jekyll and Mr.Hyde.At that moment the subject of our talk was living in a kind of self-imposed penury not half a mile away.

Had we known this we could have ended the poor fellow's struggle with his pride and ambition then and there; have put him in the way of sure work and plenty of it; perhaps have lengthened, certainly have sweetened, his days, unless it be true that he was one of the impossibles, as he may easily be conceived to have been from reading his wayward biography and voluminous correspondence.
To a young Kentuckian, one of "my boys," was given the opportunity to see the last of him and to bury him in far-away Samoa, whither he had taken himself for the final adventure and where he died, having attained some measure of the dreams he had cherished, and, let us hope, happy in the consciousness of the achievement.
I rather think Stevenson should be placed at the head of the latter-day fictionists.

But fashions in literature as in dress are ever changing.
Washington Irving was the first of our men of letters to obtain foreign recognition.