I heard a clever Frenchman once, when discussing the famous Memoirs of Madame de Rémusat, quote what I thought an excellent comment upon them. The Memoirs, said the commentator, were clever, but they were the Memoirs which might have been written by a femme de chambre, "and I do not love domestics," added this critic, "who speak badly of their masters." M. de Méneval was a servant of Napoleon, but he does not speak badly of his master. I cannot read these Memoirs—indiscriminate in their praise, partial, uncritical, not very luminous—I cannot read them without feeling that Méneval was a downright good fellow. To Méneval Napoleon is always the hero; always right, always high-minded, always unselfish, always wronged. I need scarcely say that this is not the view of Napoleon's character which even the most benevolent student of his career can adopt; but do you suppose I am going to find fault with our good Méneval for this? There are some people who forgive anything to intellect; my tendency is to forgive anything to heart. I have always regarded a good disposition as much more attractive than a good brain. And, then, I like people who have the talent of admiration. Carlyle exploded the doctrine that nobody is a hero to his own valet, with the pertinent remark that perchance that was the fault of the valet. For my part, I always look with a certain suspicion on
