man.

It has been said that no man is, a hero to his valet. It would give wide
latitude to a witty remark, which has become proverbial, to make it the
epigraph of these memoirs. The valet of a hero by that very fact is
something more than a valet. Amber is only earth, and Bologna stone only
a piece of rock; but the first gives out the perfume of the rose, and the
other flashes the rays of the sun. The character of a witness is
dignified by the solemnity of the scene and the greatness of the actor.
Even before reading the manuscript of M. Constant, we were strongly
persuaded that impressions so unusual and so striking would raise him to
the level of the occasion.

The reader can now judge of this for himself. These are the memoirs of
M. Constant,--autographic memoirs of one still living, who has written
them to preserve his recollections. It is the private history, the
familiar life, the leisure moments, passed in undress, of Napoleon, which
we now present to the public. It is Napoleon taken without a mask,
deprived of his general's sword, the consular purple, the imperial
crown,--Napoleon resting from council and from battle, forgetful of power
and of conquest, Napoleon unbending himself, going to bed, sleeping the
slumber of a common man, as if the world did not hang upon his dreams.

These are striking facts, so natural and of such simplicity, that though
a biased judgment may, perhaps, exaggerate their character, and amplify
their importance, they will furnish to an impartial and reflective mind a
wealth of evidence far superior to the vain speculations of the
imagination or the prejudiced judgments of political parties.

In this light the author of these memoirs is not an author, but simply a