of the picturesque one, you will be so good as to proceed to find the
present value of history!'

Thus far the Enemy of Mankind:

An admirable lady orator is reported lately to have 'brought down'
Exeter Hall by observing, 'in a low but penetrating voice,' that the
Devil was a very stupid person. It is true that Ben Jonson is on the
side of the lady, but I am far too orthodox to entertain any such
opinion; and though I have, in this instance of history, so far
resisted him as to have refrained from sending my standard historians
to the auction mart--where, indeed, with the almost single exception
of Mr. Grote's History of Greece (the octavo edition in twelve
volumes), prices rule so low as to make cartage a consideration--I
have still of late found myself turning off the turnpike of history to
loiter down the primrose paths of men's memoirs of themselves and
their times.

Here at least, so we argue, we are comparatively safe. Anachronisms of
thought are impossible; omissions out of regard for female posterity
unlikely, and as for party spirit, if found, it forms part of what
lawyers call the _res gestae_, and has therefore a value of its
own. Against the perils of the picturesque, who will insure us?

But when we have said all this, and, sick of prosing, would begin
reading, the number of really readable memoirs is soon found to be but
few. This is, indeed, unfortunate; for it launches us off on another
prose-journey by provoking the question, What makes memoirs
interesting?