nd the happiness of living in constant
intercourse with her, Madame Recamier will for ever remain the object
of a sort of adoration which we should find it impossible to
express." The only fault her friends would confess in her was the
generous fault of too great toleration and indulgence. And to dwell
unkindly on this is as ungracious a task as to try to fix a stain on
a star.

Arrayed in her divine charms; armed with irresistible goodness and
archness; enriched with equal wisdom and uprightness, every movement
a mixture of grace and dignity; protected by an aureole of purity
which always surrounded her; walking among common mortals, "like a
goddess on a cloud," she made it the business of her life to soften
the asperities, listen to the' plans, sympathize with the
disappointments, stimulate the powers, encourage the efforts, praise
the achievements, and enjoy the triumphs, of her friends. No wonder
they loved her, and thronged around her alike in prosperity and in
adversity. To appreciate her character is a joy; to portray her
example, a duty. She was a kind of saint of the world.

The single fault which Saint-Beuve finds with the spirit of the
society she formed, and governed so long with her irresistible
sceptre, is that there was too much of complaisance and charity in
it. Stern truth suffered, and character was enervated, while courtesy
and taste flourished: "The personality or self-love of all who came
into the charmed circle was too much caressed." One can scarcely help
lamenting that so gracious a fault is not oftener to be met in the
selfish and satirical world. For the opposite fault of a harsh
carelessness is so much more frequent as to make this seem almost a
virtue. Cast in an angel's mould, and animated with an angel's
spirit, her consciousness vacant of self, vacant also of an absorbing
aim, ever ready to install the aim of any worthy person who came
before her, she was such a woman as Dante would have adored. It seems
impossible not to recognize how much fitter a type of womanhood she
is for her sex to admire than those specimens who spend their days in
publicly ventilating their vanity, feverishly courting notoriety and
power; or those who, without cultivation, without expansion, without
devotion, without aspiration, lead a life of monotonous drudgery,
with not a single interest beyond their own homes.

A certain Madame Ancelot has written a book, in which, doubtless
under the pain of some galling