signifying that a man cannot write his own biography in the same way that he would that of any one else.  What one says of oneself is always poetical.  To fancy that the small details of one’s own life are worth recording is to be guilty of very petty vanity.  A man writes such things in order to transmit to others the theory of the universe which he carries within himself.  The form of the present work seemed to me a convenient one for expressing certain shades of thought which my previous writings did not convey.  I had no desire to furnish information about myself for the future use of those who might wish to write essays or articles about me.

What in history is a recommendation would here have been a drawback; the whole of this small volume is true, but not true in the sense required-for a “Biographical Dictionary.”  I have said several things with the intent to raise a smile, and, if such a thing had been compatible with custom, I might have used the expression cum grano salis as a marginal note in many cases.  I have been obliged to be very careful in what I wrote.  Many of the persons to whom I refer may be still alive; and those who are not accustomed to find themselves in print have a sort of horror of publicity.  I have, therefore, altered several proper names.  In other cases, by means of a slight transposition of date and place, I have rendered identification impossible.  The story of “the Flax-crusher” is absolutely true, with the exception that the name of the manor-house is a fictitious one.  With regard to “Good Master Systeme,” I have been furnished by M. Duportal du Godasmeur with further details which do not confirm certain ideas entertained by my mother as to the mystery in which this aged recluse enveloped his existence.  I have, however, made no change in the body of the work, thinking that it would be better to leave M. Duportal to publish the true story, known only to himself, of this enigmatic character.

The chief defect for which I should feel some apology necessary if this book had any pretension to be considered a regular memoir of my life, is that there are many gaps in it.  The person who had the greatest influence on my life, my sister Henriette, is scarcely mentioned in it.[1] In September 1862, a year after the death of this invaluable friend, I wrote for the few persons who had known her well, a short notice of her life.  Only a hundred copies were printed.  My sister was so unassuming, and she was so averse from the stress and stir of the world that I should have fancied I could hear her reproaching me from her grave, if I had made this sketch public property.  I have more than once been tempted to include it in this volume, but on second thoughts I have felt that to do so would be an act of profanation.  The pamphlet in question was read and appreciated by a few persons who were kindly disposed towards her and towards myself.  It would be wrong of me to expose a memory so sacred in my eyes to the supercilious criticisms which are