Amongst Frenchmen of the highest class, intellectually and socially, he had many valued friends, keeping his name on the “Cosmopolitan” long after he had ceased to visit it, since “one never knows when the distinguished foreigner may come upon one, and of such the Cosmo is the London Paradise.” But he used to say that in the other world a good Frenchman becomes an Englishman, a bad Englishman becomes a Frenchman. He saw in the typical Gaul a compound of the tiger and the monkey; noted their want of individuality, their tendency to go in flocks, their susceptibility to panic and to ferocity, to the terror that makes a man kill people, and “the terror that makes him lie down and beg.” We remember, too, his dissection of St. Arnaud, as before all things a type of his nation; “he impersonated with singular exactness the idea which our forefathers had in their minds when they spoke of what they called ‘a Frenchman;’ for although (by cowing the rich and by filling the poor with envy), the great French Revolution had thrown a lasting gloom on the national character, it left this one man untouched. He was bold, gay, reckless, vain; but beneath the mere glitter of the surface there was a great capacity for administrative business, and a more than common willingness to take away human life.” “I relish,” Kinglake said in 1871, “the spectacle of Bismarck teaching the A B C of Liberal politics to the hapless French. His last _mot_, they tell me, is this. Speaking of the extent to which the French Emperor had destroyed his own reputation and put an end to the worship of the old Napoleon, he said: ‘He has killed himself and buried his uncle.’” Again, in 1874, noting the _contre coup_ upon France resulting from the Bismarck and Arnim despatches, he said: “What puzzles the poor dear French is to see that truth and intrepid frankness consist with sound policy and consummate wisdom. How funny it would be, if the French some day, as a novelty, or what they would call a _caprice_, were to try the effect of truth; “though not naturally honest,” as Autolycus says, “were to become so by chance.”