To begin with my noble self. On August 30, 1872, I went to the St.

Lazare station in Paris to catch a train to Versailles. At the foot of

the stairs I met a friend whom I had not seen for a long time. He took

me to the cafe, and there, over a cup of coffee, we chatted for half an

hour. I missed my train; but fortunately for me I did, for that train

which I was to have caught was a total wreck, and thirty lives were lost

in the accident.

A lady whom I knew many years ago once eloped with a young man she had

fallen in love with. Now, this was very wicked, because she was married.

It was on a cold December day. When both arrived at the hotel where they

were going to stay, they found no fire in their apartment, and ordered

one to be made at once. While this was going on they both caught a cold,

and were seized with an endless fit of sneezing. They thought that they

looked so ridiculous--well, the lady did, at any rate--that she ordered

her trunk to be taken to the station immediately. She caught the next

train to Paris, and never did I hear that she was guilty of any escapade

ever after. But for that fire that was not lit, all would have been

lost.

At the inquest which a few days ago was held over the body of Mrs. Gore,

the American lady who was shot accidentally while in the room of her

Russian friend, it was discovered that the bullet had struck the eye

without even grazing the eyelid. The experts came to the conclusion that

if she had been murdered, or had committed suicide, she would have

blinked, and her eyelids would have been touched by the bullet. But for

this marvellous occurrence, the young Russian would have been tried for

murder, and perhaps found guilty.

An Australian of my acquaintance some years ago wrote to his broker

ordering him to sell 500 shares in the Broken Hill Mining Company. The

servant to whom the letter was given mislaid it, and only screwed up his

courage to tell his master two days later. In the meantime the shares

had gone up, and, so seeing, the Australian waited a little longer

before selling. Then came the boom. Two months after the day on which he

had ordered his broker to sell the 500 shares at 40s. apiece these

shares were worth L96. He sold, and through the carelessness of his

servant became a rich man. This is luck, if you like.

The late Edmond About, the famous French novelist, came out first of the

Normale Superieure School. As such he was entitled to be sent to the

French school at Athens for two years before being appointed professor

in some French Faculty. About had a humorous turn of mind. Instead of

studying ancient Greece at Athens, he studied the modern Greeks. After

his two years he returned with the manuscripts of two books,

'Contemporary Greece' and 'The Mountain King,' which were such successes

that he immediately resigned his professorship to devote his time to

literature. If, instead of coming out first, he had come out second, he

would never have been sent to Athens, and About would probably have

spent his life as a learned Professor of Greek or Latin at one of our

Universities.

CHAPTER VII

WE NEEDN'T GET OLD

'When my next birthday comes,' once said to me Oliver Wendell Holmes, 'I

shall be eighty years young.' And he looked it--young, cheerful, with a

kind, merry twinkle in his eyes.

'And,' I said to him, 'to what in particular do you attribute your

youth? To good health and careful living, I suppose?'

'Well, yes,' he replied, 'to a certain extent, but chiefly to a cheerful

disposition and invariable contentment, in every period of my life, with

what I was. I have never felt the pangs of ambition.'

'You needn't,' I remarked. 'The most ambitious man would have been

content with being what you have been--what you are.'

'Happiness, which has contentment for its invariable cause, is within

the reach of practically everyone,' the amiable doctor asserted. 'It is

restlessness, ambition, discontent, and disquietude that make us grow

old prematurely by carving wrinkles on our faces. Wrinkles do not appear

on faces that have constantly smiled. Smiling is the best possible

massage. Contentment is the Fountain of Youth.'

That same evening he was the guest at a banquet given by a Boston club,

to which I had been kindly invited. When he rose to make a speech, they

cheered and applauded to the echo. His face was radiant, beautiful.

After he sat down, I said to him:

'Are you not tired of cheers and applause, after all these years of

triumphs?'

'No,' he replied; 'they never cheer loud enough, they never applaud long

enough to please me.'

Oliver Wendell Holmes was right; he had found the key to happiness.

The philosophers of all ages have deservedly condemned that universal

discontent and disquietude which runs through every rank of society and

degree of life as one of the bitterest reproaches of human nature, as

well as the highest affront to the Divine Author of it.

If we look through the whole creation, and remark the progressive scale

of beings as they rise into perfection, we shall perceive, to our own

shame, that every one seems satisfied with that share of life that has

been allotted to it, man alone excepted. He is pleased with nothing,

perpetually repining at the decrees of Providence, and refusing to enjoy

what he has, from a ridiculous and never-ceasing desire for what he has

not.

He is ambitious, restless, and unhappy, and instead of dying young at

eighty, dies old at forty. He misses happiness which is close at hand

all his lifetime. The object which is at a distance from him is always

the most inviting, and that possession the most valuable which he cannot

acquire. With the ideas of affluence and grandeur he is apt to associate

those of joy, pleasure, and happiness.

Because riches and power may conduce to happiness, he hastily concludes

that they must do so. Alas! pomp, splendour, and magnificence, which

attend the great, are visible to every eye, while the sorrows which they

feel escape our observation. Hence it arises that almost every condition

and circumstance of life is considered preferable to our own, that we so

often court ruin and do our very best to be unhappy.

We complain when we ought to be thankful; we weep when we ought to

rejoice; we fidget and fret. Instead of smiling, which keeps the cheeks

stretched and smooth, we frown, which keeps them contracted and engraves

wrinkles on them.

Instead of looking at the rosy side of things, which makes the eyes

clear and bright, we run after the impossible or the unlikely to happen,

which makes us look gloomy. In short, I may say that old age is of our

own make, for youth is placed at our disposal for ever and ever.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SECRET OF OLD AGE

The organs of man are like the works of a clock. If they are not used,

they rust; and when, after a period of rest, it is attempted to set them

in motion again, the chances are that the human machine will work badly,

or not at all.

Therefore, wind up your clock always and regularly, and it will keep

going. This does not apply only to your bodily clock, but to your mental

one as well.

Persons who work regularly, and, above all, in moderation, especially

those who maintain the activity of their physical and mental faculties,

live longer than those who abandon active life at the approach of old

age.

Do not stop taking bodily exercise. Go on having your walk and your

ride; go on working steadily; go on even having your little smoke, if

you have always been used to it, without ever abusing it--in fact, if

your constitution is good, forget that you are advancing in age; go on

living exactly as you have always lived, only doing everything in more

and more moderation. Busy people live much longer than idle ones.

Sovereigns who lead a very active life live long.

See the Pope! Moltke, Bismarck, Disraeli, Carlyle, Victor Hugo,

Gladstone, Ruskin, Littre, Darwin, De Lesseps, Renan, Pasteur--all great

workers--died nearly eighty or over eighty years of age.

It is not work, but overwork, that may kill; it is not smoking, but

inveterate smoking, that hurts; it is not a little drinking that does

any harm, but too much indulgence in drink which kills.

Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who died only a short time ago, was writing

brilliant articles for the New York _American_ only a few days before

her death; maybe, she was writing one an hour before it.

Her death at the age of eighty-seven may furnish a moral lesson to those

who desire a long life. She died in complete possession of her mental

and physical faculties.

At eighty-five, Gladstone was felling trees in his garden and writing

articles on Homer and theology as a rest from his political labours. At

eighty-two, De Lesseps was riding three hours every day in the Bois de

Boulogne. At ninety-eight, Sidney Cooper was exhibiting pictures at the

Royal Academy.

Yes, so long as the human machine is kept well oiled and regularly wound

up, it goes; and not only do active bodies and minds who go on working

live long, but they live happily and die peacefully, and they also make

happy all those who live with them.

It was a lovely sight to see De Lesseps ride and drive with a troop of

grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The youngest and most boisterous

member of the party was the old gentleman, and all that band of joyous

youngsters adored him.

The man of healthy body and active mind, who abandons work at fifty,

even at sixty, prepares himself for a life of mere vegetation.

Let him stop remunerative work, if he does not find it congenial, and

has enough or more than he wants to live upon, but let him immediately

trace out for himself a programme of life that will enable him to keep

his body and mind active, or let him look out for dyspepsia, gout,

rheumatism, paralysis, stiffness of the joints, and the gradual loss of

his mental faculties.

'I am sorry to be getting an old man,' once remarked Ferdinand de

Lesseps, 'but what consoles me is the thought that there is no other way

of living a long time.'

It is activity, it is work, that keeps you young, healthy, cheerful, and

happy; it is work--thrice blessed work--that makes you feel that you are

not a useless piece of furniture in this world, and makes you die with a

smile on your face. Work, work again, work always!

CHAPTER IX

ADVICE ON LETTER-POSTING

1. When you go out with the intention of posting a letter, be sure you

do not put it in your pocket, or the odds are ten to one that you will

return home with it.

2. Always address the envelope before you write a letter.

3. If you write love-letters to two different women, be careful to

enclose the first one in its properly addressed envelope before you

begin writing the second one, or Maria may receive the letter intended

for Eliza, and _vice versa_.

4. Do not apologize in your postscript for having forgotten to stamp

your letter. It might get you found out.

5. If you have written an important letter, or one containing money, put

it in the letter-box yourself. If anything wrong happens to it, you will

have no one to accuse or suspect.

6. When you send currency by post, do not let anyone know it by having

the letter registered. Money stolen through the post has always been

abstracted from registered letters. I have never heard of one letter of

mine not being delivered in Europe and in America. People never take

their chance. They never open a letter unless they know there is money

in it. How can they know if you are careful in concealing paper money

under cover? Never label your letters, 'There is money in it.'

7. If you post a letter, which you do not want anybody to read except

the person to whom it is addressed, do not forget to write your name and

address on the back of the envelope, so that, if not delivered, or

mislaid, it may be returned to you unopened.

8. If you want an important letter to be delivered in New York at a

determined time, take my advice: Post that letter, in the city,

twenty-four hours before the said determined time.

9. Never, or very seldom, in some exceptional cases, answer a letter by

return post, even if the request be made. Always take twenty-four hours

for consideration. Besides, it will give you the appearance of being a

very busy man, which is always a splendid advertisement.

10. When you enclose a bill or a cheque in a letter, pin it to the

letter, that it may not drop when the envelope is opened, and before

posting it feel the letter-box inside to see that it is not choked.

11. If you write a letter of a private nature--words of love that you

would be sorry for everyone to read except the lady you are addressing,

put a blank sheet of notepaper around the letter. Most envelopes are

transparent, and may disclose your secrets.

12. Always read twice the address you have written on your envelopes.

Apply the same process to your letters; your time will not be wasted.

13. When you write to a friend, do not inquire about his health and that

of his family after your signature. It would look like an afterthought.

14. Ladies, whose minds are full of afterthoughts, generally write the

most important part of their letters in the postscript. I once received

a letter, in a woman's handwriting, the signature of which was unknown

to me. At the end of sixteen pages of pretty prattle there was a

postscript: 'You will see by my new signature that I am married.'

CHAPTER X

ON PARASITES

Steer clear once for all of useless people and parasites of all

sorts--bores, who make you waste your time; indelicate people, who

borrow money when they do not know whether they will be able to return

it; swindlers, who know perfectly well they will never pay you back a

penny. Elbow your way out of all those frauds--poseurs, spongers,

leeches, fleas, and bugs--who try to fasten themselves to you.

Be generous, and help a friend in need; devote a reasonable portion of

your income to the hospitals, charitable institutions, and the sufferers

from public calamities; after that, attend to yourself and to all those

who live around you and depend on you for their comfort and happiness.

Bang your door in the face of people who, in your hour of success, come

to treat you with a few patronizing sneers in order to take down your

pride. Kick down your stairs, even if you live on the tenth floor, the

man with an alcoholic breath who calls to tell you that, as you are a

fortunate man, it is your duty, and should be your pleasure, to help

those who have no luck.

Life is too short to allow you to play the part of a friend to the whole

human race. Concern yourself about interesting and deserving people;

cultivate the friendship of pleasant men and women, who brighten up your

life, and that of useful ones, who may occasionally give you the lift

you deserve. Attend to your business; carefully watch over the interests

of those who have a right to expect you to keep them in comfort, and

dismiss the rest, even from your thoughts.

CHAPTER XI

ADVICE-GIVING

Advice is a piece of luxury thoroughly enjoyed by the one who gives it.

If you want to be popular with your friends, do them all the good turns

you can. Lend them your money if you have a surplus to spare, and which

you can comfortably make up your mind to the loss of, but give them

advice when they ask you for it.

People who are lavish of advice are seldom guilty of any other act of

generosity. If, however, you cannot resist the temptation of

advice-giving, be sure, at least, that you give it in time. People who

keep on saying to their friends, 'I told you so,' are the most

aggravating bores in the world.

If a little boy wants to venture on a dangerous piece of ice, give him a

warning and advise him not to go, but if he disregards your advice and

falls into a hole, rescue him and wait until he is quite well again

before you say to him, 'I told you so.'

Of all your best friends, your wife is the last person to whom you

should say, 'I told you so.' These four words have killed happiness in

matrimonial life more than any number of blasphemous words put

together.

A wife forgives a few hot words uttered in moments of bad temper or

passion, but there is something cold, sneering, provoking, blighting,

assertive, presumptive in 'I told you so,' which gives you an unbearable

air of superiority and self-satisfaction.

When you are already upset, dissatisfied with yourself, ready to take

your revenge out of anyone who takes advantage of your awkward and

unenviable position, 'I told you so' is the drop that causes the cup to

overflow.

The amateur advice-giver is a nuisance, a fidget, a kill-joy, and an

unmitigated bore. Men avoid him, women despise him, and children mind

him until he is out of sight. To the latter he sets up as a model, and

always begins his admonitions with the inevitable 'When I was a boy.'

Then they know what is coming, and giggle--when they do not wink.

Advice given by old folks to children sows as much valuable seed as do

sermons on congregations, with this difference to the advantage of

congregations, that they can close their eyes during a sermon in order

to take it in better, whereas children cannot do the same for fear of

being called rude and of being punished for it.

Among other advice-givers whom I have in my mind's eye, I remember the

one who calls on me the day after I have given a lecture in order to

make suggestions which 'I might use with advantage the next time I give

this lecture.' Also the one who calls to advise me to introduce a

'reminiscence of his,' which I might use on the platform to illustrate

a point, and which 'reminiscence of his' I have heard for twenty years

and know to be part of a classic on the subject.

The chairman who, before I go on the platform, advises me how to use my

voice in order to be well heard by all the members of the audience, a

piece of advice which I thoroughly appreciate, as I have lectured only

3,000 times--well, over 2,500 times, to be perfectly exact.

I even remember one who criticised my pronunciation of a French word in

my lecture, and suggested his as an improvement.

CHAPTER XII

ON HOLIDAYS

Holidays are an institution established to keep you reminded every year

that one is really happy and comfortable at home only. Oh! the board and

lodging, advertised comfortable and moderate, which you leave with

pleasure because the board was the bed! Oh! the little house with

creepers from which you 'flee' because you discover that the creepers

are inside! And the sofas and chairs stuffed with the pebbles from the

beach, and the bad cooking, and the smiles of the head waiter, of the

waiters, of the chambermaid, of the hall porter, of the baggage porter,

all of whom have to be tipped! And the extras on the bill! How you rub

your hands with delight when at last you are in the train on the way to

that dear home of yours, where you are going to sleep in your lovely

bed, sit on your comfortable chairs, stretch on your soft sofa, eat the

appetizing, simple, and healthy meals of your good cook, where, on a

rainy day, you will go and take down a favourite book from the shelves

of your library; where you are going to be all the time surrounded by

your own dear belongings, able to look at your pictures, at your china;

where you are going to put again in their usual places the photographs

of all your friends; in fact, where you are going to live once more,

after an interval necessary to your health, perhaps, through the rest

from work and the change of air it has afforded you, but for all that an

interval, nothing but an interval in life.

The only enjoyable holidays that I know are either those spent in a

house of your own which you may possess in the country or by the sea, or

those spent in travelling, making the acquaintance of new, interesting

and picturesque countries; but these holidays are only within the reach

of the privileged few.

Very often loving couples, fearing they should get too much accustomed

to each other, part for a few days, just for the sake, epicures that

they are, of experiencing the ineffable joy of meeting again and of

proving to themselves that each one is absolutely indispensable to the

other--a fact which, although they may be well aware of it, is always

pleasant to be reminded of. The holidays are to the home what the

parting for a few days is to the loving couples--a reminder of the

priceless treasure which you possess, and which you do not always

sufficiently appreciate.

Think of your children, too, especially of those young boys who are

boarders at school or college and can only know the joys of home life

during their holidays. How they would prefer going to their own homes,

playing with their own things, looking after their animals, to being

trotted out and taken to a hotel where children are not tolerated to do

this or allowed to do that! When parents live in a house of their own,

and in the country, it is absolutely wicked of them not to let their

children enjoy their holidays at home. They should remember that if

their children at school long for holidays, it is not because they are

tired of their work, it is because they are homesick.

And young people just married always think that the best way of

beginning the matrimonial journey is to have a holiday and travel,

although, maybe, the thoughtful bridegroom has prepared a delightful

nest for his bride.

'Where should I spend my honeymoon?' I have often been asked by young

men not rich enough to go and spend it in the expensive resorts. I have

invariably answered, 'Go home and spend it there, you idiot.'

CHAPTER XIII

EXTRACTS FROM THE DICTIONARY OF A CYNIC

(_After Jules Noriac_)

ALABASTER--Kind of beautiful white marble, so much used in novels for

ladies' necks and shoulders that very little is left for ordinary

consumption. Very rare now in the trade, still very common in poetry.

ALIBI--An aunt for wives; the club for husbands.

ARDOUR--Heat, extreme and dangerous. Those who gamble with ardour ruin

their families; those who work with ardour ruin their health; those who

study with ardour go to a lunatic asylum; those who love with ardour get

cured more quickly than others.

ARGUS--Domestic spy. Juno gave him a cow to look after. With his hundred

eyes he did not find out that the cow was no other than a woman, Io.

ATTRACTION--Force which tends to draw bodies to each other. Isaac Newton

thought he had discovered the principle of universal attraction when he

watched an apple fall. Eve had discovered it five thousand years

earlier.

AUSTERITY--Self-control which enables a man or a woman to receive a call

from Cupid without inviting him to stay to dinner.

BOUDOIR--From the French _bouder_ (to sulk). Coquettish little room

where women retire when they have a love-letter to write or any other

reason for wishing to be left alone.

CANDOUR--A virtue practised by women who do not understand what they

know perfectly well.

COLLECTION--Hobby. Men collect flies, beetles, butterflies. Women

collect faded flowers, hair, letters, and photographs.

DUENNA--Old woman who watches over the good conduct of young Spanish

girls and of married women. In the second case, her wages are higher.

EGOTISM--Piece of ground on which Love builds his cottage.

LOVE--A disease which mankind escapes with still more difficulty than

the measles. It generally attacks men at twenty and women at eighteen.

Then it is not dangerous. At thirty you are properly inoculated; it is,

as it were, part of your system. At forty it is a habit. After sixty the

disease is incurable.

TO LOVE--Active verb--very active--the most active of all.

MYSTERY--The principal food of love. This is probably why elevated souls

have raised love to the level of religion.

NEST--Sweet abode made for two. He brings soft moss, she a few bits of

grass and straw; then both give the finishing touch by bringing flowers.

PASSION--Violent affection that always finishes on a cross.

PLATONIC (LOVE)--A kind of love invented by Plato, a philosopher who sat

down at table only to sleep. Advice: If ever Platonic love knocks at

your door, kick him down your stairs unmercifully, for he is a prince of

humbugs.

RESOLUTION--A pill that you take every night before going to bed, and

which seldom produces any effect.

RESPECT--A dish of which women are particularly fond in public, and

which they seldom appreciate in private. How many women would be happier

if their husbands respected them less and loved them more!

SERVITUDE--Most bitter and humiliating state when it is forced upon us

by poverty; most sweet when it is imposed on a man by the woman whom he

loves.

TACT--The quality that, perhaps, of all, women admire most in men. The

next is discretion.

VEIL--Piece of lace which women put over their faces to excite the

curiosity of the passers-by. Women get married with a white veil, but

they always flirt with a black one.

CHAPTER XIV

VARIOUS CRITICISMS ON CREATION

I shall never forget the dry way and pitiful manner in which Robert

Louis Stevenson passed a funeral oration on Matthew Arnold. It was on a

Sunday evening, in the early spring of 1888, at a reception given at the

house of Edmund Clarence Stedman, whose poetry and scholarly attainments

excite as much admiration as his warm heart excites love in those who,

like myself, can boast of his friendship. Someone entered and created

consternation by announcing that a cablegram had just reached New York

with the news that Matthew Arnold was dead. 'Poor Matthew!' said

Stevenson, lifting his eyes with an air of deep compassion; 'heaven

won't please him!'

And it is true that on many occasions that great English writer had

hinted that if the work of the Creation had been given to him to

undertake, it would have proved more successful than it has been. For

that matter, many philosophers of a more or less cynical turn of mind

have criticised the work of Creation.

Voltaire said that if he had been Jehovah 'he would not have chosen the

Jews.' My late friend, Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll, a Voltairian to the

core, said that if he had been consulted 'he would have made health, not

disease, catching.' Ninon de Lenclos, the veriest woman that ever lived,

said that, had she been invited to give an opinion, 'she would have

suggested that women's wrinkles be placed under their feet.'

'Everything is for the best in the best of worlds!' exclaims Dr.

Pangloss in Voltaire's famous novel, 'Candide,' but few people are as

satisfied with the world as that amiable philosopher. There are people

who are even dissatisfied with our anatomy, and who declare that man's

leg would be much safer and would run much less risk of being broken if

the calf had been placed in front of it instead of behind. Some go as

far as to say that man is the worst handicapped animal of creation--that

he should have been made as strong as the horse, able to run like the

stag, to fly like the lark, to swim and dive like the fish, to have a

keen sense of smell like the dog, and one of sight like the eagle. Not

only that, but that man is the most stupid of all, the most cruel, the

most inconsistent, the most ungrateful, the most rapacious, the only

animal who does not know when he has had enough to eat and to drink, the

only one who kills the fellow-members of his species, the only one who

is not always a good husband and a good father.

'Man, the masterpiece of creation, the king of the universe!' they

exclaim. 'Nonsense!' There is hardly an animal that he dares look

straight in the face and fight. No; he hides behind a rock, and, with an

engine of destruction, he kills at a distance animals who have no other

means of defence than those given them by nature, the coward!

There is not the slightest doubt that the genius of man has to reveal

itself in the discovery of all that may remedy the disadvantages under

which he finds himself placed. Boats, railways, automobiles, balloons,

steam, electricity, and what not, have been invented, and are used to

cover his deficiencies. Poor man! he has to resort to artificial means

in every phase of life. Even clothes he has to wear, as his body has not

been provided with either fur or feathers.

CHAPTER XV

THE HUMOURS OF THE INCOME-TAX

(A WARNING)

I have often heard Americans say that the future may keep in store for

them the paying of income-tax, and, as a warning to them, I should like

to let them know how this tax is levied in England.

In theory the income-tax is the most just of taxes, since it compels, or

seems to compel, the people to contribute to the maintenance of their

country in proportion to the income they possess. In reality this tax,

levied as it is in England, is little less than the revival of the

Inquisition.

And, first of all, let me point out a great injustice, which I trust no

Government will ever inflict on the American people or any other, and

which is this: The income derived from property inherited, or any other

which the idlest man may enjoy without having to work for it, is taxed

exactly the same as the income which is derived from work in business,

profession, or any other calling.

I maintain that if I have a private income of, say, L2,000, and my work

brings me in another L2,000, the first income ought to be taxed much

more heavily than the second.

I maintain that if a man enjoys a private income, and does no work for

the community in return for the privilege of the wealth he possesses, he

ought to pay a larger percentage than the man who has to work for every

shilling which he amasses during the year.

But this is discussing, and in this article I only wish to show how the

free-born Briton is treated in the matter of income-tax.

A fact not altogether free from humour is that the salary of the English

tax-collector is a percentage of what he can extract from the tax-payer.

He asks you to send him the amount of your income, and warns you that

you will have to pay a penalty of L50 if you send him a false return. I

have it on the authority of Mr. W. S. Gilbert that every Englishman

sends a false return and cheats his Government; but now a good many men,

I am sure, cannot cheat the Government--those, for example, in receipt

of a salary from an official post, and many others whose incomes it is

easy to find out.

Of course, some cannot be found out; so that those who cannot conceal

their real and whole income have got to pay for those who can.

A merchant sends his return, and values it at L10,000. The collector

says to him, if he chooses to do so: 'Your return cannot be right. I

will charge you on L20,000. Of course, you can appeal.'

The merchant is obliged to lose a whole day to attend the Court of

Appeal, taking all his books with him, in order to prove that the return

he sent is exact.

Very often he pays double what he owes, so as not to have to let

everybody know that his business is not as flourishing as people think.

But the most amusing side of the whole thing is yet to be told.

If you sell meat in one shop and groceries in another, and you make

L5,000 in the first shop and lose L3,000 in the second, you must not

suppose that you will be charged on L2,000, the difference between your

profit in the first business and the loss in the second. Not a bit of

it. The two businesses being distinct, you will have to pay on the

L5,000 profit made in the first, and bear your loss in the other as best

you can.

As an illustration, I will give you a somewhat piquant reminiscence.

Many years ago I undertook to give lectures in England under my own

management. My manager proved to be an incompetent idiot, and I lost

money.

When I declared my yearly income, I said to the income-tax collector:

'My books brought me an income of so much, but I lost so much on my

lecture tour; my income is the difference--that is, so much.'

'No,' he said; 'your books and your lectures are two perfectly different

things, and I must charge you on the whole income you derived from the

sale of your books.'

Then I was struck with a luminous idea, which proved to me that I was

better fitted to deal with the English tax-collector than to manage a

lecture tour.

'The two things are not at all distinct,' I replied; 'they are one and

the same thing. I gave lectures for the sole purpose of keeping my name

before the public and pushing the sale of my books.'

'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'you are right. In that case you are entitled to

deduct your loss from the profit.'

And this is how I got out of the difficulty--a little incident which has

made me proud of my business abilities ever since.

I was in America last season to give lectures. Instead of lecturing, I

had to be in bed and in convalescence for a month, then undergo an

operation and stay in the hospital for six weeks.

You may imagine the fine income I derived from my last American tour. On

my return to Europe, I passed through London, and stopped there a week

before coming to Paris.

I found awaiting me a bill for about L54, a percentage on 'my profit of

L1,000 realized in America.' Now, this was adding insult to injury. I

have the greatest respect for H.M. Edward VII., but I regret that his

officials should have resorted to such means to defray the expenses of

his Coronation.

CHAPTER XVI

HOW TO BE ENTERTAINING

To know how to entertain people is a talent; but there is one better,

and which makes you still more popular with your friends and

acquaintances--it is that talent which consists in drawing them out and

allowing them to entertain you.

I know very clever people, not exactly conceited or assertive, but who

have the objectionable knack of gently sitting upon you. Their opinions

are given with an _ex cathedra_ air that seems to exclude any appeal

against them.

Sometimes they tell anecdotes very well, and they give you strings of

them, each one bridged over to the other by a 'That reminds me.' They

laugh at their anecdotes heartily, and invite you to do so with such a

suggestion as 'That's a good one, isn't it?'

You do laugh, and you hope for your reward, that you will be able to

tell a little anecdote yourself. Sometimes they will cut you short and

go on with another; sometimes they will give you a chance, show little

signs of impatience while you give it, and never laugh when you have

finished.

Worse than that, they will occasionally say: 'Oh yes,' on the tune of 'I

have heard that one before,' or, maybe, 'Why, I am the inventor of it

myself.' I have known such clever people and good anecdote tellers to

prove terrific bores.

Whether you are discussing a question or merely spending a little time

telling stories over a cup of coffee and a couple of cigarettes, you

like to be allowed to prove alive, and the really entertaining people

are those who know how to make you enjoy yourself as well as their

company.

You are grateful to those friends who give you a chance of shining

yourself, and there are some who know not only how to draw you out, but

who know how to do it to the extent of making you brilliant.

Those who make you feel like an idiot are no better than those who take

you for one. Although they do not do it on purpose, the result is

exactly the same as if they did. You find that kind of man in every walk

of life.

There is the savant who pours forth science by the gallon and talks you

deaf, dumb, and lame. There is the other kind also. I once spent an hour

talking on philology with the greatest professor of the College of

France in Paris.

I know a little philology, but my knowledge of that science compared to

his is about in the proportion of the length of my little finger to that

of his whole body, and he is over six feet. He put me so much at my

ease; he so many times asked me 'if I didn't think that it was so,' that

for the time being I really felt I was something of a philologist

myself. It was only after I had left him that I realized that I had

learned a great deal from the famous master.

The nice people of the world are those who make you feel satisfied with

yourself. All the talkers, advice-givers, assertive critics put together

are not worth for your good a considerate friend who gives you a little

praise, or a good, loving woman who, two or three times a day, gives you

a teaspoonful of admiration.

After all, the greatest reward for our humblest efforts is appreciation,

the greatest incentive is encouragement. What makes us powerless to

achieve anything are the sneers of all the wet-blankets and kill-joys of

this world.

You do not make a child get on at school by calling him a little idiot

and telling him he will never do anything in his life; you do not impart

bravery into the heart of a timid soldier by treating him as if he were

a coward.

If a horse is afraid of anything lying on the road, don't whip him,

don't use the spurs; pat him gently on the neck and lead him near the

object to make him acquainted with it. Like that you will cure him of

his shyness.

Help men with encouragement, praise, and admiration.

CHAPTER XVII

WHAT IS GENIUS?

Genius is a form of madness. Early in the Christian era, St. Augustine

declared that there was no genius without a touch of insanity. The human

being who is born without a grain of folly will never be a great poet, a

great novelist, a great painter or sculptor, a great musician, or a

great anything.

Unless you are erratic, irritable, full of fads, you need not aspire to

attain sublime heights. Homer, Shakespeare, Raphael, Shelley, Wagner

were lunatics. That is why, to my mind, nothing is more absurd,

preposterous, than to go and poke one's nose into the private life of

geniuses. Let us admire the work that their genius has left to us,

without inquiring whether they regularly came home to tea, and were

attentive fathers and faithful husbands. Do we not love Burns and

Shelley?

Certainly, if I had lived in their times and had a marriageable

daughter, I would have been careful to see that she did not fall in love

with either of them; but what has that to do with their poetry and the

enjoyment of it?

To this very day, in the autumn of my life, I enjoy the fables of dear

old La Fontaine, and can't help smiling when I am reminded that he was

married, but that he was separated from his wife. She lived in Lyons and

he in Paris. One day they persuaded him to go to Lyons and 'make it up'

with her.

He started. In those days the journey took five days and five nights. On

the eleventh day after his departure he was back in Paris. 'Well,' they

said to him, 'is it all right?'

'I could not see her,' replied he, 'when I called at her house. They

told me that she had gone to Mass.' So he came back.

I once criticised the acting of a well-known actress before good folks,

who said to me: 'Ah, but she is a woman who leads an irreproachable

life!' What do I care about that? I am very glad to hear it, for the

sake of her husband and children; but I would rather go and hear Miss

So-and-so, who stirs my soul to its very depth by her genius, although I

am told, by jealous people, no doubt, that she is not quite as good as

she should be.

I hear that Sarah Bernhardt travels with either a lion, a bear, or a

snake. Very well, that is her business. She goes to a hotel with her

menagerie, and does not ask you to invite her to stay with you. Is that

a reason for not going to see her play Phedre, Tosca, Fedora, or any

other of her marvellous creations?

Wagner could not compose his operas unless he had on a red plush robe

and a helmet. What do I care if this enabled him to write 'Lohengrin,'

'Tannhaeuser,' and the Trilogy?

One day Alexandre Dumas, a lunatic of the purest water, called on

Wagner. The latter kept him waiting half an hour. Then he appeared

dressed as Wotan. 'Excuse me, Master,' he said to Dumas, 'I am composing

a scene between the god and Brunnehilde.'

'Don't mention it, please,' replied Dumas, who, before leaving, invited

him to come and see him in Paris. A few months later Wagner called on

Dumas. The latter kept him waiting a little, and then appeared with

nothing on but a Roman helmet and a shield.

'Excuse me, Maestro,' he said, 'I am writing a Roman novel.' The two

great geniuses or lunatics were quits.

I knew a great poet who could no more write good poetry than he could

fly unless he had blue paper. Victor Hugo would have been a failure if

he had not been able always to be provided with very thick pens.

Balzac could write only on condition he was dressed as a monk, had the

shutters of the room closed, and the lamps lighted. Alfred de Musset

would compose his immortal poetry only when under the influence of

drink. All lunatics, every one.

CHAPTER XVIII

NEW AND PIQUANT CRITICISM

The Paris _Matin_ has started a new kind of dramatic criticism. The day

after a play has been produced it publishes a criticism of it by the

author himself, or by the manager of the theatre. This is as piquant as

it is novel, and if the French had the sense of humour as keenly

developed as the Americans, the result would be highly diverting.

Just imagine a play by Mark Twain reviewed and criticised the following

morning in a paper by Mr. Samuel L. Clemens!

Gentlemen of the American press, take the hint, if you like.

This new kind of criticism is only a few days old, but the readers of

the _Matin_ have taken to it kindly already. Two well-known men have

inaugurated it. They are Pierre Wolff, the dramatist, and Antoine, the

actor and proprietor-manager of the Antoine Theatre. Both give a very

flattering account of their plays: how beautifully they were acted, how

well they were received, and, after giving a short synopsis of them,

wind up with heartfelt thanks to the actors and actresses who appeared

in them. Everybody is satisfied, author, actors, managers, editor, who

has attracted the notice of the public, and the readers, who are amused

at the new idea, and do not care a jot what critics say of the plays

which they review.

Why should not books be reviewed in the same way? Why should they not be

reviewed and criticised by the author or the publisher? I should

prefer--by the author.

I have never read a notice of any of my books, however favourable, which

I did not think I could have done better myself, if I had had to write

it.

Just imagine, if only for fun, a new novel (pronounced 'novell,' please)

by Hall Caine reviewed by Mr. Hall Caine; or one by Marie Corelli

criticised by that talented lady herself! I say, just think of it!

We might have the good-fortune to read something in the following style:

'A new novel by myself is one of those literary events which keep the

world breathless, in awful silence, for a long time before it comes to

pass. The first edition of 100,000 copies was exhausted a week before

the book appeared, but a second edition of the same number will be ready

in a day or two. The story is wonderful, colossal, like everything that

comes from the pen of that author, whose genius is as Shakespearian as

his brow, which even reminds one of that of--but perhaps it would be

profane to name.'

Or something interesting like this: 'His Majesty the King and most

members of the Royal Family ordered copies of this book long before it

was ready for publication, and no doubt to-day, and for many days

following, there will be no other topic of conversation than my book at

Windsor Castle. I should like to call the attention of the reading

public--and who is it that does not read me?--to the fact that this is

the longest book I have yet published. The public will also, I am sure,

forgive me for calling it my best. A mother's last baby is always, in

her eyes, her best.'

At all events, I salute the new criticism. It should greatly add to the

gaiety of nations.

CHAPTER XIX

ORIGINALITY IN LITERATURE

There is very little originality in this world. Even among the greatest

thoughts expressed by famous philosophers, there are very few that had

not been heard before in some form or other. It is the pithy way in

which they are expressed by such men as La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyere,

and Balzac that made the reputation of these great writers. The

characteristics of man and woman have always existed, just as has their

anatomy, and the dissector of the human heart cannot invent anything new

any more than the dissector of the human body. We all know these

characteristics, but what we like is to see a philosopher present them

to us in a new shape.

Pascal says that the greatest compliment that can be paid to a book,

even to a thought, is the exclamation, 'I could have written that!' and

'I could have said that!' In fact, the author whom we admire most is the

one who writes a book that we 'could' have written ourselves. And we say

'bravo' when a philosopher gives us a thought of our own, only better

expressed than we could have done it, or when he confirms an opinion

that we already held ourselves.

No; there is nothing original, not even the stories that we hear and

tell in our clubs. They have been told before. I forget who said that

there were only thirty-five anecdotes in the world, seventeen of which

were unfit for ladies' ears.

Even the characters of fiction are not original. The novelist is, as a

rule, none but a portrait painter, possessed of more or less originality

and talent. Charles Dickens said that there was not a single personage

of his novels whom he had not drawn from life. Thackeray and Balzac, two

observers of mankind of marvellous ability, said the same. Racine

borrowed of Sophocles and Euripides, Moliere of Plautus and Terence.

Alexandre Dumas chose his heroes from history, and regifted them with

life with his unequalled imagination. George Eliot's personality

remained a mystery for a long time, but everybody knew that the author

of 'Scenes of Clerical Life' was a native of Nuneaton, or had lived long

enough in that town to introduce local characters who were recognised at

once. The _Dame aux Camelias_, the Camille of the American stage, by

Dumas, junr., was inspired, if not suggested, by _Manon Lescaut_. And is

not the _Adam Bede_ of George Eliot a variation of Goethe's _Faust_? Is

not _Tess_ of Thomas Hardy another? And that marvellous hero Tartarin of

Alphonse Daudet: do you not recognise in him Don Quixote? More than

that, he is a double embodiment, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in one:

the Don Quixote who dreams of adventures with lions in the desert, of

ascensions on Mont Blanc, of guns, swords, and alpinstocks, and the

Sancho Panza who thinks of wool socks, flannel vests, and a

medicine-chest for the marvellous journeys that are going to be

undertaken--a tremendous creation, this double personage, but not

altogether original.

Every character has been described in fiction, every characteristic of

mankind has been told; but we like to see those characters described

again with new surroundings; we love to hear the philosophy of life told

over again in new, pleasant, pithy, witty sentences.

This lack of originality in literature is so obvious, it is so well

acknowledged a fact that authors, novelists, or philosophers have used

mankind for their work, and availed themselves of all that mankind has

written or said before, that the law does not allow the literary man to

own the work of his brain for ever and ever, as he owns land or any

other valuable possession. After allowing him to derive a benefit for

forty or fifty years, his literary productions become common

property--that is to say, return to mankind to whom he owed so much of

them.

CHAPTER XX

PLAGIARISM

La Bruyere said: 'Women often love liberty only to abuse it.' Two

hundred years later Balzac wrote: 'There are women who crave for liberty

in order to make bad use of it.' The thoughts are not great, they are

not even true, but that is not the question. Could such a genius as

Balzac be accused of plagiarism because he expressed a thought

practically in the very words of La Bruyere? I would as soon charge

Balzac with plagiarism as I would accuse a Vanderbilt or a Carnegie of

trying to cheat a street-car conductor out of a penny fare. The heroines

of _Tess_ and _Adam Bede_ practically go through the same ordeals as

Gretchen. Would you seriously accuse Thomas Hardy and George Eliot of

plagiarism, and say that they owed their plots to Goethe's '_Faust_'?

There are people engaged in literary pursuits, or, rather, in the

literary trade, and, as a rule, not very successful at that, who spend

their leisure time in trying to catch successful men in the act of

committing plagiarism. The moment they can discover in their works a

sentence that they can compare to a sentence written by some other

author, they put the two sentences side by side and send them to the

papers. There are papers always ready to publish that sort of thing. Of

course, respectable papers throw those communications into the

waste-paper baskets. Then, when the papers have published the would-be

plagiarism, the perpetrator marks it in blue pencil at the four corners

and sends it to the author--anonymously, of course. For that matter,

whenever there appears anything nasty about a successful man in the

papers--an adverse criticism or a scurrilous paragraph--he never runs

the slightest risk of not seeing it; there are scores of failures, of

crabbed, jealous, penurious nobodies who mail it to him. It does him no

harm; but it does them good.

As far as I can recollect I have, during my twenty-one years of literary

life, committed plagiarism four times: twice quite unintentionally, once

through the inadvertence of a compositor, and once absolutely out of

mere wickedness, just to draw out the plagiarism hunter. And I will tell

you how it happened. Once, many years ago, I was reading a book on the

French, written by an American. A phrase struck me as expressing a

sentiment so true, so well observed, that I memorized it, and,

unfortunately, when, several years later, I wrote a series of articles

on France for a London paper, I incorporated the phrase. I was not long

in being discovered. The author of the book, which had never sold,

wrote to all the papers that I had 'stolen his book,' and thought the

correspondence would start a sale for his book. Of course I was guilty,

and I apologized, explaining how it had happened. For years the phrase

had been in my mind--had, as it were, become part and parcel of myself.

May this be a warning to authors who may take too great a fancy to a

thought of theirs well expressed by some other author. It is a very

dangerous practice. Another time I incorporated in a newspaper article a

quotation from Emerson, but the compositor omitted the inverted commas,

and Emerson's sentence read as if it was mine. Of course, no one would

accuse me of choosing Emerson to plagiarize in America, but this article

brought me half a dozen anonymous letters. In one of them there was this

choice bit: 'The second half of the article is by Emerson; the first

half I don't know, but probably not by the author.' Twenty centuries of

Christianity have caused Christians to love one another. But when I

really had a good time was when, deliberately, as I said before, out of

sheer wickedness, I introduced into my text nine lines of Shakespeare.

I have kept the newspapers that commented on it and the anonymous

letters that were mailed to me. One of them had humour in it. 'My dear

sir,' said the writer, 'when you speak of an incident as being a

personal reminiscence, it is a mistake to borrow it of an author so

widely known for the last three centuries as the late William

Shakespeare.'

A celebrated literary friend of mine once amused himself in

incorporating twenty lines of Dickens as his own in the midst of an

essay he published in his own paper.

When he feels dull, he takes from his shelves a scrapbook which contains

the letters and newspaper cuttings referring to the subject.

When a literary man has a reputation of long standing, never for a

moment accuse him of plagiarism. He may express a thought already

expressed by someone else; he may work out a plot which is not original;

but success that lasts rests on some personal merit. I have never heard

successful men charge any of their brethren of the pen with plagiarism.

Successful men are charitable to their craft, as beautiful women are to

their sex.

CHAPTER XXI

AUTOBIOGRAPHIES AND REMINISCENCES

The best writers of memoirs have been the French, and it is through

those memoirs that we know so well and so intimately the reigns of Louis

XIV., Louis XV., and Napoleon I., as well as the history of the

Revolution, the Restoration, and the Second Empire.

Courtiers, diplomatists, statesmen, and women of the Court, by their

memoirs and letters, have made us acquainted not only with the public

life of Sovereigns, but with all the details of their private life, with

all the Court gossip.

The French, however, care little or nothing for memoirs that do not make

clear to them some chapter of history.

The English, on the contrary, have practically no memoirs of that sort.

The only interesting ones that I know are those of Greville. On the

other hand, almost every man of note, literary man, journalist, artist,

actor, publishes his autobiography or his reminiscences.

While the French only care for the work that a man before the public

has produced, the English like to know how he lived, how he worked, whom

he met, whom he knew, and his appreciation of the character of his more

or less famous friends and acquaintances.

Why, even the music-hall star publishes his reminiscences in England.

The fact is that, if a man keeps his diary regularly, and knows how to

tell an anecdote well, he can always write a readable book of

reminiscences.

Among the best books of this sort that I know I would mention those of

the late Edmund Yates and George Augustus Sala; but the best of all is

the one which I do hope will make its appearance one day (although I am

not aware that it is being prepared), and will be signed by the wittiest

raconteur and causeur of England, Mr. Henry Labouchere.

Try to get Mr. Labouchere in one corner of the smoke-room in the House

of Commons, give him a cup of coffee and some good cigarettes, and just

turn him on; there is no better treat, no more intellectual feast of

mirth and humour and wit in store for you. His style is the very one

suited for a crisp, gossipy, brilliant book of reminiscences.

Among possible writers of interesting and piquant memoirs or

reminiscences I ought to mention Lady Dorothy Nevil and Lady Jeune. Both

ladies have known in intimacy every celebrity you wish to name--Kings,

Queens, statesmen, generals, prelates, judges, politicians, literary

men, artists, lawyers, actors; there is not a man or woman of fame who

has not supplied an impression or an incident to them.

And they are the very women to write memoirs, both possessed of keen

judgment and insight in human nature, and of great literary ability,

both delightful conversationalists, always capable of drawing you out

and enabling you to do your best, and thus supplying them with materials

for notes and observations.

I am not announcing any book, for neither of these two ladies ever

mentioned to me that she was preparing a book of memoirs, but I wish

they would, and I have simply named them as being both capable of

writing books of unsurpassed interest.

In order to write a good and trustworthy book of reminiscences, you

must, above all, be an observer and a listener, besides a good

story-teller. You must be modest enough to know how to efface yourself,

remain hidden behind the scenes, and put all your personages on the

stage without hardly appearing yourself.

You must be satisfied with sharing the honours of the book with all your

_dramatis personae_, and not cause the printing of the volume to be

stopped for want of a sufficient supply of 'I's' and 'me's.'

I knew a famous actor whose reminiscences were published some years ago

by a literary man. Once I congratulated that actor on the success of the

book.

'Yes,' he said, 'the book has done me good, because X., you know,

mentions my name once or twice in that book.'

And many books of reminiscences that I know are full of the sayings and

doings of the author, with an occasional mention of people of whom we

should like to hear a great deal.

I have met these men in private, and sometimes found them clever, and

invariably fatiguing bores, and their books are not more entertaining

than their conversation. Many of them reminded me of the first visit

that Diderot paid to Voltaire, on which occasion he talked the great

French wit deaf and dumb.

'What do you think of Diderot?' asked a friend of Voltaire a few days

after that visit.

'Well,' replied Voltaire, 'Diderot is a clever fellow, but he has no

talent for dialogue.'

CHAPTER XXII

THOUGHTS ON HATS

The manly man wears his hat slightly inclined on the right, naturally,

without exaggeration, and without swagger. The braggart wears his right

on his ear. Jolly fellows, destitute of manners, and drunkards, wear

theirs on the back of the head; when far gone, the brim of the hat

touches the neck.

Hypocrites wear theirs over the eyes. Fops wear their hats inclined on

the left. Why? The reason is simple. Of course, they know that the hat,

if inclined, should be on the right; but, unfortunately for them, they

look at themselves in the glass, where the hat inclined on the left

looks as if it were inclined on the right. So they wear it on the left,

and think they have done the correct thing.

The very proper man and the prig invariably wear their hats perfectly

straight. The scientific man and all men of brains put their heads well

inside their hats; the more scientific the mind is, the deeper the head

goes inside the hat.

Fools put on their hats with the help of both hands, and simply lay them

on the top of their heads. I suppose they feel that hats are meant to

cover the brain, and they are satisfied, in their modesty and

consciousness of their value, with covering the small quantity of brains

given to them by Nature.

The absent-minded man is recognised by his hat brushed against the nap,

the tidy man by his irreproachably smooth hat, and the needy man by a

greasy hat.

A shabby coat is not necessarily a sign that a man is hard up. Many men

get so fond of a coat that they cannot make up their minds to part with

it and discard it; but shoes down at heel and a shabby, greasy hat prove

that their wearer is drowning: he is helpless and hopeless.

Only the well-off man, who serves nobody, wears a white top-hat; this

hat is the emblem of independence and of success in life.

Man's station in life is shown from the way he takes off his hat. Kings

and emperors just lift it off their heads. A gentleman takes off his hat

to whoever salutes him. Once a beggar in Dublin saluted the great Irish

patriot, Daniel O'Connell. The latter returned the salute by taking off

his hat to the beggar.

'How can you take off your hat to a beggar?' remarked a friend who was

with him. 'Because,' he replied, 'I don't want that beggar to say that

he is more of a gentleman than I am.' Parvenus keep their hats on

always, unless before some aristocrat, to whom they cringe.

The Englishman takes off his hat with a stiff jerk and puts it on again

immediately. The Frenchman takes it off gently, and, before a lady,

remains uncovered until she says to him: 'Couvrez-vous, monsieur, je

vous prie.'

The Italian takes it off with ceremony, and with his hand puts it nearly

to the ground. Timid men keep rolling their hats in their hands. Very

religious ones pray inside them, making a wry face, as if the emanations

were of an unpleasant character.

Soldiers and horsemen fix their hats by pressing on the top of the

crown.

* * * * *

Men who belong to decent clubs and frequent 'at homes' never need be in

want of a good hat.

In Paris, in London, and in New York during the season no gentleman can

wear anything but a silk hat after lunch-time.

When you pay calls, you must enter the drawing-room with your hat in

your hand and keep it all the time, unless you are on very intimate

terms with your host and hostess, when you may leave it in the hall.

A well-put-on hat is the proof of a well-balanced mind.

CHAPTER XXIII

THOUGHTS ON EYE-GLASSES

The man who wears spectacles--I mean eye-glasses with branches fixed

behind the ears--is a serious man, a man of science, a man of

business--at all events, a man who thinks of his comfort before he

thinks of his appearance. There is no nonsense, no frivolity about him,

especially if they are framed in gold. He is a steady man, somewhat

prosaic, and even matter-of-fact. If he is a young man and wears them,

you may conclude that he means to succeed, and always look on the

serious side of life. He is no fop, no lady-killer, but a man whose

affections can be relied on, and who expects a woman to love him for the

qualities of his mind and the truthfulness of his heart.

Next to a solid gold watch and chain, a pair of gold spectacles are the

best testimony of respectability; then comes a sound umbrella.

The man who wears his eye-glasses halfway down his nose is a shrewd man

of business, who ever bears in mind that time is money. Thus placed, his

eye-glasses enable him to read a letter of introduction, and, above

them, to read and observe the character of the person who has presented

it to him. Lawyers generally wear them that way, and they seldom fail to

have their bureau so placed that they can have their backs to the

window, while their clients or callers are seated opposite in the full

light of the day.

Old gentlemen wear their eye-glasses on the tip of their noses when they

read their newspaper, because it enables them to recline in their

arm-chairs and assume a more comfortable position.

The single eye-glass was originally worn by people whose eyes were

different, in order to remedy the defective one. To-day it may be

asserted that, out of a hundred men who wear single eye-glasses,

ninety-nine see through--the other one. The single eye-glass is

tolerable in a man of a certain age who is both clever and _distingue_

looking. John Bright, with his fine white mass of hair and intelligent,

firm, yet kind expression, looked beautiful with his eye-glass on. Lord

Beaconsfield also looked well with one. To Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, with

his turned-up nose and sneering smile, and his jaw ever ready to snap,

it adds impudence.

When a man looks silly, the single eye-glass finishes him and makes him

look like a drivelling idiot. If, besides, he is very young, it gives

you an irresistible desire to smack his face or pull his nose.

The single eye-glass originated in England, but it is now worn in France

quite as much, especially by young dudes, who, lacking the manliness of

young Englishmen, look preposterously ridiculous with them on. I must

say, however, that great Frenchmen have worn single eye-glasses, among

them Alphonse Daudet, Aurelien Scholl, President Felix Faure, Gaston

Paris. Alfred Capus, now our most popular dramatist, wears one; so does

Paul Bourget, but the latter is short-sighted on the right side.

No Royalty has ever been known to wear one, although not long ago I saw

a portrait of the Kaiser with a single eye-glass.

America is to be congratulated on the absence of single eye-glasses. I

may have seen one or two at the horse-show in New York, but I should not

like to swear to it. An American dude, with his trousers turned up,

wearing a single eye-glass and sucking the top of his stick, would be a

sight for the gods to enjoy. I believe that a single eye-glass, not only

in Chicago or Kansas City, but in Broadway, New York, and even in

Boston, would cause Americans, whose bump of veneration is not highly

developed, to pass remarks not of a particularly favourable character on

its wearer. In the West, he might be tarred and feathered, if not

lynched. One way or the other, he would be a success there.

But the most impudent, the most provoking single eye-glass of all is the

one which is worn, generally by very young men, without strings. As they

frown and wink, and make the grimace unavoidable to the wearer of that

kind of apparel, they seem to say: 'See what practice can do! I have no

string, yet I am not at all afraid of my glass falling from my eye.'

Rich Annamites grow their finger-nails eight and ten inches long, to

show you that they are aristocrats, and have never used their hands for

any kind of work. French and English parasites advertise their

uselessness by this exhibition of the single eye-glass without string.

And with it on, they eat, talk, smoke, run, laugh, and sneeze--and it

sticks. Wonderful, simply wonderful! When you can do that, you really

are 'in it.'

When you consider the progress that civilization is making every day,

the discoveries that are made, the pluck and perseverance that are shown

by the pioneers of all science, by the princes of commerce, by the

explorers of new fields and pastures, in your gratitude for all they

have done and are still doing for the world, you must not forget the

well-groomed young man who has succeeded in being able to wear a single

eye-glass without a string.

CHAPTER XXIV

THOUGHTS ON UMBRELLAS

Tell me how a man uses his umbrella, and I will tell you his character.

The Anglo-Saxon Puritan always carried his umbrella open. If he rolled

it, you might, at a distance, take that umbrella for a stick, which, he

thinks, would give him a certain fast appearance. The miser does the

same, because an umbrella that is never rolled lasts longer.

The man who always takes an umbrella out with him is a cautious

individual, who never runs risks, and abstains from speculation. He will

probably die rich; at all events, in cosy circumstances. On the

contrary, the man who always leaves his umbrella behind him is generally

one who makes no provision for the morrow. That man is thoughtless,

reckless, always late for the train or an appointment, leaves the

street-door open when he comes home late at night, and is generally

unreliable.

The man who is always losing his umbrella is an unlucky dog, whose bills

are protested, whose boots split, whose gloves crack, whose buttons are

always coming off, who is always in trouble on account of one thing or

another.

The man, who leaves a new umbrella in his club and hopes to find it

there the following day, is a simpleton who deserves all the bad luck

that pursues him through life.

The man who comes early to an 'at home' may not show his eagerness to

present his respects to a hostess early so much as to aim at having a

better chance to choose a good umbrella.

The man who is perpetually showing a nervous anxiety about his umbrella,

and wondering if it is safe, is full of meanness and low suspicion. Let

him be ever so rich, if he asks your daughter in marriage, refuse her to

him. He will undoubtedly take more care of his umbrella than of his

wife.

If you are fortunate enough to have your umbrella when it rains, and you

meet a friend who has left his at home, and asks you to shelter him, try

immediately to meet another friend or acquaintance to whom you will

offer the same service. By so doing, you will be all right in the

middle, you will have your sides also well protected, and, besides, you

will have obliged two friends instead of one.

The possession of a well-regulated watch and a decent umbrella is to a

great degree a sign of respectability. More watches and silk umbrellas

are pawned than all the other pieces of man's apparel put together.

The man who carries a cotton umbrella is either a philosopher, who

defies the world and all its fashionable conventions and prejudices, or

an economist, who knows that a cotton umbrella is cheaper than a silk

one, and lasts longer.

The man who walks with short, jerky steps, and never allows his umbrella

to touch the ground, is a very proper man, and not uncommonly a

downright hypocrite. On the other hand, the man who walks with a firm,

long step, swinging his body slightly from right to left, and using his

umbrella like a stick, is generally a good, manly fellow.

Once a man came to an afternoon 'at home,' and, when ready to leave the

house, could not find his umbrella, a beautiful new one. He made

somewhat of a fuss in the hall. The master of the house came to his

rescue, and looked for the missing umbrella among the scores that were

there.

'Are you sure you had an umbrella when you came?'

'Quite sure.'

'Perhaps you left it at the other party, where you went first.'

'No, no; that's where I got it.'

CHAPTER XXV

SOME AMERICAN TOPICS

As I sit quietly thinking over my seventh visit to the United States,

some impressions take a definite shape. I may here repeat a phrase which

I used yesterday while speaking to the representative of an English

newspaper who had called to interview me:

'This last visit has left me more than ever impressed with the colossal

greatness of the American people.'

The progress they have made during the last five years is perfectly

astounding--progress in commerce and industry, progress in art and

science, progress in architecture. The whole thing is simply amazing.

And the ingenuity displayed in the smallest things!

Really, this morning I was pitying from the bottom of my heart a poor

English carman, who was emptying sacks of coal into a hole made in the

pavement, as in New York, in front of a house.

He had to go and fetch every sack of coal, put it on his back, carry it

with his bent body, and then aim at the hole as best he could. In New

York the cart is lifted one side by means of a handle, an inclined tray

is placed at the bottom of the cart, with its head over the hole, and

down goes the coal as the man looks at the work done for him.

It is in thousands of little things like this that you understand how

the American mind is constantly at work. I do not know whether America

makes more inventions than other nations (I believe that France is still

leading), but there is no country where so many inventions are

perfected.

In a great measure I attribute the commercial prosperity of the

Americans to the soundness and practicability of their principles in the

matter of the commercial education of their youth. It is partly due to

the existence of the 'business college,' which has no counterpart in

England, but which is as great and powerful an institution in the States

as public schools are in England. Until Europe has such colleges, she

will never breed leaders of commerce and industry as they are bred in

America.

France possesses the best artisans in the world--glass-cutters,

cabinet-makers, book-binders, gardeners--simply because boys of the

working classes choose their trade early, work long apprenticeships, and

study.

The English boy of these classes becomes a plumber at thirteen, then he

tries everything afterward. He is in turn a mason, a gardener, anything

you like 'for a job.' In America it is the mind of boys which is

prepared for commerce in the business colleges. At twenty they are

practical men.

Of course, my mind is full of trusts. Is it possible that in a few years

all the great industries of America--its mines, its railroads, its

telegraphic and telephonic systems, its land, its land produce--will all

be amalgamated and transformed into trusts?

I am not inclined to look on this great system of trusts in too

pessimistic a fashion. In my view, they may eventually lead to the

nationalization of those gigantic enterprises, and in this way bring

about the greatest good for the greatest number, by the simple reason

that it will be much easier for the State to deal with all those

different trusts than with thousands of different companies and

individuals.

One day the earth will belong to its inhabitants, not to a privileged

few. Trusts may lead to the solution of the question.

Another impression deeply confirmed more than ever: the English may talk

of the 'blood-thicker-than-water' theory, but it will never stand the

test of a political crisis.

Of course, there are the '400' of New York who are entirely pro-English,

and half apologetic for being American; but the population of Greater

New York is 4,000,000. If out of 4,000,000 you take 400, there still

remain some Americans. And these have no love lost for England.

CHAPTER XXVI

SOME AMERICANS I OBJECT TO

An American was one day travelling with an Englishman friend of mine in

the same railway compartment from Dieppe to Paris. During the

conversation, the American did not care to own that he hailed from

America, but went as far as to confess that he came from Boston, which,

he thought, would no doubt atone for his being American in the eyes of

his English companion.

'And where are you going to put up in Paris?' inquired the Englishman.

'Well,' replied the Bostonian, 'I was thinking of staying at Meurice's;

but it's so full of d----d Americans! Where are you going to stop

yourself?' 'H'm,' said the Englishman; 'I was thinking of stopping at

Meurice's myself, but the place is so full of d----d English people!'

I object to the American who tells you that he spends the summer in

Europe because America does not possess a summer resort fit to visit,

and who regrets being unable to spend the winter in the South of France

because there is not in the United States a decent place where to spend

the winter months, who assures you that America does not possess a

single spot historically interesting. In my innocence I thought that an

American might be interested to visit the Independence Hall of

Philadelphia, Mount Vernon in Virginia, Lexington, Bunker's Hill,

Yorktown, Chattanooga, Gettysburg, and a few other places where his

ancestors made America what she is now.

I thought that the Hudson River compared favourably with the Thames and

the Seine, the Rocky Mountains with the Alps and the Pyrenees, the

Sierras with Switzerland, and that Europe had nothing to offer to be

mentioned in the same breath with the Indian summer of America, when the

country puts on her garb of red and gold.

When you meet that American in Europe, he asks you if you have met Lord

Fitz-Noodle, Lady Ginger, and the Marquis de la Roche-Trompette. When

you confess to him that you never had the pleasure of meeting those

European worthies, he throws at you a patronizing glance, a mixture of

pity and contempt, which seems to say: 'Good gracious! who on earth can

you be? In what awful set do you move?'

At fashionable places, on board steamers, he avoids his compatriots and

introduces himself into the aristocracy, always glad to patronize people

who have money. He makes no inquiry about the private character of those

titled people before he allows his wife and daughters to frequent them.

They are titled, and, in his eyes, that sanctifies everything. On board

a steamer he works hard with the purser and the chief steward in order

to be given a seat at the same table with a travelling lord. You never

see him in anybody else's company.

A favourite remark of his is: 'The Americans one meets in Europe make me

feel ashamed of my country and of my compatriots.'

How I do prefer to that American snob the good American who has never

left the States, and who is perfectly convinced that America is the only

country fit for a free man to live in--God's own country! At any rate,

he is a good patriot, proud of his motherland. I even prefer to him that

American (often to be met abroad) who damns everything in Europe; who

prefers the Presbyterian church of his little city to Notre Dame,

Westminster Abbey, and the cathedrals of Rouen, Cologne, and Milan; who

thinks that England is such a tight little island that he is afraid of

going out at night for fear of falling into the water; who thinks that

French politeness and manners are much overrated, and who, when being

asked if he likes French cuisine, replies: 'No; nor their cookery

either.'

I love the man who sees only things to admire in his mother and his own

country; and in America that man has his choice--_une abondance de

biens_.

CHAPTER XXVII

PATIENCE--AN AMERICAN TRAIT

For power of endurance, give me the Americans. They are angels of

patience. The best illustration is what they can put up with at their

Custom House when they return home. Foreigners are more leniently dealt

with, but if the American and his wife return from a trip to Europe and

have with them twelve trunks and ten bags, these twelve trunks and ten

bags have to be opened and thoroughly searched, and that although the

said American has already signed a paper that he has nothing dutiable

with him.

In every civilized nation of the world, there is a Custom House officer

to inquire of the foreign visitor or the returning native whether he has

anything to declare. He is not required to sign anything. He is asked

the question on presenting himself with his baggage.

Never more than one piece of luggage is opened, and when the owner is a

lady alone she is allowed to pass without having anything opened,

unless, of course, she appears to be a suspicious character.

Everywhere in Europe any decent-looking man or woman who declares that

he or she has nothing dutiable has one piece of luggage examined and no

more. But in America not only is every trunk, every bag, opened, but

everything in it most searchingly examined.

'Have you worn this?' says the man.

I knew a gentleman who had had ten trunks examined from top to bottom,

but could not find the key to his hat-box, a light piece of luggage

which, by its weight, was labelled innocent. The Custom House officer

took a hatchet and smashed it.

I allowed myself to be told that the gentleman in question could obtain

no redress against the man in authority. A lady, for that matter, would

have been treated in exactly the same way. No respect for her sex, no

consideration for the pretty things she had had so carefully packed;

everything is taken out, felt, and replaced topsy-turvy.

When a favourite steamer arrives in New York, with 500 first and second

class passengers, it means about 5,000 pieces of luggage to open and

examine. If you have no servants to see it done for you, the odds are

that you will be five hours on the wharf before you are able to proceed

to your hotel.

The Americans grumble, but patiently endure the nuisance, as if they

were not masters in their own home and able to put a stop to it. No

Englishman would stand it a day. If it was a special order, it would be

repealed at once. The only time when the thing was done in England was

during the period of scare produced by the Irish dynamitards some

twenty-five years ago.

To some American millionairesses fifty new dresses are less extravagant

than two or three for other women; besides, if they are extravagant,

that's their business. What does it matter so long as it is not some

materials for sale or any other commercial purpose?

The Americans endure bureaucracy much more readily than the English. In

that, as in many other traits, they more resemble the French, who, in

spite of their reputation for being unruly, are the most docile,

enduring, easily-governed people in the world, until they are aroused,

when--then look out!

CHAPTER XXVIII

AMERICAN FEELINGS FOR FOREIGNERS

Jonathan has such a large family of his own to think of and look after

at home that he has not much time to spare for concerning himself about

what is going on in other people's houses.

He takes a general interest in them, likes to be kept acquainted with

what is happening in the world, in Europe especially; he feels sympathy

for most people, antipathy to one, but it would be difficult to say, so

far as the names of the American people are concerned, that he has a

predilection for any particular nation more than for any other.

The largest foreign element in the United States is German,

Scandinavian, and Irish; but they are all now digested and assimilated,

and they inspire no particular feeling in the breast of Uncle Sam for

the respective countries they originally came from. He asks them to be,

and they are, good American citizens, ready to fight his battles on

election day or, if need be, on the battlefield.

There is no 'most favoured' nation in the American character, which in

this respect is opportunist to the greatest degree.

During the war with Spain the Americans were pro-English, because they

had the moral support of the English, or thought they had.

In 1895, during the Venezuelan difficulty, they were above all

anti-English. Just at present their love of the English is somewhat

cooler, because they wonder whether England was really friendly and

sincere during the Spanish-American War, and because their sympathy was

for the Boers who, in their eyes, rightly or wrongly, bravely fought for

their liberty and independence as the Americans did 125 years ago.

When Prince Henry visited the United States, the Americans regarded his

visit as a great compliment paid to their country, and a delicate

advance and attention on the part of the German Emperor.

Then Germany naturally came to the front, and, at the time, might with

reason have been called the nation nearest to the heart of Jonathan.

Prince Henry was feted, banqueted, liked, and when the steamer took him

home, he was remembered with pleasure and forgotten, and Germany resumed

her position of foreign nation, just like that of any other.

The English, who buy inventions, but seldom make them, are now starting

the rumour that the Prince of Wales has been invited to visit the United

States. The idea is not very original, not any more than that of King

Edward having a racing yacht built in America, and sending his son over

to be present at its launching and christening. That sort of thing may

be overdone.

If, however, the Prince of Wales went to America, he would be received

with open arms, the 'blood-thicker-than-water' business, and the

'kin-and-kith' cry would be indulged in during his visit, after which

everything would resume its normal state.

If the President of the French Republic could be induced to visit

America, the Americans would become pro-French; Lafayette, the

'never-to-be-forgotten helper of the Americans' in their struggle for

liberty and independence, would be resurrected, and this visit would,

perhaps, be the one most likely to go straight to the hearts of the

Americans, as, in this case, the visit paid would bring to the United

States the very head of the French nation and the President of a great

Republic, the sister Republic.

But the visit over, I have no doubt that Jonathan would resume his

business habits, forget all about it, and only remember a little

excitement and a good time.

Let me, however, advise any royalty, English or other, to wait a little

before visiting America. For a long time there will be no originality,

no novelty even, about the presence of a real Prince in the United

States, and the Americans are particularly fond of novelties. They want

a constant change in the programme.

CHAPTER XXIX

SHOULD YOUNG GIRLS READ NOVELS?

A lady, an intimate friend of the late Alphonse Karr, was one day on a

visit to the famous French author, and noticing in his library the

statuettes of the Venus of Milo and a few other classical beauties, she

said to him: 'I am afraid you are wrong to feast your eyes on those

exquisite faces and perfect forms, because they very seldom exist in

real life, and they can only make you feel disappointed and spoil your

mind. When you go to a ballroom, I imagine that there are few women, if

any, that you are not inclined to criticise.'

For the same reason I will answer a lady correspondent, who asks me

whether she should encourage or even allow her daughters to read novels:

No, young people should not read novels. Instead of infusing into their

minds sensible ideas about the stern realities of life, they portray

disinterestedness that is overdone, beauty that is rarely seen outside

of museums, devotion that has been very uncommon since the days of the

Crusaders, love that has been unheard of since the death of Orpheus and

Eurydice, pluck that died with Bayard and Bertrand du Guesclin; and I am

not sure that, loathsome as they are to me, I would not recommend the

novels of the realistic school rather than those of the romantic school

to young people of both sexes; for if the former make you feel fairly

disgusted with humanity, they do not, like the latter, fill the minds of

youth with illusions that are destined to be blown to the four winds of

the earth by the realities of life. In fact, I know some novels which

young people might read, and also some which they ought to read; but I

believe I could count them all on the fingers of my two hands. Let young

people study life from life, listen to the experience of those who have

lived, frequent people who have found happiness and met with success in

life. This will much better make them serve their apprenticeship.

Yes, I say, avoid reading all novels, and, above all, the sentimental

ones--those that make young girls believe that husbands are lovers who

spend their lives at the feet of their wives making love to them, and

young men imagine that wives are sweethearts who have nothing to do but

coo and try to look pretty. Let young people read books that will help

make them sensible and cheerful, books of travels and adventures, books

of pleasant philosophy, of common-sense and humour. Boyhood, girlhood,

as well as young manhood and womanhood, should be spent in cheerful

surroundings, for nothing leads better to morality than cheerfulness. If

I had a house full of young people, I would have my house ring all day

long with the peals of laughter of my boys and girls. Fun of the good,

wholesome sort, humour and gaiety, should be the daily food of youth,

and only books that supply it should be given to them.

On the whole, there is not much to choose between the novels of the

realistic school, that would make you believe that the world is full of

murderers, forgers, men and women with diseased minds, novels that reek

of disinfectants, and make you feel as you do when you come out of a

hospital and your clothes are permeated with a smell of carbolic acid,

and the novels of the sentimental school, that would lead you to believe

that all the male and female geese who are their heroes and heroines

have the slightest chance of being successful in life.

People should already know a great deal of real life before they get

acquainted with the way in which it is represented in novels.

CHAPTER XXX

NOW, WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH FATHER?

I confess that I am a little tired, and I will say so frankly, of

continually hearing such phrases as 'What is home without a mother?'

'God bless our mother!' and so forth. I should like to use an

Americanism and ask, 'Now, pray, what's the matter with father?'

I cannot help thinking that children would grow just as sensible if they

sometimes heard a word of praise bestowed on their fathers instead of

being loaded with an endless litany of all the virtues of mother.

Mother's love, mother's devotion, mother's influence, mother's this, and

mother's that. Now, father does exist, and occasionally makes himself

useful enough to stand in no need of an apology for daring to exist.

He generally loves his children, and sometimes feels that he cannot

compete with his wife in their affections, simply because she

monopolizes them, not only when they are babies, but after they are out

of infancy. He resents it, but, as a rule, resigns himself to what he is

made to believe inevitable.

The first duty of a woman is to teach her children to love their father,

and, as they grow up, to teach them to respect him and admire him. It

is her duty to hide from her children any little thing that might cause

them to lose the least respect or admiration towards him.

But, out of one hundred women, will you find one who will not be of

opinion that mother is foremost?

When a woman has become a mother, her vanity, though often full of

repose, gets the best of her. She is a mother, and thinks she is the

most important thing in the world. Yet, as I say elsewhere, it is no

extraordinary testimonial for a woman to be fond of her children. All

mothers are fond of their children and good to them--why, even the

fiercest and cruellest of animals. The feeling is given to them by

Nature. We all profit by it; we are all happier for it. For being able

to dispense maternal love woman is to be admired and blessed, but not

congratulated. A child is part and parcel of a mother. In loving a child

a woman loves part of herself. It is not selfishness so much as

self-love. When she brings up her children for herself, for the love of

herself, without doing her utmost to see that their father gets his

share; when, thanks to her own trumpeting, her house rings only with

'God bless our mother!' she is guilty of an act of terrible injustice.

The vanity of some women is such that some expect a pedestal--nay, an

altar--when the spring-cleaning of their house is over.

I know men who work with one view only--that of bringing up their

children in comfort, giving them a University education, and starting

them in life at the cost of any sacrifice.

I know Americans who work like slaves at home so that their wives and

daughters may enjoy themselves in Paris and London. For this they demand

nothing except an occasional letter, which they sometimes get.

Mother is very tired! She has had to pay calls, go to so many 'at

homes,' so many garden-parties! She is exhausted; she wants a change of

air immediately. Father is at his office, a dingy, badly-ventilated

room. He has had no holiday for a year. He, too, would like a little

change of air; but what's the matter with father? He's all right.

In the most humble stations of life we have all of us known that man who

gets up at five o'clock in the morning, lights the fire to cook a bit of

breakfast for himself, gets his tools and starts to his daily labour,

wiping off the dew of the dawn on his boots while many a mother is

sleeping. With his hard-earned wages he pays the butcher, the grocer,

the milkman and the baker. He stands off the wolf and the bailiff and

pays the rent.

What's the matter with father? How blessed that home would be without

him!

I know there are loafers who refuse the work that would enable them to

support their wives and children. There are also good steady workmen who

at home find nothing awaiting them except the sight of a drunken woman,

who not only has not prepared a meal for him, but has spent his

hard-earned money, and not uncommonly even pawned the baby's shoes to

get brandy or gin with. 'What's home without a mother?' 'God bless our

mother!'

Do give father a chance, if you please.

THE END

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD

MAX O'RELL'S WORKS

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JOHN BULL, JUNIOR.

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A FRENCHMAN IN AMERICA.

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BETWEEN OURSELVES.

RAMBLES IN WOMANLAND.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

ON

RAMBLES IN WOMANLAND

'Max O'Rell has in this volume given us another entertaining and

delightful dissertation upon woman and her kind. What Max O'Rell

does not know about the sex to which he has not the honour to

belong is hardly worth knowing.'--_St. James's Gazette._

'It is too late in the day to dwell upon the features of style

which render the work of Max O'Rell such easy and agreeable

reading, and it is unnecessary to illustrate his pretty gift of

phrase-making. He has gained his own place among popular

authors, and offers no sign of vacating it.'--_Pall Mall

Gazette._

'We hardly know whether to recommend the book to our readers or

not. They will not put it down, once begun--that is

certain.'--_Spectator._

'Max O'Rell, in his new book, expresses in his own peculiar and

entertaining way many witty, satirical, and humorous ideas on

the subject of the "eternal woman."'--_Daily Express._

'Max O'Rell is always entertaining, and provokes friendly

discussion as readily as any writer I know. His new book

contains many aphorisms, and some of them are very

good.'--_British Weekly._

'Max O'Rell supplies, not for the first time, a delightful

mixture of commonplace and common-sense.'--_Daily Chronicle._

'We have no doubt a great many people will enjoy the book, and

the enjoyment will be innocent and wholesome.'--_Academy._

'Max O'Rell's chaff is excellent, and all in perfect good

taste.'--_Pelican._

'The genial author takes up the cudgels on behalf of the

better-looking sex in a way which should make his book

tremendously popular with lady readers--especially the married

ones.... A very entertaining book.'--_Golden Penny._

'Contains some delightful reading.... It is a book happy in

idea, felicitous in expression, cynically frank and refreshing

in its candour.'--_Gossip._

'Another collection of amusing and epigrammatic essays.... Max

O'Rell, as everyone knows, has the gift of discoursing fluently

and amusingly on any subject on which he touches, and to English

and American people his good-humoured criticisms are

particularly valuable, as they are not only sound and sane in

themselves, but they are written from an outside

standpoint.'--_Morning Leader._

'Women will not feel sorry that Max O'Rell's last work should be

his new book on the fair sex. For many a year he has helped us

with his gentle raillery, cheered us with his bright humour, and

taught us much. "Rambles in Womanland" contains many little

personal reminiscences and revelations, and its author's wit is

undimmed. The book is full of epigrams, bons mots, and piquant

criticisms.'--_Gentlewoman._

'Max O'Rell's last book will add to the regret that his genial

pen will write no more. Usually there is a tone of gaiety in

what he says, but at all times he discusses important problems

with all seriousness, and with not a little of the wisdom with

which a wide knowledge of the world had endowed him. Max

O'Rell's writings have always been notable for witty

epigrammatic sentences.... His last work is a bright and

engaging book.'--_Daily Telegraph._

'With a pretty wit and a turn for epigram this writer can

scarcely be dull, and no one will turn to one or other of these

chatty chapters without being pleasantly

entertained.'--_Scotsman._

'Liveliness, amiability, charm, honourable sentiment, humour,

every quality that the best kind of French culture produces, are

open to anyone who can read English in the pages of Max O'Rell.

Every page of these "Rambles" is sprinkled over with aphorisms.

... This most entertaining book.'--_Vanity Fair._

'There is much that is entertaining in these short pithy

comments on women's characteristics, and occasionally criticism

that penetrates deep beneath the surface, and reveals a vast

amount of observation and knowledge of the world.... The book is

full of smart sayings and clever aphorisms.'--_Publishers'

Circular._

'Whatever his theme, he is always bright, and the coruscations

of his wit are exceedingly diverting.... This last contribution

is full of good things, placed in an amusing setting.... These

are but a few maxims culled from a crowded garden.... This

wonderful little volume.'--_Echo._

'"Rambles in Womanland" has between its covers much wisdom,

served up with a pretty garnish of wit and that wholesome

sauce--common sense. Indeed, Max O'Rell has written nothing

better than--in fact, nothing so good as--"Rambles in

Womanland." Here we have his riper wisdom, his fuller

experience; but while he has gained in wisdom or experience, he

has not lost his spiciness or his power of brief, terse

epigram.'--_Black and White._

'Full of sparkling common-sense.'--_T. P.'s Weekly._

'There is enough fresh material to commend these "Rambles in

Womanland" to those who have enjoyed rambling through the

author's entertaining writings.'--_Morning Post._

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. The word homoeopathy uses an "oe" ligature in the original.

3. Apart from one misprint correction on page 157 ("necesssity" changed

to "necessity") and few punctuation corrections, no other modifications

have been made in the text.