It must be that a too free association with American men of letters has
moved the author of this book to add to his fine Gallic wit a touch of
that preposterousness which is supposed to be characteristic of American
humor.
For proof of this, I cite the fact that he has asked me to introduce him
upon this occasion. Surely there could be no more grotesque idea than
that any word of mine can serve to make Max O'Rell better known than he
is to the great company of American readers.
Have not the pirate publishers already introduced him to all Americans
who care for literature? Have not their translators done their best, not
only to bring his writings to the attention of readers, but also to add
to the sparkle and vivacity of his books by translating into them many
things not to be found in the French originals? These generous folk, who
have thus liberally supplemented his wit with flashes of their own
stupidity, have treated his text after the manner of a celebrated
Kentuckian of whom it was written that his love of truth was so great
that he gave his entire time and attention to the task of ornamenting
and adding to it.
But with all their eagerness to render interested service to a
distinguished man of letters who was not then here to look after his own
affairs, the pirates missed this, the best of his books; and finding
that no surreptitious edition of it has appeared in this country, the
author has felt himself privileged to re-write it and make such changes
in it and additions to it as his own judgment has suggested without the
prompting of voluntary assistants, and even to negotiate with a
publisher for the issue of an edition on his own account.
I have called this work the best of Max O'Rell's books, and I think the
reader will approve the judgment. Here, as in all that this author has
written, there is a biting wit, which saturates the serious substance as
good, sharp vinegar pervades a pickle; but here, as elsewhere, the main
purpose is earnest, and the wit is but an aid to its accomplishment. A
very wise and distinguished educator has declared that "the whole theory
of education is to be extracted from these humorous sketches," and the
story goes--whether Max O'Rell will vouch for its accuracy or not, I do
not venture to say--that the head boy of St. Paul's School in London,
after hearing the sketches read in public, said: "We boys enjoyed the
lecture immensely, but _that fellow knows too much about us_."
With a tremor of apprehension, we reflect that Max O'Rell's period of
observation among ourselves will presently end, and that when he comes
to record the result in his peculiar fashion, we are likely to echo that
school-boy's plaint. But at any rate we shall know our own features
better after we have contemplated them in his mirror; and, meantime,
those of us who have enjoyed his acquaintance are disposed earnestly to
hope that a guest whom we have learned to esteem so warmly may not think
quite so ill of the American character as the barbaric condition of our
laws respecting literary property would warrant.