visit to Paris when he dies. Those, however, of our sagacious
fellow countrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manage
to see Lutetia before crossing the river Styx. Most Americans like
Paris--some like it so well that they have made it their permanent
home--although it must be added that in their admiration they
rarely include the Frenchman. For that matter, we are not as a
nation particularly fond of any foreigner, largely because we do
not understand him, while the foreigner for his part is quite
willing to return the compliment. He gives the Yankee credit for
commercial smartness, which has built up America's great material
prosperity; but he has the utmost contempt for our acquaintance
with art, and no profound respect for us as scientists.

Is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superior
to its neighbour? If this were not so each would be jealous of the
other, and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannot
have the moon to play with. Happily, therefore, for the harmony of
the world, each nation cordially detests the other and the much
exploited "brotherhood of man" is only a figure of speech. The
Englishman, confident that he is the last word of creation,
despises the Frenchman, who, in turn, laughs at the German, who
shows open contempt for the Italian, while the American, conscious
of his superiority to the whole family of nations, secretly pities
them all.

The most serious fault which the American--whose one god is Mammon
and chief characteristic hustle--has to find with his French
brother is that he enjoys life too much, is never in a hurry and,
what to the Yankee mind is hardly respectable, has a habit of
playing dominoes during business hours. The Frenchman retorts that