“A foreigner can photograph the exteriors of a nation, but I think that is as far as he can get.  I think that no foreigner can report its interior;”—­[And you say:  “A man of average intelligence, who has passed six months among a people, cannot express opinions that are worth jotting down, but he can form impressions that are worth repeating.  For my part, I think that foreigners’ impressions are more interesting than native opinions.  After all, such impressions merely mean ’how the country struck the foreigner.’"]—­which is a quite clear way of saying that a foreigner’s report is only valuable when it restricts itself to impressions.  It pleases me to have you follow my lead in that glowing way, but it leaves me nothing to combat.  You should give me something to deny and refute; I would do as much for you.

It pleases me to have you playfully warn the public against taking one of your books seriously.—­[When I published Jonathan and his Continent, I wrote in a preface addressed to Jonathan:  “If ever you should insist in seeing in this little volume a serious study of your country and of your countrymen, I warn you that your world-wide fame for humor will be exploded."]—­Because I used to do that cunning thing myself in earlier days.  I did it in a prefatory note to a book of mine called Tom Sawyer.

Notice.

          Persons attempting to find a motive in
          this narrative will be prosecuted;
          persons attempting to find a moral in it
          will be banished; persons attempting to
          find a plot in it will be shot. 
                              By order of the author
                              per G. G., Chief of Ordnance.

The kernel is the same in both prefaces, you see—­the public must not take us too seriously.  If we remove that kernel we remove the life-principle, and the preface is a corpse.  Yes, it pleases me to have you use that idea, for it is a high compliment.  But is leaves me nothing to combat; and that is damage to me.

Am I seeming to say that your Reply is not a reply at all, M. Bourget?  If so, I must modify that; it is too sweeping.  For you have furnished a general answer to my inquiry as to what France through you—­can teach us. —­["What could France teach America!” exclaims Mark Twain.  France can teach America all the higher pursuits of life, and there is more artistic feeling and refinement in a street of French workingmen than in many avenues inhabited by American millionaires.  She can teach her, not perhaps how to work, but how to rest, how to live, how to be happy.  She can teach her that the aim of life is not money-making, but that money-making is only a means to obtain an end.  She can teach her that wives are not expensive toys, but useful partners, friends, and confidants, who should always keep men under their wholesome influence by their diplomacy, their tact, their common-sense, without bumptiousness.  These qualities, added to the highest standard of morality (not angular and morose, but cheerful morality), are conceded to Frenchwomen by whoever knows something of French life outside of the Paris boulevards, and Mark Twain’s ill-natured sneer cannot even so much as stain them.