As the supreme reward of virtue, the good American is promised a 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 his American brother, clever person though he be, has one or two things still to learn.  He has, he declares, no philosophy of life.  It is true that he has learned the trick of making money, but in the things which go to satisfy the soul he is still strangely lacking.  He thinks he is enjoying life, when really he is ignorant of what life is.  He admits it is not the American’s fault, for he has never been taught how to enjoy life.  One must be educated to that as everything else.  All the American is taught is to be in a perpetual hurry and to make money no matter how.  In this mad daily race for wealth, he bolts his food, not stopping to masticate it properly, and consequently suffers all his life from dyspepsia.  So he rushes from the cradle to the grave, and what’s the good, since he must one day die like all the rest?