e you. And
be sure to alternate pedestrianism with motoring, and the "peanut"
gallery with the stage-box. Omit not to punctuate with stag vacations
long periods of domestic felicity. When Solomon declared that all was
vanity and vexation of spirit I suspect that he had been more than
unusually intemperate in frequenting the hymeneal altar.

Why is it that the young painters, musicians, and playwrights who win
fame and fortune as heroes in the novels of Mr. E. F. Benson enjoy
achievement so hugely? Simply because they are exuberant in mind,
body, and spirit, and, if not averse to brandy and soda, are in other
ways, at least, paragons of moderation. And yet, in his "Book of
Months," Mr. Benson requests God to help those who have attained!

With this fourfold equipment of the three exuberances and moderation,
I defy Solomon himself in all his glory not to enjoy the situation
immensely and settle down in high good humor and content with the
paltry few scores of wives already achieved. I defy him not to enjoy
even his fame.

We have heard much from the gloomily illustrious about the fraudulent
promise of fame. At a distance, they admit, it seems like a banquet
board spread with a most toothsome feast. But step up to the table.
All you find there is dust and ashes, vanity and vexation of spirit
and a desiccated joint that defies the stoutest carver. If a man holds
this view, however, you may be rather sure that he belongs to the
_bourgeois_ great. For it is just as _bourgeois_ to win fame and then
not know what on earth to do with it, as it is to win fortune and then
not know what on earth to do with it. The more cultivated a famous man
is, the more he must enjoy the situation; for along with his dry scrag
of fame, the more he must have of the sauce which alone makes it
palatable. The recipe for this sauce runs as follows: to one
amphoraful best physical exuberance add spice of keen perception,
cream of imagination, and fruits of the spirit. Serve with grain of
salt.

That famous person is sauceless who can, without a tingle of joy,
overhear the couple in the next steamer-chairs mentioning his name
casually to each other as an accepted and honored household word. He
has no sauce for his scrag if he, unmoved, can see the face of some
beautiful child in the holiday crowd suddenly illuminated by the
pleasure of recognizing him, from his pictures, as the author of her
favorite story. He is _bourgeois_ if it gives him no joy