 Chapter four of The Garden of Folly by Stephen Leacock. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter four, The Perfect Salesman, A Complete Guide to Business. I admit at the outset that I know nothing direct, personal, or immediate about business. I have never been in it. If I were told tomorrow to go out and make a hundred thousand dollars, I should scarcely know how to do it. If anybody showed me a man on the street and told me to sell him a municipal six percent bond, I shouldn't know how to begin. I wouldn't know how to approach him, or how to hold his interest, or how to make him forget his troubles, or how to clinch him or strike him to the earth at the final moment. As to borrowing money, which is one of the great essentials of business, I simply couldn't do it. As soon as I got across the steps of the bank, I should get afraid, scared that they would throw me out. I know, of course, from reading about it, that this is mere silliness, that the bankers are there simply waiting to lend money. Just crazy to lend it. All you have to do is to invite the general manager out to lunch and tell him that you want half a million dollars to float a big proposition. You don't tell him what it is. You just say that you'll let him know later. And the manager, so I gather, will be simply wild to lend you the money. All this I pick up from the conversations which I overhear at my club from men who float things. But I couldn't do it myself. There's an art in it to borrow money, big money. You have to wear your clothes in a certain way, walk in a certain way, and have about you an air of solemnity and majesty, something like the atmosphere of a Gothic cathedral. Small men like me and you, my dear reader, especially you, can't do it. We feel mean about it, and when we get the money, even if it is only ten dollars, we give ourselves away at once by wanting to hustle away with it too fast. The really big man in this kind of a thing can borrow half a million, button it up in his chest, and then draw on his gloves and talk easily about the League of Nations and the prospect of rain. I admit I couldn't do it. If I ever got that half a million dollars, I'd beat it out of the bank as fast as a cat going over a fence. So as I say, I make no pretensions to being a businessman or to knowing anything about business. But I have a huge admiration for it, especially for big business, for the men at the top. They say that the whole railway business of this continent centers really in four men, and they say too that the whole money power of New York is really held by about six men. The entire forests of this country are practically owned by three men. The whole of South America, though it doesn't know it, is controlled by less than five men, and the Atlantic Ocean is now to all intents and purposes in the hands of a little international group of not more than seven and less than eight. Think what it would mean to be one of those eight, or one of that four, or even one or two of that three. There must be a tremendous fascination about it to be in this kind of really big business, to sit at a desk and feel one's great brain slowly revolving on its axis, to know that one's capacious mind was majestically turning round and round, and to observe one's ponderous intellect moving irresistibly up and down. We cannot wonder when we reflect on this that all the world nowadays is drawn by the fascination of business. It is not the money that people want. I will acquit humanity of that. Few people care for money for its own sake. It is the thought of what can be done with the money. Oh, if I only had a million dollars, I heard a woman say the other day on the platform of a social service meeting. And I could guess just what she meant, that she would quit work and go to the South Sea Islands and play mahjong and smoke opium. I've had the same idea again and again. Salesmanship and the perfect salesman. The most essential feature of modern business is, I imagine, salesmanship. My readers may not appreciate this at once. They seldom seem to get anything readily. And so I will explain some of the reasons which lead me to think so. Without salesmanship, we could not sell anything. If we could not sell anything, we might as well not make anything, because if we made things and couldn't sell them, it would be as bad as if we sold things and couldn't make them. Hence, the most terrible danger that the world can face is that everybody will be buying things and nobody able to sell them. This danger of not selling anything, which used to threaten the world with disaster only a short time ago, is now being removed. Salesmanship, my readers will be glad to learn, at least if the miserable creatures ever get thrilled at anything, is being reduced to a science. A great number of manuals of salesmanship are now being placed within reach of everybody, and from these we can gather the essentials of the subject. In the small space which is here feasible to devote to the subject, it is not possible to treat in an adequate way such a vast and important subject as modern salesmanship. For complete information, recourse should be had to any one of the many manuals to which I refer and which can be had at a trifling sum, such as $10, or even more, but we may indicate here a few of the principal points of salesmanship. Personality of the salesman It is essential that the salesman should have charm. If he wishes to sell anything, let us say lead pipe for use in sewers and house drains, he will find that what he needs most in selling is personal charm, a sort of indefinable manner with just that little touch of no-blessed, which suggests the easy camaraderie of the menagerie. In other words, he must diffuse wherever he goes in selling sewer pipes a sense of sunshine which makes the world seem a little brighter when he is gone. In person, the perfect salesman should be rather tall with a figure which suggests to his customers the outline of the Venus de Milo. According to the manuals of salesmanship, he can get this figure by taking exercises every morning on the floor of his hotel bedroom, but the discussion of that point has been undertaken already. Let us suppose him then with the characteristic figure of a Venus de Milo, or if one will of a Padua ne Mercury, or of a Bologna sausage, we come in any case to the all-important points of dress. How shall the perfect salesman dress? Every manual on the subject emphasizes the large importance of dress for the salesman. Indeed, there is probably nothing which has a greater bearing on success and failure in the salesman than his dress. The well-dressed man in selling, let us say, municipal bonds has an initial advantage over the man who comes into his customer's store in tattered rags with his toes protruding from his boots, unchaved and with a general air of want and misery stamped all over him. Customers are quick to notice these little things, but let the salesman turn up in an appropriate costume, bright and neat from head to foot and bringing with him something of the gladness of the early spring and the singing of Bird and the customer is immediately impressed in his favor. One asks what then should be the costume of the perfect salesman? It is not an easy question to answer. Obviously, his costume must vary with the season and with the weather and with the time of day. One might suggest, however, that on rising in the morning, the salesman should throw round him a light pennoir of yellow silk or a figure de Camono slashed from the hips with pink insertions and brought round in a bold sweep to the small of the back. This should be worn during the morning toilette while putting the hair up in its combs, while adjusting the dickey and easing the suspenders. If breakfast is taken in the bedroom, the liver and bacon may be eaten in this costume. Breakfast over, the great moment approaches for the perfect salesman to get out upon the street. Here, the daintiest care must be selected in choosing his dress and here we may interpose at once a piece of plain and vigorous advice. The simplest is the best. The salesman makes a great mistake who comes into his customer's premises covered with jewelry with earrings in his ears and expensive bracelets on his feet and ankles. Nor should there be in the salesman's dress anything the least suggestive of immodesty. No salesman should ever appear with bare arms or with his waist cut cut so low as to suggest impropriety. Some salesmen, especially in the hardware business, are tempted to appear with bare arms, but they ought not to do it. For evening wear and for social recreation, the case is different. When work is over, the salesman in returning to his hotel may very properly throw on a Georgette Camusole, open at the throat, or a lace fissue with ear flaps of perforated celluloid. But the salesman should remember that for the hours of business anything in the way of a luxurious or suggestive costume should be avoided. Unfortunately, this is not always done. I have myself again and again noticed salesmen, especially in the hardware business, where they take their coats off to be wearing a suit calculated to review their figure around the hips and the lower part of the back in an immodest way. All this kind of thing should be avoided. The salesman should select from his wardrobe or from his straw of a lease a suit of plain, severe design, attractive and yet simple, good and yet bad, long and at the same time short, in other words, something that is a expensive but cheap. He should button this up in some simple way with just a plain clasp at the throat, agate perhaps or onyx, and then having buttoned up all his buttons, but mark me, not until then, he should go out upon the street prepared to do business. Let any of my readers who doubts the importance of dress and some of them are nuts enough to doubt anything. Consider the following little anecdote of salesmanship. It is one that I selected from among the many little anecdotes of the store, which are always inserted in the manuals anecdote of the ill dressed salesman, a salesman in the middle west whom we will call Mr. Blank called upon a merchant whom we will call Mr. Not and finding no difficulty in approaching him started in to show him his line with every hope of selling him. It should be explained that the line which Mr. Blank carried consisted of haberdashery, gents furnishings and cut two fit suits. Mr. Not was evidently delighted with the samples and already a big pile of neck ties, gents collarings, gents shirtings, and gents sockings were stacked up on the counter and an order form for $375.50 already to sign when Mr. Not noticed the salesman's own costume. Mr. Blank, who was a careless man in regard to dress, though otherwise a man of intelligence, was wearing a low crowned derby hat with a scooping brim over his ears, a celluloid collar and a dickey that was too small for him. His coat sleeves came only a little way below his elbows and plainly showed his cuffs, fastened with long steel clips to his undershirt. In other words, the man somehow lacked class. Mr. Not put down his pen. I'm sorry Mr. Blank, he said, I can't buy from you. Your line is all right, but you lack something. I can't say what, but if I had to give it a name I should call it tone. Blank, however, who was a man of resource, at once realized his error. One moment Mr. Not, he said, don't refuse this order too soon. With that he gathered up his valise and his samples and retreated to the back of the store behind the screen. In a few minutes he reappeared, dressed in his own samples. The merchant, delighted in the change in Mr. Blank's appearance, kissed him and signed the order. Approaching the prospect. So much for the salesman's dress, a matter of great importance, but still only a preliminary to our discussion. Let us suppose then our salesman, fully dressed, his buttons all adjusted and drawing well, his suspenders regulated, and his dickey set well in place. His next task is to approach his customer. All those who understand salesmanship are well aware this is the really vital matter. Everything depends on it. And nevertheless, approaching the merchant is a thing of great difficulty. The merchant, if we may believe our best books on salesmanship, is as wary as a mountain antelope. At the very least alarm he will leap from his counter ten feet in the air and rush to the top of his attic floor. Or perhaps he will make a dive into a cellar where he will burrow his way among barrels and boxes and become completely hidden. In such a case he can only be dug out with a spade. Some merchants are even crafty enough to have an assistant or sentinel posted in such a way as to give the alarm of the salesman's approach. How then can the salesman manage to get his interview with the merchant, or to use a technical term, to get next to his prospect? The answer is that he must stalk his prospect as the hunter stalks the mountain goat or the wild hog. Dressed in a becoming way, he must circulate outside his prospect's premises, occasionally taking a peep at him through the window, and perhaps imitating the song of a bird or the gentle cooing of a dove. Pleased with the soft note of the bird's song, the prospect will presently be seen to relax into a smile. Now is the moment for the salesman to act. He enters the place boldly and says with a winning frankness, Mr. Nut, you thought it was a bird, but it was not. It was I. I am here to show you my line. If the salesman has chosen his moment rightly, he will win. The merchant, once decoyed into looking at the line, is easily landed. On the other hand, the prospect may refuse even now to see the salesman, and the attack must begin again. This difficulty of getting the merchant to see the salesman, even when close beside him, and the way in which it can be overcome by perseverance, is well illustrated by a striking little anecdote, which I quote from a recent book on salesmanship. The work I may say is authoritative, having been written by a man with over 30 years of experience in selling hardware and perfumes in the middle southwest. A anecdote of the invisible merchant, a salesman whom we will call Mr. M. I should perhaps explain here that the M is not really his name, but just an ingenious way of indicating him. While traveling in the interest of perfume in the middle southwest came to a town which we designate D, where he was most anxious to see a prospect whom we will speak of as P. Entering P's premises one morning, M asked if he could see P. P refused. M went out of the store and waited at the door until P emerged at the noon hour. As soon as P emerged, M politely asked if he could see him. P refused to be seen. M waited till night and then presented himself at P's residence. Mr. P said, M, can I see you? No, said P, you can't. This sort of thing went on for several days, during which M presented himself continually before P, who as continually refused to see him. M was almost in despair. Perhaps I may interrupt this little story a moment to beg my readers not to be too much oppressed by M's despair. In these anecdotes the salesmen are always in despair at the lowest point of the story, but it is only a sign that the clouds are breaking. I will beg my readers then, if the poor scents have been getting depressed, to cheer up and hear what follows. M, we say, was almost in despair when an idea occurred to him. He knew that Mr. P was a very religious man and always attended divine worship, church, every Sunday. Disguising himself, therefore, to look like one of the apostles, M seated himself at one side of Mr. P's pew. Mr. P, mistaking him for St. Matthew, was easily induced during the sermon to look over M's line of perfume. The above anecdote incidentally raises the important question, how frank should the salesman be with his prospect? Should he go to the length of telling the truth? An answer to this is that frankness will be found to be the best policy. We will illustrate it with a little story taken from the experience of a young salesman traveling in the North-South West in the interest of brushes, face powder, and toilette notions. An anecdote of the truthful salesman. A young salesman, whom we will indicate as Mr. Asterisk, traveling in brushes and toilette supplies, was one day showing his line to Mr. Stroke, a drug merchant of a town in the East-North-South West. Picking up one of the sample brushes, Mr. S said to the salesman, that's an excellent brush. Mr. A answered, no, I'm sorry to say it is not. It's bristles fall out easily, and the wood is not really rosewood, but a cheap imitation. Mr. S was so pleased with the young man's candor that he said, Mr. A, it is not often I meet a salesman as candid as you are. If you will show me the rest of your line, I shall be delighted to fill out a first-class order. Mr. S answered Mr. A, I'm sorry to say that the whole wine is as rotten as that brush. More delighted than ever, Mr. S, who was a widower, invited Mr. A to his house, where he met Mr. S's grown-up daughter, who kept house for him. The two young people immediately fell in love and were married. Mr. A moving into the house and taking over the business while Mr. S, now without a home, went out selling brushes. While we are speaking of the approach of the prospect, it may be well to remind our readers very clearly, for the poor guys don't seem to get anything unless we make it clear, that a prospect otherwise invisible may be approached and seen by utilizing his fondness for amusement or sport. Many a man who is adamant at his place of business is mud on a golf course. The sternest and hardest of merchants may turn out to be an enthusiastic angler or human a fisherman. The salesman who takes care to saunter into the store with a dead catfish in his pocket will meet with a cordial reception, and a conversation pleasantly initiated over the catfish and its habits may end in a handsome order. At other times it is even possible to follow the prospect out to his golf course or to track him out to the trout streams and round him up in the woods. In this case salesmanship takes on a close analogy with out-of-door hunting, the search for the prospect, the stalking of the prospect, and the final encounter being very similar to accounts of the stalking of Big Game. I append here an illustrative anecdote. As a matter of fact it was written not in reference to salesmanship, but as an account of hunting the wallaboo or great hog in the uplands of East Africa. But anybody familiar with stories of salesmanship will see at once that it fits both cases. I have merely altered the wording a little just at the end. A anecdote of a hog. I have been credibly informed, says the writer, that there was at least a sporting chance of getting in touch with the great hog at his drinking time. It will be observed that apart from the capital letters this is almost exactly the remark that a salesman often makes. The natives of the place told me that the hog could probably be found soon after daylight at a stream about ten miles away where the brute was accustomed to drink and to catch fish. I therefore rose early, rode through the thick squab which covered the upland, and reached the stream or nulla just after daybreak. There I concealed myself in a thick gob of fuzz. I had not long to wait. The great hog soon appeared sniffing the air and snorting at the prospect of a drink. Extending himself prone on the bank with his snout in the water and his huge hindquarters in the air, the hog presented an ideal mark for the sportsman. I rose from my thicket, rifle in hand, and said, Mr. A, I have followed you out to this trout stream in the hope of getting a chance to show you my line. If you have a few minutes at your disposal, I shall be glad to show you some samples. If you don't care to buy anything, I can assure you that it will be a pleasure to show my line. The text seems to go a little wrong here, but we can make it all right by reverting to the original which says, after letting him have it thus, I had no trouble in hauling the great hog up the bank where I skinned him. Just one other question that may be mentioned before we pass on from this fascinating topic of salesmanship. Should a salesman accept presents, especially presents from ladies? On the whole, we think not. It is a delicate problem and one which every young salesman must think out for himself. But the salesman should always remember that a firm refusal, if made in a gracious and winning manner, is not calculated to give offense. If after concluding his business, the salesman finds that the merchant endeavors to slip a bracelet or a pair of earrings into his hand, the salesman should say, I can't take it all top, I really can't. Then he kissed the merchant on the forehead and withdraw. A present from a lady should be returned with a neat little note, so framed as to avoid all offense and yet letting the donor realize clearly that the salesman is not that kind of man. Let us turn now from the problem of salesmanship to the equally important field of advertising. The whole art of advertising. I suppose it is no exaggeration to say that salesmanship and advertising are the two most important things in the world. One of the biggest advertising men in the country is reported saying the other day in his big way, where would the world be without advertising? The more you think of this expression, which only a big man could have expressed, the more you are struck with the truth of it. Indeed, it has just exactly that pith, that pep, that punch, which all good advertising ought to have. It sets you wondering right away as to what advertising really is, as to what constitutes good and bad advertising, and how the world got on during the dull centuries, which did not advertise. As a matter of fact, the whole world got on very badly. This may be understood when we realize what the world was like before advertising existed. Christopher Columbus, we are told, spent 18 years vainly trying to persuade the sovereigns of Europe to discover America. Under present conditions, all he would have needed to do would have been to circulate among the kings a form letter with the heading, Do you want a continent? Or put a picture of himself on the paper with one hand extended towards a cloud in the sky, and the legend, this man discovers continents, or better still, put up picture placards showing the American Marines at target practice in the Matamoros Bay, Mexico. In other words, advertising has now been reduced to a science, thus taking its place alongside chemistry, salesmanship, dynamics, comparative religion, nursing, astronomy, poultry, and other college subjects. It has become the subject of so many manuals and guidebooks that nothing is easier than to give a brief resume of the general principles of advertising. Advertising may be described as the science of arresting the human intelligence long enough to get money from it. It is carried on by means of printed notices, signboards, black guards, and above all owing to the simplicity of the human mind by pictures. It consists of commands, exhortations, adjurations, summonses, directions, and other authoritative appeals. The first essential of a good advertisement or notice is that it must be brief. In the earlier days of advertising this was not understood. When first the railways were built in England and signs were put up to indicate dangerous crossings, they were written in small writing and read as follows. Any person or persons proposing to cross this railway track at this point at a time when a train or trains may be approaching is or are warned that if he or she does it, he or they are in danger of coming into collision with it or them. This was found ineffective. In America, the simpler plan was adopted of putting up a notice. Look out for the cars. Even this was presently found to be too long and was replaced by a simple sign. Look out. And perhaps look would be enough. Next to brevity, the thing demanded in a good advertisement is that it should be as peremptory as possible. Fifty years ago such notices were to be seen as the following. No person or persons can be permitted to enter these premises unless he or it enters in the course of some definite transaction pertaining to the business of the company. This was presently replaced by the sign. No admission except on business. But how much superior is the up-to-date printed notice? Keep out. This shows us that every good advertisement must be as personal as possible. It should begin, this is you or listen, you poor simp. Or it should ask some direct question such as, do you ever take a bath? What would you do if your wife ran away? And so forth. When once the general principles of advertising language are grasped, it is not difficult to convert ordinary common English into first-class advertising prose. I will give you a few examples which will show at once the enormous gain in emphasis, force, and directness which is imparted to a passage in literature when it is turned into advertising. Take first a few stanzas from Longfellow written presumably with a view to stir the reader into noble activity but unfortunately expressed in a tone that verges on drowsiness. Tell me not in mournful numbers life is but an empty dream, for the soul is dead that slumbers and things are not what they seem. Life is real, life is earnest, and the grave is not its goal. Dust now art to dust return us was not spoken of the soul. Let us then be up and doing with a heart for any fate, still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait. In a way this is not half bad. There is a certain life to it, but it fails to bring up the idea of the need for immediate effort with sufficient prominence. Compare the advertising counterpart. Young man, this is you. Do you want to remain all your life on a low salary? If not, why not be up and doing? Still achieving, still pursuing, we can show you how. Why not take a correspondence course? Our curriculum includes engineering, poultry, mind reading, oratory, cost accounting and religion. Don't wait, start achieving now. Or take another example from the same poet, the opening lines I believe of the poem called Evangeline. This is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hemlocks, sand like druids of old with beards that rest on their bosoms. This poem, which was not without merit in its original form, is now immensely improved when used as material for the tourists advertisements. Mr. Businessman, do you ever take a vacation? What about the Annapolis Valley for the year's outing? Why not visit the forest primeval where you may stand buried in reverie under the murmuring pines and the hemlocks or emerging in joy as fine a meal for a dollar as you will get anywhere? Why not dream yourself back into the days of the courier de bois and the belted and plume seniors with an easy reach of a garage and with a first glass plumbing all through the house? Why not bring along the wife and take her into the heart of the primeval forest? The next example is taken from Shakespeare. Originally it formed a part of Hamlet's syllabic way on death but nearly every line of this passage has been transposed and improved by the modern advertiser. To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. The advertiser expresses the same thought with much greater point. Do you feel only half alive? Are you aware of a heavy sensation after eating and a sense of inflation after drinking a cup of tea? If so, why not take arms against a sea of troubles? Do you know that Kalkul taken as one pill a day will restore tone and vigor to the system effecting an immediate restoration of the tissues and rebuilding the bones? Remember the name Kalkul. My readers will long since have suspected, if the poor simps are sharp enough ever to suspect anything, that advertising as we have been seeing again and again is superior to reality and this is indeed the case. By the time the advertiser has finished with his exhortations and his glowing descriptions and his pictures he has created a world far brighter than the poor place in which we live. Who would not wish to be transported to the bright glad world of the painted advertisement and there live forever. There to watch the glistening limousine roll on its distended tires, guaranteed for twenty thousand miles, in the front of the Georgian residence, the shingles of which can be laid by two men in one morning and are really cheaper than the best Italian tiles. See the faultless youth whose suit, please note it, is marked down to twenty nine dollars and fifty cents but will only stay down till Saturday. You can't keep a suit like that down. Watch him as he stands on the clipped green lawn. The seat about lawn, can you believe it, is actually sold for only fifty cents a packet and you can have some. Observe the gladsome girl beside him. Don't you wish you knew her? Do you know why she is gladsome? It is because her digestion is kept in such extraordinary order by taking one calcule pill a day. I suppose that you are aware that those glistening brown leather shoes that she wears combine style, elegance and comfort in a way that gives ease to the foot and allows free play to the bones of the thorax. If you don't know that you need only consult the little dotted diagram in the corner of the picture showing the human foot anatomically with bones of the thorax moving freely in the fibula and to think that that shoe can be had everywhere at fifteen dollars and seventy five cents. In short if you will take a comprehensive glance at the red and white house and the green lawn and the glistening motor car and the aspect of young love in the foreground you will realize that advertising is just one more item added to the pictured vision of unreality better than life itself. End of chapter four. Chapter five of The Garden of Folly by Stephen Leacock. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter five, Romances of Business. Note, business having become the most important thing in life it is quite clear that it is destined to swallow up the feeble things that we used to call literature and art. They must accommodate themselves or die. The two little romances that follow here are intended to show how this accommodation may be effected. It is now an open secret among all those who have anything to do with the making of the magazines that the advertising pages have come to be more interesting than the rest of the text. They are written by more highly trained and highly paid people. They are better illustrated and carry all through a higher interest, more punch. In short any businessman that turns to the advertising pages first and only when he has exhausted them does he fall back on the duller pages of romance and fiction which fill up the middle of the magazine. This situation is one which threatens our literature and I think the time has come when our story writers must create a new interest. It seems to me that this can best be done by borrowing from the advertising pages the glow of idealization which we have seen them to possess and at the same time that exactness of information as do costumes materials and prices in which they excel. Out of this a new school of fiction may evolve such stories as number one Alfred of the advertisements of romance of the back pages. The earliest recollections of Alfred Ellicott whose life forms the subject of this chronicle were of his family home in New England on the banks of the stickamuppet. A stream noted today for its attraction to tourists being with an easy motor ride from both New York and Boston and reached also by the Boston and Main Railway whose admirable dining car service makes access to the district and egress from it a sustained pleasure and which welcomes any complaint from its patrons in regard to the incivility of its employees. Here Alfred passed his boyhood. The house in which he lived was a typical colonial mansion known in the neighborhood as the ads. It was built in the colonial style sea booklet with a tall portico and wide sloping roof shingled everywhere with the new Lay Easy shingles the principal advantage in which is represented by reducing labor cost to men being able easily to lay three squares 30 by 10 feet in one morning. In fact these are the shingles of which Mr. P. O. Woodhead, sea insert the well-known builder of Potsdam, New Hampshire has said in his impressive way they reduce cost. Here Alfred spent a solitary boyhood his time spent largely in reverie and daydreams. When not able to sleep naturally he found that two grains of sleep tight inhaled up his nose brought on a delightful slumber from which he awoke completely refreshed at 50 cents a packet. It was when Alfred had reached the age of 19 years that lovely Luisa, a distant relative, came to live at the ads. The girl had been left an orphan by the death of parents who had not known that 10 minutes exercise on the practice system done on the floor of their bedroom would have preserved the lives of both of them. She had moreover been rendered penniless by the folly of a guardian who had never understood that investment is now a science that can be learned in seven lessons post-paid by applying at once. Penelous as she was, lovely Luisa on her arrival at the ads made an instant impression on the young and susceptible heart of Alfred. When she alighted from a motor car the tires of which were guaranteed to carry her 20,000 miles and which rolled with excellent softness over the driveway which had been treated with aspartomix which can be laid on by a child. The young girl presented a picture that charmed the eye. She was wearing one of the new Bersaicleria tailored suits which combined smartness with comfort and which have the special advantage that they come in all sizes and can be fitted not only to a frame as slender as lovely Luisa's but also on ladies of fuller figure. A set of measurements and directions being given with each suit, we may be sure that Luisa had such a set with her when she alighted. She wore her suit under one of the new fascisti hats which kill at a hundred yards and over a pair of tall tan boots which combine grace with comfort by being designed by an expert to fit easily on the instep and to move in harmony with the bones on the anthrax. Under her suit again, far under, Luisa wore one of this year's skin fit combinations which was imported directly from Lyon and without which no lady should be. When we say that the girl on alighting made a picture that would have pleased the eye of a hermit or a lobster or an undergraduate, we are not overstating it. Alfred who was wearing one of the new now or never tailored gray suits over brown boots as he stepped forth to meet the girl felt that his heart was no longer in his own keeping. During the days which followed the youthful Alfred became the constant companion and in addition the guide and mentor of the lovely girl. Himself a king golfer, he had soon initiated his beautiful cousin into the mysteries of golf and taught her to appreciate a good elastic ball such as the 1924 smacco of which the outer case is guaranteed never to chip or crumble. Under the same tutelage, the mysteries of Ma Zhong an excellent set of which was now been placed on the market direct from China, remember the words direct from China, afforded the young people a fascinating refuge from thought. It was a great pleasure to Alfred during these sweet hours of companionship to watch the gradual unfolding of the girl's mind. To help it to unfold the young man purchased and read out loud to Luisa a correspondence course in political economy and municipal taxation such as would enable the girl to fill a position of trust as tax assessor municipal expert or consulting town engineer. Together also they read over a course on cost accounting and overhead reckoning by which Luisa would have fitted at any moment to act as an insurance appraiser or to take over bankrupt stock. Then with every day the girl acquired new power of mind and a wider outlook. Indeed as professor O. J. Hooch D. F. organizer of the world's correspondent school in room six Avenue 4718 Oma says, Outlook means look out. We need not denote and full the blissful but anxious days during which Alfred conscious of his love hung suspended between hopes and fears. We will only say that the suspenders that he used were of the new hall over type with the central pulley adjusted to the play of his shoulders. No doubt this delicate adjustment helped the young man through the most troubled period of life keeping his shoulders flat and putting no pressure on his abdomen. In short they are the very braces which Mr. J. O. P. Bughouse of Wichita, Kansas whose picture is usually annexed has said they are the only ones I ever use. During this enchanted period of courtship Alfred contrived in various ways to convey the feelings which he dared not utter. Knowing that flowers can now be sent by telegraphic order to any address he had them expressed to Luisa from all parts of the country. These orders which were received at any hour of the day or night were filled under the direction of a staff of trained experts on whose taste and discretion of the customer may place the utmost reliance. In short it is of these orders that the well-known florist Mr. J. Q. W. Mudd of Wastabula, Washington has said in that terse language which he uses let us send them. In addition to the flowers Alfred also sent seeds, bulbs and shoots for which the charge is exactly the same and no greater. The inevitable time drew near when Alfred of the ads felt that he must know his fate and must hazard all on an avowal of his love. For this however he had prepared himself. He had overcome the natural diffidence of youth by purchasing and perusing a little manual called why be diffident self-confidence acquired by a new system of treatment in two lessons at fifty cents each. Alfred in sending for this little booklet enclosed U.S. postage stamps but it is important to notice that bills, express orders or any form of legal tender are similarly accepted for it. Nor was lovely Luisa unprepared. She too had studied a little manual entitled what a young girl ought to know and she knew it. The fateful moment came kneeling on one knee in front of Luisa a thing which he wasn't able to do without risk by wearing never grease trousers. Alfred declared his love in a few easy sentences selected from his manual. The deep blush which colored the face of the lovely Luisa was answer enough. Alfred rose to his feet with an easy movement of his suspenders and clasped the girl to his heart. There is no need here to describe the charming home wedding with which the marriage of Alfred and Luisa was celebrated at the ads. The good old place was cleaned and redecorated from cellar to basement. Alfred using for this purpose the new pneumo wheeze a vacuum cleaner which can be had on free trial for 10 days and which is guaranteed to remove dust from every corner and crevice. It is of this cleaner that Mr. XQ overhead himself a TQ of Yale the well-known expert has said they are the best cleaner that I know. The catering was placed in the hands of a catering firm. The invitations were printed and issued by an invitation firm the officiating clergyman was engaged on a simple basis of cost plus. Luisa looked charming and a wedding gown which could have been returned without charge if not satisfactory. Alfred's costume was guaranteed by the maker himself and as the happy pair sank back luxuriously on the seat of the landow a shock absorber with every car. Alfred placed his arm twice around Luisa's waist and murmured it pays to advertise. Number two Tom Latchford promoter a story which carries with it what is called an atmosphere of business and which may safely be read without loss of efficiency. In the little factory town of Smudgeville the five o'clock whistles blew the machine stopped the steam died the hands quit the doors closed the factory shut work was over. Seth Latchford shut the door of the tumble down place that was called Latchford's works and went and sat on a pile of shingles thinking of his overhead costs. The Latchford business was so undermined by overhead that with any further depression it would go up altogether. All around Seth as he sat were the great piles of crumbled gray dust that represented his five years' efforts to make cement. The old Latchford farm on the outskirts of the factory town had been all torn up and scarred with the fruitless attempt. As Seth sat there one might have looked twice or even three times at the man without noticing anything special about him but if one looked four times one observed more than one as remarked in three times the face and attitude were those of a man who had failed but there was something too in the hard-bitten tight-lipped close-nipped short-necked appearance of the man that showed that in his case failure after all meant little more than lack of success. Seth Latchford rose painfully from the bunch of shingles locked the door of the mean place that he called his works and walked across the lot to the house he called his own where the woman he called his wife was cooking supper for the things he called his children. Things any better today she queried Seth had shook deductively. Are your overhead expenses per unit of output still disproportionate to the selling cost of the product? Asked the sad-eyed woman as she helped her husband to the fried potatoes. Yes men, disbanded Seth, the capital cost of operation shows an ascending curve right along. I see, said men thoughtfully as she poured out molasses for the children and each further increment of outlay merely agglomerates your differential. It does, said Seth. There was a silence and Seth rose. Where you going? Throbbed his wife out to sit on the shingles. Seth glumped and think about my overhead and my differential cost. All right, said men, then suddenly her face sanguinated. Oh Seth, she said I forgot, there's a letter from brother Tom. He'll be here in the morning and he says he can straighten everything out too. Next morning Tom Latchford, a promoter, blew into Smudgeville and together Tom and Seth walked around the plant and looked at the crumbling piles of gray dust. The brothers were a contrast. Seth bent and hesitant. Tom square built, bull chested ox necked, box jawed, pawpied, inshored a hundred and fifty percent American all through. See here Seth, said Tom. You've tried five years to make cement and you failed. Seth disbanded, ascent. You've crushed up all the rocks on the old place and you've nothing for it but these piles of dirt. Seth injurgitated but without speaking. Well look here Tom went on. I've got an idea and it's a big thing. If we can pull it off and bring it down, I believe we can put it over. What are you going to do? asked Seth. Going to make a fortune out of this dirt, but first of all I want a thousand dollars cash. I haven't got it, exhaled Seth, and the bank won't lend it. I've tried them. Pshah! said Tom. Show me the way to that bank. I'll get it. Tom Latchford walked straight to the Smudgeville first national bank, straight into it and straight through to the manager's room. There was something compelling about the man, something dynamic in the way he sat down, and something almost titanic or teutonic in the way he laid his hat on the table. See here Mr. Beanhead, he said. I want a loan of a thousand dollars. The manager spasmed. On what security? he winced. None, said Latchford. The manager brightened. You offer no collateral at all? he said. Not a cent, said Tom, except my personality. Good! said the banker, delighted. You shall have it. The personal element, Mr. Latchford, has become the net bluzutra of business. I recognize in you one of those full-blooded, high-pepped, long-sighted, wide-eyed men who are entitled to bank loans. This bank will back you. 3. That night, Seth and men and Tom sat in consultation over their buttermilk and pancakes at this upper table. What do you mean to do with the money, Tom? asked men. Tom buttermilked a minute and then going to get a gang of men and treat that dirt. Treat it? Yes, treat it. Run it into vats and out again, sluice it, pulverize it, sling it round. Anything. Seth stopped pancaking and ear lifted. What's that for? he exuded. I'll tell you, said Tom. I'm going to raise bonds on it and float a company and make a cleanup. But it's only dirt, said Seth. Somehow we failed every time to make it harden into cement. I don't want cement, said the promoter. Dirt will do. Here's the idea. I'm going to give it a name. Something high-sounding. See? Something that seems to mean value. Did you ever hear of molybdenum? Well, what is it? You don't know. Or carborundum? Or tellurium? You don't know what they are. The public don't know what they are. But they mean money. Find a deposit of any of them and your fortune's made. Seth head nodded silent. I'll have an assayer come, tom it on and make an assay of all that dirt and crushed rock. That's only for appearance, of course. I don't care what he calls it. I'll give it a name that sounds good and announce it as a big discovery. See? The name I've settled on is Palladium. We'll announce a find of Palladium and form a company to work at. Men looked up from the little pile of children's clothing that she was sewing. Issuing common stock, she said, as she bid off a piece of thread on a basis of prospective earnings capitalized. But what then, said Seth, if we sell the stock and it's no good? We don't need to worry. We sell it and then we clear out. Where to? The sad-eyed woman looked up from the little garment in her lap. A vanna, she said. Four. Within a week it was known all over Smudgeville that heavy deposits of Palladium had been found on the old Latchford Place. Gangs of men were at work. Derricks, cranes, vats, and sleuces rose all over the place. Little crowds of people stood round to watch. The Palladium was put into a converter and carried from there to a container from which it passed to a disturber. It was then put into a hopper. What is it? asked the people. Palladium was the answer. The Smudgeville Intelligence explained that Palladium was a graminiferous amygdaloid and that its calcarius properties rendered it of great commercial value. It was practically impervious to collusion which made it a high soporific. An assayer was brought, a real one, and he walked round over the Latchford Place and carried off samples. The promoter let all the town know that the assayer had been on the property. But the report of the analysis of the dirt Tom Latchford showed to no one. He shoved it into the drawer of the kitchen dresser unopened. It was the assayer he wanted, not the report. Then Tom Latchford called again upon the banker. Mr. Beanhead, he said, my brother and I have made a find of igniferous Palladium. It runs at least 48% to the kilowatt and we want to raise money for incorporation and material. Mr. Latchford said to the banker, I congratulate you on your discovery. I recognize in you one of those wide vision, broad-sighted, frog-eyed men that make this country what it is. How much money do you want? Ten thousand dollars, said Tom. Five. That evening, when Tom came home, he told Seth and men that he had arranged the incorporation at thirty thousand dollars and was going to order ten thousand dollars worth of machinery. What machinery? asked his brother. Any machinery, said the promoter. It doesn't matter as long as it's bulky. The mayor assemblage and erection of machinery added men thoughtfully, as she helped the brothers do fried eggplant, conveys to the investor a guarantee of bona fides. But after supper, Seth Latchford went to the kitchen dresser and took out of it the assayers' report upon the dirt that lay in an envelope unopened. He ripped open the envelope and for a long while stood looking at the document with a frown upon his face. I'll not sell stuff like that, he muttered. No sir, I'll go broke before I sell it. Then he went out in the gathering dust and walked among the piles of dirt, kicking it with his feet and picking it up in his hands. When Seth Latchford came back to the kitchen where Tom and men sat shucking butternuts, there was resolution in his face. Tom, he said, when you sell out this company what do you expect to get? Tom looked up, stopped shucking. $30,000 at par, he said, $10,000 each for you and me and men, perhaps a lot more. You'll sell it to people here in town? Easy, said Tom. There are enough suckers right here to buy it all. And what do they get? That's their lookout, shrugged Tom. They can sell again if they're quick enough. But sooner or later, oh, sooner or later someone gets stung but it's not going to be us. Seth sat silent a while and if we do let go of it now, he asked, where are we? We owe the bank $15,000 and we're ruined. Seth looked Tom right in the face, dynamic as he was, the younger Latchford's face fell. See here Tom, evolve Seth slowly. I'll not sell those shares. The brother sat looking at each other, their faces working. If you don't, said Tom, it's ruined. I'll meet it, said Seth, his face still working. If you do, said Tom, his face stopping working, you'll meet it in the penitentiary. Tom, said Seth, there's been Latchford's in this place for four generations and never a thief among them. Six, for two weeks after that the work at the Palladium deposits went on and the Latchford's walked around the plant, avoiding each other. Tom, keen and restless, Seth, moody his eyes ever on the dirt. Only once Tom spoke to Seth, the brokers have placed the first lot of my shares at par, he said, and they can sell more, they say. They can't list them but they'll sell them on the curb. Give me your shares now in men's and we'll sell them and get out. Seth turned on his heel and without a word went to the house. He called his wife aside. He took out the assayer's paper, opened it and spread it out before her. Tom says he'll sell your shares for ten thousand dollars, men. Are you going to sell off that stuff? And he tapped the paper fiercely to our friends and neighbors, people of your own town. Men looked at the document. The chemical analysis was beyond her grasp, but the single item at the bottom, estimated to commercial value, was plain enough even for a child. No, Seth, she said. I can't do it. It ain't right. Look, men, Seth went on. I want my name to stand right in this town. If Tom tries to sell out those shares, could you get ten thousand dollars from your folks and buy them? I might, said men. I doubt Paul could raise it, but if you want it, Seth, I'll try. Seven. The next day, men started off to her folks in Pennsylvania to raise ten thousand dollars. And on the same morning, the shares of amalgamated Palladian Limited went on the local exchange as a curb security. And there was great excitement in financial circles in Smudgeville. The shares opened at 80, rose straight to par, reacted to 50, sank down to 20, lay there, gasping, and then jumped to par again in four hops. At 2 p.m. they were reported as restless, at 3, buoyant, and at closing time, strong with an undercurrent of weakness. That night, Tom Latchford packed his grip to leave by the midnight express bound towards Havana. I'm off, Seth. He said to say goodbye to men when she comes back. If you're wise, you'll get quick. The shares will break tomorrow, and then I'm not quitting, Tom, said Seth. Goodbye. Eight. Men came back two days later. I got the money, Seth, she said. Paul raised it partly on the steers and the rest on a mortgage. Too late, I guess, men, said Seth. The shares went to 500 yesterday, and this morning they're holding out for a thousand dollars a share. Nine. It was a week later that Tom Latchford sat in the Colorado Quaro Hotel at Havana with a cocktail in front of him and $4,000 in Cuban money to his credit, and it was there he got a copy of a home paper sent him by mail. He opened it with trembling hands looking for Seth's ruin, and instead of it he saw a big headline saying that amalgamated palladium was selling at 2,000 a share, and his hands trembled more. Last of all, he read a two-column account of the discovery of graphite on the Latchford Place, and it shook like a leaf all over. Meantime, men and Seth were sitting over their buttermilk in the kitchen living room, adding up figures. I can't cipher it out, said Seth, but it's millions all right. And what is the stuff anyway, said men, if it ain't palladium? Graphite is called, said Seth, always notice those black streaks in the crushings. I guess that's it. I'm glad I didn't sell. If I could have bought back those shares, I meant to give them to Tom, didn't I, men? Oh, certainly, said men, so did I, and I'm glad too, we didn't sell. I felt bad about it all along, Seth, and when I saw that assayer's paper where it said commercial value $10,000 a ton, a light broke in on me, and I saw it wasn't right. But I still don't see why those shares jumped up that way. The damn fool assayer, he must have put some New York guys' wives to it. They were just waiting for us, likely. I doubt, men, whether those New York financiers are quite as easy as they make out in the story papers. That's so, subsided men, and where Tom was a bum promoter, Seth was wrong in underestimating the commercial value of scientific analysis applied to the basic data of modern business. Number three, our business benefactors and after dinner symposium as reported by the humblest of the guests. No, said Mr. Spugg at the host of the party as he held one hand on the stem of his sport wine glass and kept his second after-dinner cigar in the fingers of the other. No, sir, I never could do fractions. He looked round the table with a sort of pride. All the other men except myself grunted ascent, and what's more, added Spugg, I've never felt the need of them to this day. There was a chorus of approval. Spugg, of course, is a big man, one of the biggest men in rubber, so they say, on the continent. There were other big men present at the dinner too. There was a big shirt man and a big fruit man and a man at the end of the table that I had frequently heard referred to as the Napoleon of frozen meat. In fact, that has been indicated in earlier pages of this book in such a gathering as this, there were certain to be several Napoleon's present who were spoken of as regular Napoleons, perfect Napoleons and so on. They are always found in any business gathering. There were some revolutionists present, also one man was pointed out to me as having revolutionized the dried apple business. Another had revolutionized the sale of weatherproof paint and a third was working up a revolution in eggs. In short, they were a typical group of what are now called big men, men who do big things. They were not thinkers. They were men who don't need to think. So it is naturally most impressive to hear these men say that they had never done fractions in their lives. If big men like them have no use for fractions, what earthly good are fractions anyway? But what interested me most was to hear the big men talk of the sidelines, the things that they carried on as mere appendages to the main interests of their business lives. How's that university of yours getting on spug, asked the big pope man. Better said spug, we've got a businessman at the head of it at last and he's putting it on business lines. We expect that our next balance sheet will make a pretty good showing. That's good, said the other, then they both fell silent to listen to the Napoleon of frozen meat, who was talking, so I gathered presently, about the church that he controlled. He had, the Napoleon was saying, no pep, no punch, Sunday after Sunday, it was the same thing. Every sermon, you know, just so much straight theology. Well, you see, a congregation won't stand for theology today. They want something up to date. Two or three times, I got hold of the old fellow and I said to him, can't you take up something that will let the people get away a little further from religion? But he couldn't. It wasn't in him. Couldn't you retire him, asked one of the listeners, not so very easily. We had the no written contract, you know, just the old fashioned appointment by letter. It was 40 years ago when they put him in and all the original letter said was, as long as it shall please God to bless his ministration. Well, I began to say, what can you do with that? Our lawyers admitted that they couldn't make sense of it. Then there was all that trouble about the churchyard went on the big man, pausing to light a new cigar. You remember that churchyard that there was all round our church with the willow trees and the gravestone and the old slabs laid flat right on the grass? Several men nodded. Well, you know, that sort of thing is a pretty poor ad for a church. The stones were old, half crumbling, and there wasn't a willow tree in the lot in decent shape. Of course, we wanted to level it all out, clean out the old monuments, cut out the trees and turf it neatly, put a good gravel motor drive in a crescent right through it. Well, the old fellow stood out against it and without his consent. So our lawyers said we ran a certain risk in removing the dead. There is some old law, it seems, against breaking the repose of the dead. It has no application, I understand, to an up-to-date cemetery, but it applies here. So we were stuck. Meantime, the churchyard was doing us harm. A congregation don't want to drive their cars among graves over grass. The broken stone will blow a tire as quick as anything. Well, what did you do? Asked bug. Oh, we got him out all right. The big man went on. We managed to get him in a corner on the pension question, and he let us have his resignation. And who have you got now? We've got an A1 man, all right. He was with the Presbyterians, though I think he'd been an Anglican for a while before that. But we went straight after him, met him at his own figure, and signed him. What are you giving him, asked bug. 15,000, said the Napoleon, buffing at his cigar. You can't get them for less, or not good ones. They simply won't come. They know what they're worth. There's an insurance company that would take our man at 15,000 tomorrow. He's pretty good, is he? Asked one of the men. Absolutely first class. He's the best publicity man I ever saw in a pulpit. You've seen that big sign he's put up with great guilt letters, just where the old willow with the sundial under it used to be. Every week there's the topic of the discourse and big lettering so that people can read it from their cars. And those are the people, mind you, that were going after under the old fellow. We had, I suppose, the poorest congregation in the city. A church can't get very far with them. There was a general growl of agreement. And every Sunday some new up-to-date subject, not theology, you know, but something that will hold the interests of the people. Last Sunday, for example, he preached on the Holy Land. He was there for the standard oil people six or seven years ago. And he showed it all so vividly. We fixed a moving picture machine where the font used to be, with the borings that they're making for oil near Damascus, and the new derricks at the Sea of Galilee. It was wonderful. But that's a pretty heavy sum to pay him, one of the guests said. I don't know how your funds can meet that. Just the other way, said the big man. We make on it. With a live man like that, you get it all back. Last Sabbath day, our oratorial loan broke even with the week's expenses. That will show you the class of people that we're attracting. Well, that's certainly pretty good, assented several of the men. Yes, and more than that, take the overhead. Now, in the old fashioned church, the overhead was everything. Light and power alone were among the biggest items that they thought about. Well, we've changed all that. You can't exactly cut out the overhead altogether in running a church, but you can reduce it to a point where it doesn't matter. And what we find is that with plenty of current receipts from social entertainments, concerts and lotteries and dances and so on, we don't have to worry about the question of light and power at all. In fact, we never think of it. The speaker paused and the host took occasion of the pause to start the port wine moving round and to beckon to the butler for more cigars, whereupon the general talk broke out again, and the purely spiritual tone of the conversation was lost. But I couldn't help revolving in mind, as I presently winded my way home, the wonderful things that the big businessmen are doing for our colleges and churches. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of The Garden of Folly by Stephen Leacock This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6, The Perfect Lover's Guide, Or How to Select a Mate on Sea or on Shore Our progress through the Garden of Folly, having led us to view the follies of the mind and body, of failure and success, we are now broad inside of the supremest folly of all, the most ancient and the most modern, the folly of love. We suppose that even the dullest of our readers, and we are speaking with emphasis, will sit up here and give evidence of something approaching to an intelligent interest. Indeed, we may say that we have been induced to make up this part of our inquiry in response to a wide public demand, the only reason, by the way, which induces us to do anything. We therefore propose to construct, in condensed form, a sort of lover's guide or manual of love. Preface On the Importance of Selecting a Wife Few people appreciate at its true importance the selection of a wife. One has only to look at other men's wives to realize how carelessly they have been selected. A great many of them are too small, others are too large. Others, again, while suitable as to size, are of poor quality. With others the coloring is imperfect or easily washed out. In short, if a man desires to select a wife of the right size and shape of good color and wearing quality, one that is washable and will not bleach out in the sun, he must be willing to devote time and study to the question. Many a young man admits after marriage, with regret, that he has selected his wife too rashly, that if he had used an intelligence test on her, he would never have taken her, that he thought she knew things that she doesn't know, that her sense of humor is a way below his standard, that she can't play poker, and that he would like another pick. For such young men there is no hope to be given, their choice is made. But those whose selection is still to be taken, we would advise to be warned in time and to study the whole problem of selecting a wife with the care that it deserves. At what age should a man marry? Our first inquiry, then, is the age at which a man ought to turn his thoughts towards marriage. The law of the state of New York, and of many other states, and the common law of England on which these laws are based, all assign, as the age of marriage, fourteen years for a man and twelve years for a woman. But we are against this. We have a feeling that it is too soon. A man of fourteen still lacks something in breath, and even in height. We doubt if his character has reached the maturity that it will have at sixty. Similarly, a woman of twelve is still in a way, indeed in a whole lot of ways, undeveloped, she has scarcely seen enough of life, to be able to select a mate with the same certainty with which the shipping companies picked them. We are informed it is true that the Hindu women are married at twelve years of age, but on this point we can only refer our readers to the Hindu edition of our manual. Western women at twelve are not yet formed. The wise young man will wait until they get bigger. Anyone who wants one of those little wee Hindus is welcome to her. At what age, then, should a young girl or a young man begin to think of marriage? We are not prepared to indicate any precise moment in life, but there will come a time in the life of any of them at which new aspirations and new wants will turn their thoughts towards marriage. When a young girl begins to feel that she wants a house of her own, a large one, with a butler and a chauffeur and two motorcars and a box at the opera, then the time has come when she must seek a husband. Her father will never give her these things, so too with the young man. The time comes when his surroundings begin to paw on him, when he ceases to care to spend his evenings with billiard markers, prize fighters, and dog fanciers. When he begins to want to pass his time with some companion, softer than a prize fighter and dearer, if it is possible, than a dog fancier. Then we say and we say it emphatically, the young man ought to get married. What young people ought to know. But stop, before the young man or the young woman can take any steps in the direction of marriage, they must first fit themselves for it. All the manuals on the subject are united on this. Young people must not be hurried into matrimony until they have an adequate knowledge of a great many things that it will be essential for them to know in married life. Most important is it that our young people should have a proper acquaintance with the laws of health, a knowledge ensured of their own bodies. The young men and women of our present generation, in spite of the existence of the admirable little manuals of Dr. Snide, Dr. Snoop, and others, are painfully ignorant of their own bodies. We ourselves met a girl the other day, a great big one, not a little Hindu, who didn't know where her esophagus was. Apparently she had been going round with her esophagus for twenty years and didn't know that she had one. Inquiry showed that she was also ignorant of her diaphragm, and what it did for her, and knew nothing of her cerebellum, except that it was part of her foot. This girl, charming as she appeared externally, we went no further than that, was obviously unfitted for matrimony. Indeed we should strongly advise every young lover to see to it that no girl suffering from ignorance of this sort is wished upon him. The lover should first elicit by a gentle questioning just what is the state of knowledge of his prospective bride. He may frame his questions with a tenderness calculated to allay any possible alarm, such as, a whisper to me, darling, what do you take to be the primary functions of the liver? Or tell me, dearest, what are the premonitory symptoms of coagulation of the head? If the anxious lover does not feel in himself the ability to elicit or to impart this knowledge without help, he may very properly call to his aid the services of an examination paper as set in any medical college. In this he need only insert a few suitable terms of endearment and the aim is achieved at once. His questionnaire, for example, might take this form. One, indicate as briefly as possible, darling, the location and functions of the sebaceous glands. Two, tell me, in your own bright way, the names of the bones of the head, and then give me a kiss. Three, what do you take to be the premonitory symptom, sweetheart, of locomotor ataxia, and what would my darling do if I got it? But it would be greatly to be preferred that no such test would be necessary. We should advise for every young girl who is thinking of marriage a proper course of preparation. We would suggest that she read, first of all, Grey's Anatomy, supplementing it with archibald on the diseases of the bones. To do this she might add adame on pathology, Todd on parasitology, and any standard text on locomotor ataxia. If, in addition to this, the girl has learned something of sanitation, of the elements of sewage, and the disposal of garbage, she then becomes one with whom any young man would be proud to share his own, especially the cellar and the plumbing. Nor should the youth himself be ignorant. His body, of course, he must know from A to Z. He should be able to tell offhand how many toes he has, the location of his ears, the number of vertebra in his spine, the measurement of his facial angle, the spannel content of his skull, and the width of his mouth. These things go without saying, but in addition to this no young man should hurry into marriage without some acquaintance with the world and especially with business and money. We met a young man the other day, we are always meeting them when we least expect it, hoping to get married shortly and yet absolutely ignorant of the Federal Reserve System and the composition of index numbers and the rise and fall of the exchanges. We at once put in his hands Gustav Kassel's arithmetic of the exchanges and Professor Jay M. Keynes's incubation of a monetary standard. We were just in time, he decided not to get married. Courtship, its conduct and its etiquette, but let us suppose these preliminary difficulties overcome. Imagine our young people as having reached the age of marriage and properly equipped with the necessary knowledge for this marriage state. What next? There follows then the period of love and courtship, admittedly the most blissful phase of human existence. The young lover, though he has selected his mate, has not yet ventured to declare himself. He is filled with hopes and fears, with alternating exultation and despair. At one moment he is in the heights, at another he is in the depths. He goes away up and then away down. He oscillates to and fro, at one instant he is hurled forward, at another he is shot backward. At times again he is whirled sideways and thrown edgeways or left sticking wrong side up. How must the lover conduct himself during this period of violent emotion? How must his time be spent? What can he do to absorb the terrific shocks which come at him, one after the other? We have no hesitation in answering this inquiry. All the authorities on the subject are agreed upon the point. The young lover must spend his time in immediate communion with nature. Fleeing the crowded haunts of man, he must go and bury himself in the forest. There, in the heart of the woods, he must lie prone upon his back, looking upwards at the sky and thinking what a worm he is. Or he must climb to the height of the mountains and stand upon a dizzy crag letting the wind blow through his hair. While doing this, he must reflect how little it would matter if the wind blew him into fragments and carried him away. In all weathers he must sally forth. He must let the storm buffet him. He must let the rain beat upon his brow. He must take crack after crack of lightning right on his neck. Just why he must do these things we are not prepared to say, but we know that only in this way can the lover get himself into that attitude of humility and ecstasy which can make him worthy of his adored. This course of conduct, having been admitted by generations of poets and lovers to be a absolutely compulsory, we venture in our manual to simplify it a little by reducing it to a routine. In this way the young lover, who might have had some doubts as to where and how to begin, can undertake his duties in a systematic way. Schedule of the perfect lover's day. Five-thirty. Dawn. Rise from a sleepless night. Six o'clock. Lave himself in a running brook, or if this is not possible, put his head under a tap. Six-thirty to seven-thirty. Crag work on the hills. Eight o'clock. Push aside his untasted breakfast. Eight-thirty to twelve. Lie on stomach in long grass in meadow, pouring on a book. Twelve noon. Returning for a moment to busy haunt of men, or crowded mart, that is to say, going downtown, catch sight on the street for a moment of adored object, and at once, twelve-thirty, beat it for the woods. Twelve-thirty till dark, in the woods, alone with nature, penetrating to the heart of the woods, go and sit in frog pond, making a sound like a frog. Eight-thirty to nine-thirty. For one brief hour be with adored object. The outside world will see him nothing but a gentleman friend taking a lady friend for a ride on a streetcar, but really the buffeting and the oscillating and side-swinging is going on all the time just the same. Ten p.m. A dash for the open. Get out under the stars. Count them. Wonder whether they are looking down on her also. Twelve midnight. Retire to sleepless night, but before starting it, throw the casement wide and let the cool night wind slap his face. We not only assert that we are willing to guarantee that this line of activity, systematically kept up for a month, will maintain the lover and the condition proper to his business. He will be brought nearer and nearer to the point at which he will stake his awe on a proposal of marriage. But meantime, before we permit him to take this last step, it is proper to consider the conduct of the object of his affections. What is she doing? How does she take it? Is she swinging back and forward, up and down, and at being impelled sideways in the same way as the young lover? Not quite. For the young girl, the first dawn of love is a period of doubt, of hesitating, of gentle fluttering to and fro. She needs guidance, like a dove about to spread its wings on a far flight. She would feign ask herself whether this flight must lead. What sort of a flight is it going to be? Nor is she willing to confess to herself that love has yet come to her. She does not know whether what she feels is love, or is something else. Her soul shrinks from the final avowal. In this position, the girl needs beyond everything else advice, and fortunately for her she can get it. In earlier times she was left to commune with her soul in the dark. Now she is not. All she has to do is to write to any reputable Saturday afternoon edition of a first glass paper, and she could get advice and information suited to every stage of her incipient courtship. Each letter in which her timid soul reveals itself will be not only answered, but answered in print, in a way calculated to gratify her whole circle of friends. We need hardly say, therefore, that in preparing our manual, we have devoted very especially attention to correspondence of this sort. We have endeavored to reduce it, like everything else, to a systematic or general form, to make it, as it were, a type or pattern from which the young girl seeking our aid, and we welcome her with open arms when she does it, may find complete guidance. We append here one little series from the many samples of correspondence that might be offered. The details vary, but the essential ideas are always the same, and we draw attention especially to the way in which the tender hesitating nature of the young girl is brought, under our guidance, to a full knowledge of herself. In fact, what we couldn't teach her isn't worth knowing. The tangled problems of love as straightened out in the correspondence department of our manual. Letter number one. From our correspondent, Ms. Lucinda Lovelorn, to ourselves. By the way, we named her. We know how to pick the names every time. Two days ago I was introduced by a gentleman friend to a gentleman in a streetcar. Yesterday I met this second gentleman on the street, and he asked me if I would walk with him afternoons. I do not know yet whether I love him, as I have only seen him on a streetcar. Perhaps you can tell me whether it would be right for me to walk with him afternoons, and whether there would be anything un-lady-like in my doing so. If I walk with him, is it proper to walk on the left side of the gentleman, or does the lady walk on the right side? Letter number two. From ourselves, to Lucinda. Yes, we think you may safely accept the invitation to walk with your new friend, afternoons. Whether you walk on his left side or his right will depend on circumstances. If he has lost his left eye, you walk on his right side, otherwise you have your pick of sides. But remember, Lucinda, that you must let him see, from your manner, at the very first, that your feeling for him is purely one of wholesome camaraderie and nothing further. Without being cold to him, put into your manner, just that little touch of hot tur, and that suspicion of élonnement, that will let him realize that you are a lady. In other words, we mean don't let him start anything. Do you get us? Letter number three. From Lucinda, to us. The gentleman friend, with which I have been talking afternoons, asked me if he might call mornings and also take me out nights. I do not know whether I love him yet, although he is a good dresser. Will it be all right if I let him take me picture nights? Till now, whenever gentlemen friends have taken me places evenings, mother has been along. If I go with this party to pictures, do you think that I compromise myself? And if it was you, would you have mother alone? Letter number four. From us to Lucinda. We have thought over your sweet letter very deeply, dear Lucinda, because we realize how perplexed and troubled you are. On the whole, we think that you may now safely go out at night with your new friend, but remember that in granting him this privilege, you must let him know that you have in no way ceased to be a lady. It would be necessary for you to resist in a dignified way any undue advances that he may make. We would suggest that you carry a tack-hammer along with you, and if your new friend starts anything, let him have it on the bean. And, by the way, let us know what he does about the advances. We are always interested in that sort of thing. We know further that you ask whether, if it was we, we would want your mother along. No, dear, we would not. Letter number five. From Lucinda to us. Since I wrote you last, the gentleman friend of which I spoke, took me out twice nights. I do not know whether I love him dearly yet, but he is to have an increase of salary from his firm, because he is an A1 salesman. The last time we went out, he asked me if I liked lobsters, because if I did, he knew where they had a good lobster place. But I said no, because I thought that a party respects a girl more if he refuses lobster's gentleman. All the time we were out, he behaved just like a perfect gentleman, and didn't do anything. Do you think that if he asked me again, it would be all right to let him give me lobster's nights? Letter number six. From us to Lucinda. We are glad to learn that your evening outing with your friend was so successful, and it is nice to think that he did not make any wrong advances at all, but behaved like a perfect gentleman. But when it comes to this lobster stuff, you touch on something that we know, and on which we speak with the greatest firmness. It is not proper for you to accept a lobster, unless you have reasons to believe that in giving it, he is asking you to share his life. The time has come for you, dear little girl, to be very firm. You must ask your gentleman friend to come home with you to your house, and meet your mother. If he is a man, he will do it. But if he shrinks from it and offers you a lobster instead, then it is clear that he has been trifling with your heart, and you must let him go. You will suffer a little amaldicke, but so you would if you took the lobster. On the other hand, if your firmness wins, you gain a husband and a home. Hence, our advice is, go to it, Lucinda. After we have carried on and concluded a correspondence such as this, it is always a delight for us to receive a final letter effervescent in happiness, stating that the proposal has been made and accepted, and asking what presence and how many presence a girl may accept from a gentleman to whom she is engaged, and what is always a strange reflection to us, that this gentleman friend with the lobsters is the very same person as the young lover beating it up and down in the woods, the same person, only seen in different aspects. The Proposal of Marriage But we are running on a little too fast. We have run clear over the proposal of marriage, the most important, the most thrilling item of the whole manual of love. In what way, we are asking, and we ask back, should a proposal of marriage be made? Now, we readily admit that the proposal of marriage is most frequently made by direct speech, in short, by word of mouth. This may have certain advantages in the way of directness, rapidity, and ease of ratification. But we cannot but feel that it lacks much in symmetry, harmony, and all-around completeness. We therefore favor entirely the proposal of marriage by means of a written letter. This allows the lover to state his feeling so definitely, and so finally, that a refusal becomes difficult, if not impossible. For such a letter, however, it is not wise to rely upon the unaided imagination. Here again, the use of a systematized form is greatly to be preferred. The general requirements for such a letter we are prepared to state in the following terms, which are based, we may say, on some of the greatest current authorities. In the perfect letter of proposal, the young lover should, first of all, dwell upon the depth and sincerity of his love. He should express, at the same time, his esteem and appreciation of the family into which he hopes to have the honor of entering, and, in conclusion, in a manly and frank way, he should say something about his own position in life and his prospects. On this basis, we venture to suggest the following form. Dear Miss Blank Blank, ever since I first had the honor of meeting you beside the sawdust pile behind the sawmill at the YMCA picnic, on the 18th of June, ultimate, I have realized that I entertained for you a feeling which is different from any feeling which I have hitherto entertained for anyone for whom I have entertained the feeling. Your coming into my life has brought something into my life, which was not in my life before you brought it into my life. I cannot hope in any way to be worthy of you, and the more I think of you, the more I despise myself and realize that till I met you I had been moving steadily down, but that after I met you I went up, and I think that with your help I could keep on going up and staying up. Since I met you I have also had the pleasure of meeting your mother and your father, and I have learned to love and honor them. I think your father is too cute for anything. Didn't he look just killing in that little velvet smoking-jacket the other evening? My feelings toward your mother are also a matter which I think should give me an added claim to your favorable consideration. I myself never had a mother, but now that I have seen yours I am, in a way, glad. My prospects in life are such as will at least enable me to maintain you as well as you are maintained now. My salary, which, while not large, will suffice to support you, and to dress you in part at least, which is all I dare ask at present. At my uncle's death I expect to inherit a very comfortable personal fortune, and it is clear therefore that in order to be in a satisfactory situation I have only to poison my uncle. On all these grounds I venture to ask your hand in marriage and to request the favor of a reply at your early convenience to be 606 Station B. It is hardly necessary for us to indicate the correct form in which an answer to such a letter of proposal should be framed. The training in business correspondence, now given to all young girls in our secondary schools, makes such a composition a matter of extreme ease, but we might merely suggest that the normal and usual answer in the best circles runs as follows. Dear sir, yours of the eighteenth incident to hand and contents noted, and in reply would say that I accept your proposal, FOB, this city, and will take delivery of goods at any time. Love and kisses from your loving Lucinda. THE PHYSIOLOGY OF LOVE While we were discussing above the question of what young people ought to know in regard to their esophagei and so forth, it occurred to us that we might append to this discussion a further treatment of the physiology of love. We said nothing about it at the moment, but we went on thinking about it. The topic sounded daring, but that wasn't really the aspect of it that we had in mind. Our notion was, and is, to use it in a literary way for the general brightening of fiction. It seemed to us that modern fiction already owed much to the physiologist and might with advantage go still further in the same direction. We were first led to think of this from perusing an up-to-date crime story in which we noticed the following physiological changes to take place in the salute-owns phase, all in five minutes. To begin with, an impassive mask covered it. Then a quick suspicion chased itself across it. An intense determination hardened it. A bead of moisture appeared on it. A smile passed over it. A gleam of intelligence shot across it. A look of perplexity furrowed it. A sudden flash of triumph lighted it up. And then the impassive mask fell on it again. These rapid changes of the face are evidently connected with the pursuit of crime. If anyone wants to go in for a life of crime on either side for it or against it, he has to learn to use his face in this way. He must be able to harden it, relax it, expand it at will, and if need be, to drop a mask right over it, like putting it into a garage. But it is quite different we have observed with the love story, the seed of which seems to be in the stomach. In the same romance in which the salute-own worked his face, we noticed that a similar lot of physiological disturbances were set up at intervals in the heroine. In her case, however, the symptoms did not sweep over her face, which was needed for other purposes. They were internal. They began as soon as she met the hero, and anyone will easily recognize in them the progress and the fate of love. The series ran like this. A new gladness ran through her. A thrill coursed through her. Something woke up within her that had been dead. A great yearning welled up within her. Something seemed to go out from her that was not of her nor to her. Everything sank within her. This last symptom is naturally so serious that it ends the book. Indeed, we notice that when things sink inside the heroine, it means that something vital has come unhooked. Quite different is the case of the hero, the strong man. With him the operation of the story is all done seemingly with strings, with stretching and tension. He gets taught, and he gets rigid. His muscles tighten into steel bands. In fact, you could easily run a sewing machine off him. Now, there is no doubt that these physiological descriptions are admirable in their realism. The only trouble is that they don't go far enough. It has seemed to us that with the help of a good textbook, an excellent literary effect could be obtained by heightening this physiological coloring and letting it be quite clear just what is happening anatomically and biologically to the characters in the story. To illustrate this, we append here a sample of such a romance. The story is called a physiological Philip, and it tells of nothing more unusual than the meeting of two lovers in a lane. But slight as it is, it will do to convey our idea. Physiological Philip. A tale of the textbook. Philip Heatherhead, whom we designate physiological Philip, as he strolled down the lane in the glory of early June, presented a splendid picture of young manhood. By this we mean that his bony framework was longer than the average, and that instead of walking like an ape, he stood erect, with his skull balanced on his spinal column, in a way rarely excelled even in a museum. The young man appeared in the full glory of perfect health, or shall we say to be more exact, that his temperature was ninety-eight, is respiration normal, his skin entirely free from mange, erosipolis, and prickly heat. As physiological Philip walked thus down the lane, listening to the singing of a blithesome bird, occasioned, though he did not suspect it by a chemical reaction inside the bird's abdomen, a sense of gladness seemed to fill him. Of course what really was happening was that in the splendid shape in which Philip was, his whole system was feeling the stimulus of an intermolecular diffusion of inspired oxygen. That is why he was full. At a turn of the path Philip suddenly became aware of a young girl advancing to meet him. Her spinal column, though shorter than his, was elongated and erect, and Philip saw at once that she was not a chimpanzee. She wore no hat, and the thick capillary growth which covered her cranium, waved in the sunlight, and fell low over her eye sockets. The elasticity of her step revealed not the slightest trace of appendicitis or locomotor ataxia. While all thought of eczema, measles, or spotty discoloration of the cuticle, was precluded by the smoothness and homogeneity of her skin. At the side of Philip, the subcutaneous pigmentation of the girl's face underwent an intensification. At the same time, the beating of the young man's heart produced in his countenance also a temporary inflammation due to an under-oxidation of the tissues of his face. They met, and their hands instinctively clasped, by an inter-adjustment of the bones, known only in mankind and the higher apes, but not seen in the dog. For a moment the two lovers, for such their physiological symptoms, though in themselves not dangerous, provided a proper treatment were applied without delay, proclaimed them, were unable to find words. This, however, did not indicate, see, Barker on the nervous system, an inhibition of the metabolism of the brain, but rather a peculiar condition of the mucous membrane of the lip, not in itself serious. Philip found words first. He naturally would, owing to the fact that in the male, as Darwin first noticed, the control of the nerve ganglions is more rigid than in the female. I am so glad you've come, he said. The words were simple, indeed he could hardly have made them simpler, unless by inserting the preposition that, and restoring the auxiliary from its abbreviated form. But simple as they were, they thrilled the young girl to the heart, obviously by setting up the form of nerve disturbance which Huxley has so admirably described in his discussion of the effect of external stimuli on the decomposition of food. I couldn't say away, she murmured. The text is here a little perplexing. No doubt the girl refers to some inhibition in her feet, involving an inability to use the great toe. It is an obscure melody, and Sir William Osler inclined to ascribe it to excessive alcoholism, but she may have had it. Unfortunately the currant of the romance moves on too fast to allow investigation. Philip reached out and drew the girl towards him. Then my answer is yes, he cried jubilantly. To do this he inhaled deeply and then ejected the entire contents of his lungs with a sudden impetus. In the dog this produces barking. See Sir Michael Foster on animal physiology. It is, she murmured. Philip drew the girl's form towards him till he had it close to his own form and parallel to it, both remaining perpendicular, and then bending the upper vertebra of his spinal column forwards and sideways, he introduced his face into a close proximity with hers. In this attitude, difficult to sustain for a prolonged period, he brought his upper and lower lips together, protruded them forward, and placed them softly against hers in a movement seen also in the orangutan, but never in the hippopotamus. And with this kiss the atheist lovers wandered back hand in hand up the lane, the bird upon the bow singing more blightly than ever, owing possibly to the increased distention of its diaphragm. End of chapter 6