ot follow that I mean to introduce modern
and ingenuous youth to the society of these gentlemen. Each man has his
pet book. I still retain a great affection for a man of my own age who
gives on birthdays and great feasts copies of "The Wide, Wide World" and
"Queechy" to his grandchildren and their friends! Could you believe
that? He dislikes Miss Austen's novels and sneers at Miss Farrar's
"Marriage." He has never been able to read Miss Edgeworth's book; and he
considers Pepys's "Diary" an immoral book! Now, I find it very hard to
exist without at least a weekly peep into Pepys. And, by the way, in a
number of the _Atlantic Monthly_ not so long ago there is a vivid,
pathetic, and excellently written piece of literature. It is "A Portion
of the Diurnal of Mrs Eliz^th Pepys" by E. Barrington.

If anybody asks me why I like Pepys, I do not feel obliged to reply. I
might incriminate myself. Very often, indeed, by answering a direct
question about books, one does incriminate oneself.

However, to return to what I was saying--while I love the "Memoirs of
Cardinal de Retz," I adore--to be a little extravagant--the "Letters of
Saint Vincent de Paul." The man that does not know the real story of the
life of Saint Vincent de Paul knows nothing of the evolution of the
brotherhood of man in the seventeenth century. This Frenchman really
fought with beasts for the life of children, and was the only real
reformer in the France of his time.

Now it is not because Saint Vincent was for a time the preceptor of
Cardinal de Retz that I find the Cardinal so delightful! On the
contrary! I enjoy the Cardinal, famous coadjutor of his uncle, the
Archbishop of Paris, because he is a true type of the polite, the
worldly, and the intriguing gentleman of his time. He died a good
peaceful death, as all the gay and the gallant did at his time. He
earned the deepest affection and respect of Madame de S['e]vign['e], for
which any discerning man might have been willing to spend half a
lifetime. But even that is beside the point. He lives for me because he
gives a picture of the French ruling classes of his time which is
shamelessly true. No living man to-day in political office, although he
might be as great an intriguer as the Cardinal, would dare to be so
interestingly shameless. That is a great charm in itself. And, then, if
you read him in French, you discover that he knew how to make
literature.

The only wonder in my mind has always been how