ives that he has made a
mistake, he has only one thing left for him to do: disappear altogether
from the scene, for, having deceived himself, he has been guilty of
deceiving others.'

The aim of man--of the leader of men especially--is to seek truth at any
price.

Some men proudly say at the top of their voices: 'I swear by the faith
of my ancestors, what I thought at twenty I think now. I have never
changed my opinions, and, with God's help, will never change them.'

Those men believe themselves to be heroes; they are asses, and if they
are leaders of men, they are most dangerous asses.

To live and learn should be the object of every intelligent man whose
eyes are not blinded by conceit or obstinacy.

CHAPTER VI

WHAT WE OWE TO CHANCE

Pascal once said that if Cleopatra's nose had been half an inch shorter
the face of the world would have been changed. If we read history, or
even only use our own recollections, we can get up an interesting and
sometimes amusing record of more or less important events which are
entirely due to chance or most insignificant incidents.

To begin with my noble self. On August 30, 1872, I went to the St.
Lazare station in Paris to catch a train to Versailles. At the foot of
the stairs I met a friend whom I had not seen for a long time. He took
me to the cafe, and there, over a cup of coffee, we chatted for half an
hour. I missed my train; but fortunately for me I did, for that train
which I was to have caught was a total wreck, and thirty lives were lost
in the accident.

A lady whom I knew many years ago once eloped with a young man she had
fallen in love with. Now, this was very wicked, because she was married.
It was on a cold December day. When both arrived at the hotel where they
were going to stay, they found no fire in their apartment, and ordered
one to be made at once. While this was going on they both caught a cold,
and were seized with an endless fit of sneezing. They thought that they
looked so ridiculous--well, the lady did, at any rate--that she ordered
her trunk to be taken to the station immediately. She caught the next
train to Paris, and never did I hear that she was guilty of any escapade
ever after. But for that fire that was not lit, all would have been
lost.

At the inquest which a few days ago was held over the body of Mrs. Gore,
the American lady who was shot accidentally while in the room of her
Russian friend, it was discovered that the bullet