of wealth. Now, by suppressing savings,
Sardanapalus [by " Sardanapalus," M. Pelletan only
means extravagant luxury, and the despotism
which that luxury exerts on society] destroys
something more than wealth in perspective; he
destroys the first of household virtues.

But how is the sponge to be passed over the
slate and the household set afloat again? By
work? But they don't know how to work, and
are not possessed of a single talent for work.
There are only two ways of coining money and
improvising an income—a place under government,
or a lucky hit at the Bourse—intrigue or
stock-jobbing.

It is sad to say, but a portion of France
regards the State as an universal "Uncle from
America," kept in reserve by destiny, as the
friend in need of all who have run through their
patrimony. Certainly, the service of the state
is honourable, when a man has gained his position
by his merit. But when an individual
without right or capacity demands a place as he
would demand alms, and when he holds out his
hand at the door of an ante-chamber as he would
hold out his basin for soup at the door of a
convent, the time is almost come to add a new
clause to the law against mendicity.

What makes A MAN is the spirit of work,
which engenders the spirit of liberty, which
in turn develops the riches of a nation.
Private virtue comes to the aid of public virtue;
pride in the individual becomes dignity in the
citizen; both united, constitute the greatness
of the country. History has noted that in the
eighteenth century, wherever Protestantism lived
side by side with Catholicism, it surpassed its
neighbour in ability and wealth. The revocation
of the Edict of Nantes, by systematically
excluding Protestants from every favour and
every function, forced them into self-dependence
and the acquirement of an iron will.

But a petitioner is neither a will nor a person.
He is a worn-out coin, a note of a broken
bank, a social cipher, another man's man, a
patron's man and a patron's wife's man. He
carries madame's letters to the post, he takes
out madame's dog for a walk. Madame is over
fifty; for him she is but twenty. He accepts
the fiction; he has neither an opinion nor
human self-respect. A valet condemned to
crawl before another valet who has a bit more
lace on his livery, he receives a rebuff, and
smiles; they say " No " to him, and he smiles;
they turn him out of the ante-chamber, and he
continues to smile. He wears a stereotyped
smile. When he begins to doubt his own
success, he sets on his wife to renew the
charge. Still young and handsome, she
endeavours to soften the brazen front of bureaucracy.
The Arabs have an admirable proverb: " If
the man whom you want to make use of, is
riding an ass, say to him, ' What a beautiful
horse you have got, my lord!' " It comprises,
between the first word and the last, the
complete art of getting on.

But is it always possible to reckon on a place
under government, to refresh the faded
splendours of one's household? Out of a thousand
applicants, only one succeeds; the hope of
place is a mere lottery ticket. There remains,
then, the desperate resource of speculation at
the Bourse—or rather of speculation on your
neighbour's purse. For what is the Bourse?
The communism of luck. All is open to everybody.
You enter with an empty wallet, you
walk out with a million of francs in it. That is
what is said; but wait an instant.

There are two sorts of gamblers at the
Bourse, the big ones and the little ones. The
big ones, the gamblers certain of winning,
occupy high positions. They are versed in the
mysteries of the game. They haul millions by
shovelfuls, and spend them as quickly, in order
to have the pleasure of getting them back
again. Those gentlemen mostly buy what they
call " an affair"—a mine, a factory, a contract.
They pay a certain sum for it on Saturday, and
on Sunday they sell it for four times its cost, to
a good-natured company, of which they naturally
take the direction. They then issue half the
shares, keeping the other half in their pocketbook.
Thanks to their credit as thorough-grained
rogues, the shares issued sell for a premium,
which increases and rises like the flowing tide.
Then, when it seems to have reached the maximum,
they throw upon the market, at one
single cast, the other half of the shares which
they held in reserve. They flood the market;
the tumble begins. The fall, driven on by
panic, descends below all reasonable limits.
When it has reached its lowest point, the
founders of the company, little by little, buy up
the panic-stricken shares, which soon rise again
to par, and the see-saw of the market recommences.
By this very simple game, millions of
francs are realised. We may, therefore,
consider every financial company which gambles at
the Bourse, as a machine organised by clever
rogues for turning simpletons to profit.

What is stock-jobbing? A traffic on the
chance of a profit. Everybody enjoys the liberty
of estimating an imaginary profit according to
his own fancy. He also enjoys the liberty of
selling at a fancy price, his hypothetical profits.
Hence stock-jobbing.

As man is of a prudent nature, and money
still more so, it appears at first sight that an
uncertain enterprise would always be quoted
below its real value; for uncertainty, economically
speaking, is a cause of depreciation. And
this would evidently be the case if every one
bought the share which gives him the right to
an eventual dividend, with the intention of keeping
it and making an investment of it. But, on
the contrary, the share is bought, simply to give
it an increased value, and to sell it again at a
premium, thanks to its conventional increase of
value. In order that there should be a premium,
there must be a rise; and in order that there
should be a rise, there must be a set of men
interested in causing a rise. Wherever there is a
chance of a premium, this set of men flocks to
the banquet. Exactly as turning-tables turn all
the better the more vou are anxious to see them