"When I was modestly dressed, like any of my hearers, I was half starved. Punch and his bells would attract crowds, but my good pencils attracted nobody. I imitated Punch and his bells, and now I have two hundred depots in Paris. I dine at the best cafes, drink the best wine, live on the best of everything, while my defamers get poor and lank, as they deserve to be. Who are my defamers? Envious swindlers! Men who try to ape me, but are too stupid and too dishonest to succeed. They endeavor to attract notice as mountebanks, and then foist upon the public worthless trash, and hope thus to succeed. Ah! defamers of mine, you are fools as well as knaves. Fools, to think that any man can succeed by systematically and persistently cheating the public. Knaves, for desiring the public's money without giving them an equivalent. I am an honest man. I have no bad habits; and I now declare, if any trader, inventor, manufacturer, or philanthropist will show me better pencils than mine, I will give him 1,000f.--no, not to him, for I abhor betting--but to the poor of the Thirty-first Arrondissement, where I live." Mangin's harangues were always accompanied by a peculiar play of feature and of voice, and with unique and original gestures, which seemed to excite and captivate his audience. About seven years ago, I met him in one of the principal restaurants in the Palais Royale. A mutual friend introduced me. "Ah!" said he, "Monsieur Barnum, I am delighted to see you. I have read your book with infinite satisfaction. It has been published here in numerous editions. I see you have the right idea of things. Your motto is a good one--'we study to please.' I have much wanted to visit America; but I cannot speak English, so I must remain in my dear belle France." I remarked that I had often seen him in public, and bought his pencils. "Aha! you never saw better pencils. You know I could never maintain my reputation if I sold poor pencils. But _sacre bleu_, my miserable would-be imitators do not know our grand secret. First, attract the public by din and tinsel, by brilliant sky-rockets and Bengola lights, then give them as much as possible for their money." "You are very happy," I replied, "in your manner of attracting the public. Your costume is elegant, your chariot is superb, and your valet and music are sure to draw." "Thank you for your compliment, Mr. B., but I have not forgotten your Buffalo-hunt, your Mermaid, nor your Woolly Horse. They were a good offset to my rich helmet and sword, my burnished gauntlets and gaudy cuirass. Both are intended as advertisements of something genuine, and both answer the purpose." After comparing notes in this way for an hour, we parted, and his last words were: