Yet how the pungent ones can persist! The racy old odors, which are as new as

    now

   , that still hover about the political and amorous quips of the Greeks. The nose-crinkling ones of the French, more vinegar-acrid than perfumed, although a seventeenth-century proverb calls France "a monarchy tempered by epigrams." The didactic Teutonic ones, sharply corrosive.

   The greatest evaporative of course of this form of

    bon mot

   is mere cleverness. Wit is the attar which endures. The wit of Pope and Catullus, Landor, Voltaire, Rousseau and Wilde.

   That is what Rapin must have had in mind when he said that a man ought to be content if he succeeded in writing one really good epigram.

   Helen Rowland stands pleasantly impeached for writing many. She has a whizz to her swiftly cynical arrow that entitles her to a place in the tournament.

   She is not merely anagrammatical, scorns the couplet for the mere sake of the couplet, and has little time for the smiting word at any price.

   In the entire history of epigrammatic expression there are few if any whose fame rests solely upon the brittle structure of the

    bon mot

   . Martial, about whose brilliant brevities can scarcely be said to hover the odor of sanctity, is, I suppose, remembered solely as a wielder of the barbed word.

   Miss Rowland is balanced skilfully upon that same slender trapeze, doing a very deft bow-and-arrow act, her archery of a high order.

   She wields a wicked bow, a kindly bow, a swift, a sure, a ductile bow.

   Matrimony is her favorite target (so was it Bombo's and Herrick's and even political Parnell had his shot at it) and her little winged arrows are often bitingly pointed with philosophy, satire, wit and sometimes just a touch of good old home-brew American hokum.

   For this wise woman with the high-spirited bow behind her arrow, these little pages speak eloquently.

   Love is misery—sweetened with imagination, salted with tears, spiced with doubt, flavored with novelty, and 

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