No More Learning

" She also said: "Only ours has
more trimmings. "

I suppose she meant the halo. Now here is a gold-miner's compliment. It
is forty-two years old. It was my introduction to an audience to which
I lectured in a log school-house. There were no ladies there. I wasn't
famous then. They didn't know me. Only the miners were there, with their
breeches tucked into their boottops and with clay all over them.
They wanted some one to introduce me, and they selected a miner, who
protested, saying:

"I don't know anything about this man. Anyhow, I only know two things
about him. One is, he has never been in jail, and the other is, I don't
know why. "

There's one thing I want to say about that English trip. I knew his
Majesty the King of England long years ago, and I didn't meet him for
the first time then. One thing that I regret was that some newspapers
said I talked with the Queen of England with my hat on. I don't do that
with any woman. I did not put it on until she asked me to. Then she told
me to put it on, and it's a command there. I thought I had carried my
American democracy far enough. So I put it on. I have no use for a hat,
and never did have.

Who was it who said that the police of London knew me? Why, the police
know me everywhere. There never was a day over there when a policeman
did not salute me, and then put up his hand and stop the traffic of the
world. They treated me as though I were a duchess.

The happiest experience I had in England was at a dinner given in the
building of the Punch publication, a humorous paper which is appreciated
by all Englishmen. It was the greatest privilege ever allowed a
foreigner. I entered the dining-room of the building, where those men
get together who have been running the paper for over fifty years. We
were about to begin dinner when the toastmaster said: "Just a minute;
there ought to be a little ceremony. " Then there was that meditating
silence for a while, and out of a closet there came a beautiful little
girl dressed in pink, holding in her hand a copy of the previous week's
paper, which had in it my cartoon. It broke me all up. I could not even
say "Thank you. " That was the prettiest incident of the dinner, the
delight of all that wonderful table. When she was about to go; I said,
"My child, you are not going to leave me; I have hardly got acquainted
with you. " She replied, "You know I've got to go; they never let me come
in here before, and they never will again. " That is one of the beautiful
incidents that I cherish.



[At the conclusion of his speech, and while the diners were still
cheering him, Colonel Porter brought forward the red-and-gray gown
of the Oxford "doctor," and Mr. Clemens was made to don it.
The diners rose to their feet in their enthusiasm. With the
mortar-board on his head, and looking down admiringly at himself,
Mr. Twain said--]

I like that gown. I always did like red. The redder it is the better I
like it. I was born for a savage. Now, whoever saw any red like this?
There is no red outside the arteries of an archangel that could compare
with this. I know you all envy me. I am going to have luncheon shortly
with ladies just ladies. I will be the only lady of my sex present, and
I shall put on this gown and make those ladies look dim.






BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND HATS



ADDRESS AT THE PILGRIMS' CLUB LUNCHEON, GIVEN IN HONOR OF Mr.
CLEMENS AT THE SAVOY HOTEL, LONDON, JUNE 25, 1907.

Mr. Birrell, M. P. , Chief-Secretary for Ireland, in introducing
Mr. Clemens said: "We all love Mark Twain, and we are here to
tell him so. One more point--all the world knows it, and that
is why it is dangerous to omit it--our guest is a distinguished
citizen of the Great Republic beyond the seas. In America his
'Huckleberry Finn' and his 'Tom Sawyer' are what 'Robinson
Crusoe' and 'Tom Brown's School Days' have been to us. They
are racy of the soil. They are books to which it is impossible
to place any period of termination. I will not speak of the
classics--reminiscences of much evil in our early lives. We do
not meet here to-day as critics with our appreciations and
depreciations, our twopenny little prefaces or our forewords.
I am not going to say what the world a thousand years hence
will think of Mark Twain. Posterity will take care of itself,
will read what it wants to read, will forget what it chooses to
forget, and will pay no attention whatsoever to our critical
mumblings and jumblings. Let us therefore be content to say to
our friend and guest that we are here speaking for ourselves
and for our children, to say what he has been to us. I
remember in Liverpool, in 1867, first buying the copy, which I
still preserve, of the celebrated 'Jumping Frog. ' It had a few
words of preface which reminded me then that our guest in those
days was called 'the wild humorist of the Pacific slope,' and a
few lines later down, 'the moralist of the Main. ' That was
some forty years ago. Here he is, still the humorist, still
the moralist. His humor enlivens and enlightens his morality,
and his morality is all the better for his humor. That is one
of the reasons why we love him. I am not here to mention any
book of his--that is a subject of dispute in my family circle,
which is the best and which is the next best--but I must put in
a word, lest I should not be true to myself--a terrible thing
--for his Joan of Arc, a book of chivalry, of nobility, and of
manly sincerity for which I take this opportunity of thanking
him. But you can all drink this toast, each one of you with
his own intention. You can get into it what meaning you like.
Mark Twain is a man whom English and Americans do well to
honor. He is the true consolidator of nations. His delightful
humor is of the kind which dissipates and destroys national
prejudices. His truth and his honor, his love of truth, and
his love of honor, overflow all boundaries. He has made the
world better by his presence. We rejoice to see him here.
Long may he live to reap the plentiful harvest of hearty,
honest human affection! "

Pilgrims, I desire first to thank those undergraduates of Oxford. When
a man has grown so old as I am, when he has reached the verge of
seventy-two years, there is nothing that carries him back to the
dreamland of his life, to his boyhood, like recognition of those young
hearts up yonder. And so I thank them out of my heart. I desire to thank
the Pilgrims of New York also for their kind notice and message which
they have cabled over here. Mr. Birrell says he does not know how he
got here. But he will be able to get away all right--he has not drunk
anything since he came here. I am glad to know about those friends
of his, Otway and Chatterton--fresh, new names to me. I am glad of the
disposition he has shown to rescue them from the evils of poverty, and
if they are still in London, I hope to have a talk with them. For a
while I thought he was going to tell us the effect which my book had
upon his growing manhood. I thought he was going to tell us how much
that effect amounted to, and whether it really made him what he now is,
but with the discretion born of Parliamentary experience he dodged that,
and we do not know now whether he read the book or not. He did that very
neatly. I could not do it any better myself.

My books have had effects, and very good ones, too, here and there, and
some others not so good. There is no doubt about that. But I remember
one monumental instance of it years and years ago. Professor Norton, of
Harvard, was over here, and when he came back to Boston I went out with
Howells to call on him. Norton was allied in some way by marriage with
Darwin.

Mr. Norton was very gentle in what he had to say, and almost delicate,
and he said: "Mr. Clemens, I have been spending some time with Mr.
Darwin in England, and I should like to tell you something connected
with that visit. You were the object of it, and I myself would have
been very proud of it, but you may not be proud of it. At any rate, I am
going to tell you what it was, and to leave to you to regard it as you
please. Mr. Darwin took me up to his bedroom and pointed out certain
things there-pitcher-plants, and so on, that he was measuring and
watching from day to day--and he said: 'The chambermaid is permitted to
do what she pleases in this room, but she must never touch those plants
and never touch those books on that table by that candle. With those
books I read myself to sleep every night. ' Those were your own books. "
I said: "There is no question to my mind as to whether I should regard
that as a compliment or not. I do regard it as a very great compliment
and a very high honor that that great mind, laboring for the whole human
race, should rest itself on my books. I am proud that he should read
himself to sleep with them. "

Now, I could not keep that to myself--I was so proud of it. As soon as I
got home to Hartford I called up my oldest friend--and dearest enemy on
occasion--the Rev. Joseph Twichell, my pastor, and I told him about that,
and, of course, he was full of interest and venom. Those people who get
no compliments like that feel like that. He went off. He did not issue
any applause of any kind, and I did not hear of that subject for some
time. But when Mr. Darwin passed away from this life, and some time
after Darwin's Life and Letters came out, the Rev. Mr. Twichell procured
an early copy of that work and found something in it which he considered
applied to me. He came over to my house--it was snowing, raining,
sleeting, but that did not make any difference to Twichell. He produced
the book, and turned over and over, until he came to a certain place,
when he said: "Here, look at this letter from Mr. Darwin to Sir Joseph
Hooker. " What Mr. Darwin said--I give you the idea and not the very
words--was this: I do not know whether I ought to have devoted my whole
life to these drudgeries in natural history and the other sciences or
not, for while I may have gained in one way I have lost in another. Once
I had a fine perception and appreciation of high literature, but in me
that quality is atrophied. "That was the reason," said Mr. Twichell, "he
was reading your books. "

Mr. Birrell has touched lightly--very lightly, but in not an
uncomplimentary way--on my position in this world as a moralist. I am
glad to have that recognition, too, because I have suffered since I have
been in this town; in the first place, right away, when I came here,
from a newsman going around with a great red, highly displayed placard
in the place of an apron. He was selling newspapers, and there were two
sentences on that placard which would have been all right if they had
been punctuated; but they ran those two sentences together without a
comma or anything, and that would naturally create a wrong impression,
because it said, "Mark Twain arrives Ascot Cup stolen. " No doubt many a
person was misled by those sentences joined together in that unkind way.
I have no doubt my character has suffered from it. I suppose I ought to
defend my character, but how can I defend it? I can say here and
now--and anybody can see by my face that I am sincere, that I speak the
truth--that I have never seen that Cup. I have not got the Cup--I did not
have a chance to get it. I have always had a good character in that way.
I have hardly ever stolen anything, and if I did steal anything I had
discretion enough to know about the value of it first. I do not steal
things that are likely to get myself into trouble. I do not think any of
us do that. I know we all take things--that is to be expected--but really,
I have never taken anything, certainly in England, that amounts to any
great thing. I do confess that when I was here seven years ago I stole a
hat, but that did not amount to anything. It was not a good hat, and was
only a clergyman's hat, anyway.

I was at a luncheon party, and Archdeacon Wilberforce was there also. I
dare say he is Archdeacon now--he was a canon then--and he was serving in
the Westminster battery, if that is the proper term--I do not know, as
you mix military and ecclesiastical things together so much. He left the
luncheon table before I did. He began this. I did steal his hat, but
he began by taking mine. I make that interjection because I would not
accuse Archdeacon Wilberforce of stealing my hat--I should not think of
it. I confine that phrase to myself. He merely took my hat. And with
good judgment, too--it was a better hat than his. He came out before the
luncheon was over, and sorted the hats in the hall, and selected one
which suited. It happened to be mine. He went off with it. When I came
out by-and-by there was no hat there which would go on my head except
his, which was left behind. My head was not the customary size just at
that time. I had been receiving a good many very nice and complimentary
attentions, and my head was a couple of sizes larger than usual, and his
hat just suited me. The bumps and corners were all right intellectually.
There were results pleasing to me--possibly so to him. He found out whose
hat it was, and wrote me saying it was pleasant that all the way
home, whenever he met anybody his gravities, his solemnities, his deep
thoughts, his eloquent remarks were all snatched up by the people he
met, and mistaken for brilliant humorisms.

I had another experience. It was not unpleasing. I was received with a
deference which was entirely foreign to my experience by everybody whom
I met, so that before I got home I had a much higher opinion of
myself than I have ever had before or since. And there is in that very
connection an incident which I remember at that old date which is rather
melancholy to me, because it shows how a person can deteriorate in a
mere seven years. It is seven years ago. I have not that hat now. I
was going down Pall-Mall, or some other of your big streets, and I
recognized that that hat needed ironing. I went into a big shop
and passed in my hat, and asked that it might be ironed. They were
courteous, very courteous, even courtly. They brought that hat back to
me presently very sleek and nice, and I asked how much there was to
pay. They replied that they did not charge the clergy anything. I have
cherished the delight of that moment from that day to this. It was the
first thing I did the other day to go and hunt up that shop and hand in
my hat to have it ironed. I said when it came back, "How much to
pay? " They said, "Ninepence. " In seven years I have acquired all that
worldliness, and I am sorry to be back where I was seven years ago.

But now I am chaffing and chaffing and chaffing here, and I hope
you will forgive me for that; but when a man stands on the verge of
seventy-two you know perfectly well that he never reached that place
without knowing what this life is--heart breaking bereavement. And so our
reverence is for our dead. We do not forget them; but our duty is toward
the living; and if we can be cheerful, cheerful in spirit, cheerful in
speech and in hope, that is a benefit to those who are around us.

My own history includes an incident which will always connect me with
England in a pathetic way, for when I arrived here seven years ago with
my wife and my daughter--we had gone around the globe lecturing to raise
money to clear off a debt--my wife and one of my daughters started across
the ocean to bring to England our eldest daughter. She was twenty
four years of age and in the bloom of young womanhood, and we were
unsuspecting. When my wife and daughter--and my wife has passed from this
life since--when they had reached mid Atlantic, a cablegram--one of those
heartbreaking cablegrams which we all in our days have to experience--was
put into my hand. It stated that that daughter of ours had gone to her
long sleep. And so, as I say, I cannot always be cheerful, and I cannot
always be chaffing; I must sometimes lay the cap and bells aside, and
recognize that I am of the human race like the rest, and must have my
cares and griefs. And therefore I noticed what Mr. Birrell said--I was so
glad to hear him say it--something that was in the nature of these verses
here at the top of this:



"He lit our life with shafts of sun
And vanquished pain.
Thus two great nations stand as one
In honoring Twain. "

I am very glad to have those verses. I am very glad and very grateful
for what Mr. Birrell said in that connection. I have received since
I have been here, in this one week, hundreds of letters from all
conditions of people in England--men, women, and children--and there is in
them compliment, praise, and, above all and better than all, there is
in them a note of affection. Praise is well, compliment is well, but
affection--that is the last and final and most precious reward that any
man can win, whether by character or achievement, and I am very grateful
to have that reward. All these letters make me feel that here in
England--as in America--when I stand under the English flag, I am not a
stranger. I am not an alien, but at home.






DEDICATION SPEECH



AT THE DEDICATION OF THE COLLEGE OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK,
MAY 14, 1908

Mr. Clemens wore his gown as Doctor of Laws, Oxford University.
Ambassador Bryce and Mr. Choate had made the formal addresses.

How difficult, indeed, is the higher education. Mr. Choate needs a
little of it. He is not only short as a statistician of New York, but
he is off, far off, in his mathematics. The four thousand citizens of
Greater New York, indeed!

But I don't think it was wise or judicious on the part of Mr. Choate to
show this higher education he has obtained. He sat in the lap of that
great education (I was there at the time), and see the result--the
lamentable result. Maybe if he had had a sandwich here to sustain him
the result would not have been so serious.

For seventy-two years I have been striving to acquire that higher
education which stands for modesty and diffidence, and it doesn't work.

And then look at Ambassador Bryce, who referred to his alma mater,
Oxford. He might just as well have included me. Well, I am a later
production.

If I am the latest graduate, I really and sincerely hope I am not the
final flower of its seven centuries; I hope it may go on for seven ages
longer.






DIE SCHRECKEN DER DEUTSCHEN SPRACHE [THE HORRORS OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE]



ADDRESS TO THE VIENNA PRESS CLUB, NOVEMBER 21, 1897,
DELIVERED IN GERMAN [Here in literal translation]

It has me deeply touched, my gentlemen, here so hospitably received to
be. From colleagues out of my own profession, in this from my own home
so far distant land. My heart is full of gratitude, but my poverty of
German words forces me to greater economy of expression. Excuse you, my
gentlemen, that I read off, what I you say will. [But he didn't read].

The German language speak I not good, but have numerous connoisseurs
me assured that I her write like an angel. Maybe--maybe--I know not. Have
till now no acquaintance with the angels had. That comes later--when it
the dear God please--it has no hurry.

Since long, my gentlemen, have I the passionate longing nursed a speech
on German to hold, but one has me not permitted. Men, who no feeling
for the art had, laid me ever hindrance in the way and made naught my
desire--sometimes by excuses, often by force. Always said these men to
me: "Keep you still, your Highness! Silence! For God's sake seek another
way and means yourself obnoxious to make. "

In the present case, as usual it is me difficult become, for me the
permission to obtain. The committee sorrowed deeply, but could me
the permission not grant on account of a law which from the Concordia
demands she shall the German language protect. Du liebe Zeit! How so
had one to me this say could--might--dared--should? I am indeed the truest
friend of the German language--and not only now, but from long since--yes,
before twenty years already. And never have I the desire had the noble
language to hurt; to the contrary, only wished she to improve--I would
her only reform. It is the dream of my life been. I have already visits
by the various German governments paid and for contracts prayed. I am
now to Austria in the same task come. I would only some changes effect.
I would only the language method--the luxurious, elaborate construction
compress, the eternal parenthesis suppress, do away with, annihilate;
the introduction of more than thirteen subjects in one sentence forbid;
the verb so far to the front pull that one it without a telescope
discover can. With one word, my gentlemen, I would your beloved language
simplify so that, my gentlemen, when you her for prayer need, One her
yonder-up understands.

I beseech you, from me yourself counsel to let, execute these mentioned
reforms. Then will you an elegant language possess, and afterward, when
you some thing say will, will you at least yourself understand what you
said had. But often nowadays, when you a mile-long sentence from you
given and you yourself somewhat have rested, then must you have a
touching inquisitiveness have yourself to determine what you actually
spoken have. Before several days has the correspondent of a local paper
a sentence constructed which hundred and twelve words contain, and
therein were seven parentheses smuggled in, and the subject seven times
changed. Think you only, my gentlemen, in the course of the voyage of a
single sentence must the poor, persecuted, fatigued subject seven times
change position!

Now, when we the mentioned reforms execute, will it no longer so bad
be. Doch noch eins. I might gladly the separable verb also a little bit
reform. I might none do let what Schiller did: he has the whole history
of the Thirty Years' War between the two members of a separable verb
in-pushed. That has even Germany itself aroused, and one has Schiller
the permission refused the History of the Hundred Years' War to
compose--God be it thanked! After all these reforms established be will,
will the German language the noblest and the prettiest on the world be.

Since to you now, my gentlemen, the character of my mission known is,
beseech I you so friendly to be and to me your valuable help grant. Mr.
Potzl has the public believed make would that I to Vienna come am
in order the bridges to clog up and the traffic to hinder, while I
observations gather and note. Allow you yourselves but not from him
deceived. My frequent presence on the bridges has an entirely innocent
ground. Yonder gives it the necessary space, yonder can one a noble
long German sentence elaborate, the bridge-railing along, and his whole
contents with one glance overlook. On the one end of the railing pasted
I the first member of a separable verb and the final member cleave I
to the other end--then spread the body of the sentence between it out!
Usually are for my purposes the bridges of the city long enough; when I
but Potzl's writings study will I ride out and use the glorious endless
imperial bridge. But this is a calumny; Potzl writes the prettiest
German. Perhaps not so pliable as the mine, but in many details much
better. Excuse you these flatteries. These are well deserved.

Now I my speech execute--no, I would say I bring her to the close. I am
a foreigner--but here, under you, have I it entirely forgotten. And so
again and yet again proffer I you my heartiest thanks.






GERMAN FOR THE HUNGARIANS



ADDRESS AT THE JUBILEE CELEBRATION OF THE EMANCIPATION OF THE
HUNGARIAN PRESS, MARCH 26, 1899

The Ministry and members of Parliament were present. The
subject was the "Ausgleich"--i. e. , the arrangement for the
apportionment of the taxes between Hungary and Austria.
Paragraph 14 of the ausgleich fixes the proportion each country
must pay to the support of the army. It is the paragraph which
caused the trouble and prevented its renewal.

Now that we are all here together, I think it will be a good idea to
arrange the ausgleich. If you will act for Hungary I shall be quite
willing to act for Austria, and this is the very time for it. There
couldn't be a better, for we are all feeling friendly, fair-minded,
and hospitable now, and, full of admiration for each other, full of
confidence in each other, full of the spirit of welcome, full of the
grace of forgiveness, and the disposition to let bygones be bygones.

Let us not waste this golden, this beneficent, this providential
opportunity. I am willing to make any concession you want, just so we
get it settled. I am not only willing to let grain come in free, I am
willing to pay the freight on it, and you may send delegates to the
Reichsrath if you like. All I require is that they shall be quiet,
peaceable people like your own deputies, and not disturb our
proceedings.

If you want the Gegenseitigengeldbeitragendenverhaltnismassigkeiten
rearranged and readjusted I am ready for that. I will let you off at
twenty-eight per cent. --twenty-seven--even twenty-five if you insist,
for there is nothing illiberal about me when I am out on a diplomatic
debauch.

Now, in return for these concessions, I am willing to take anything
in reason, and I think we may consider the business settled and the
ausgleich ausgegloschen at last for ten solid years, and we will sign
the papers in blank, and do it here and now.

Well, I am unspeakably glad to have that ausgleich off my hands. It has
kept me awake nights for anderthalbjahr.

But I never could settle it before, because always when I called at the
Foreign Office in Vienna to talk about it, there wasn't anybody at home,
and that is not a place where you can go in and see for yourself whether
it is a mistake or not, because the person who takes care of the front
door there is of a size that discourages liberty of action and the free
spirit of investigation. To think the ausgleich is abgemacht at last! It
is a grand and beautiful consummation, and I am glad I came.

The way I feel now I do honestly believe I would rather be just my own
humble self at this moment than paragraph 14.






A NEW GERMAN WORD



To aid a local charity Mr. Clemens appeared before a
fashionable audience in Vienna, March 10, 1899, reading his
sketch "The Lucerne Girl," and describing how he had been
interviewed and ridiculed. He said in part:

I have not sufficiently mastered German, to allow my using it with
impunity. My collection of fourteen-syllable German words is still
incomplete. But I have just added to that collection a jewel--a veritable
jewel. I found it in a telegram from Linz, and it contains ninety-five
letters:


Personaleinkommensteuerschatzungskommissionsmitgliedsreisekostenrechnungs
erganzungsrevisionsfund

If I could get a similar word engraved upon my tombstone I should sleep
beneath it in peace.






UNCONSCIOUS PLAGIARISM



DELIVERED AT THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE PUBLISHERS OF "THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY" TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, IN HONOR OF HIS
SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 29, 1879

I would have travelled a much greater distance than I have come to
witness the paying of honors to Doctor Holmes; for my feeling toward him
has always been one of peculiar warmth. When one receives a letter from
a great man for the first time in his life, it is a large event to him,
as all of you know by your own experience. You never can receive letters
enough from famous men afterward to obliterate that one, or dim the
memory of the pleasant surprise it was, and the gratification it gave
you. Lapse of time cannot make it commonplace or cheap.

Well, the first great man who ever wrote me a letter was our
guest--Oliver Wendell Holmes. He was also the first great literary man I
ever stole anything from--and that is how I came to write to him and he
to me. When my first book was new, a friend of mine said to me, "The
dedication is very neat. " Yes, I said, I thought it was. My friend said,
"I always admired it, even before I saw it in The Innocents Abroad. " I
naturally said: "What do you mean? Where did you ever see it before? "
"Well, I saw it first some years ago as Doctor Holmes's dedication to
his Songs in Many Keys. " Of course, my first impulse was to prepare this
man's remains for burial, but upon reflection I said I would reprieve
him for a moment or two and give him a chance to prove his assertion
if he could: We stepped into a book-store, and he did prove it. I had
really stolen that dedication, almost word for word. I could not imagine
how this curious thing had happened; for I knew one thing--that a certain
amount of pride always goes along with a teaspoonful of brains, and
that this pride protects a man from deliberately stealing other people's
ideas. That is what a teaspoonful of brains will do for a man--and
admirers had often told me I had nearly a basketful--though they were
rather reserved as to the size of the basket.

However, I thought the thing out, and solved the mystery. Two years
before, I had been laid up a couple of weeks in the Sandwich Islands,
and had read and re-read Doctor Holmes's poems till my mental reservoir
was filled up with them to the brim. The dedication lay on the top, and
handy, so, by-and-by, I unconsciously stole it. Perhaps I unconsciously
stole the rest of the volume, too, for many people have told me that
my book was pretty poetical, in one way or another. Well, of course, I
wrote Doctor Holmes and told him I hadn't meant to steal, and he wrote
back and said in the kindest way that it was all right and no harm
done; and added that he believed we all unconsciously worked over ideas
gathered in reading and hearing, imagining they were original with
ourselves. He stated a truth, and did it in such a pleasant way, and
salved over my sore spot so gently and so healingly, that I was rather
glad I had committed the crime for the sake of the letter. I afterward
called on him and told him to make perfectly free with any ideas of mine
that struck him as being good protoplasm for poetry. He could see by
that that there wasn't anything mean about me; so we got along right
from the start. I have not met Doctor Holmes many times since; and
lately he said--However, I am wandering wildly away from the one thing
which I got on my feet to do; that is, to make my compliments to you, my
fellow-teachers of the great public, and likewise to say that I am
right glad to see that Doctor Holmes is still in his prime and full of
generous life; and as age is not determined by years, but by trouble
and infirmities of mind and body, I hope it may be a very long time yet
before any one can truthfully say, "He is growing old. "






THE WEATHER



ADDRESS AT THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY'S SEVENTY FIRST
ANNUAL DINNER, NEW YORK CITY

The next toast was: "The Oldest Inhabitant-The Weather of New England. "



"Who can lose it and forget it?
Who can have it and regret it?
Be interposer 'twixt us Twain. "
--Merchant of Venice.

I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in
New England but the weather. I don't know who makes that, but I think
it must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk's factory who experiment
and learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are
promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article,
and will take their custom elsewhere if they don't get it. There is
a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the
stranger's admiration--and regret. The weather is always doing something
there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new
designs and trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it
gets through more business in spring than in any other season. In the
spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of
weather inside of four-and-twenty hours. It was I that made the fame and
fortune of that man that had that marvellous collection of weather on
exhibition at the Centennial, that so astounded the foreigners. He
was going to travel all over the world and get specimens from all the
climes. I said, "Don't you do it; you come to New England on a favorable
spring day. " I told him what we could do in the way of style, variety,
and quantity. Well, he came and he made his collection in four days. As
to variety, why, he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather
that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity well, after he had
picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only
had weather enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out; weather
to sell; to deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the poor. The
people of New England are by nature patient and forbearing, but there
are some things which they will not stand. Every year they kill a lot of
poets for writing about "Beautiful Spring. " These are generally casual
visitors, who bring their notions of spring from somewhere else, and
cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about spring. And so the
first thing they know the opportunity to inquire how they feel has
permanently gone by. Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for
accurate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it. You take up the
paper and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what
to-day's weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the
Middle States, in the Wisconsin region. See him sail along in the joy
and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his
tail drop. He doesn't know what the weather is going to be in New
England. Well, he mulls over it, and by and-by he gets out something
about like this: Probably northeast to southwest winds, varying to the
southward and westward and eastward, and points between, high and low
barometer swapping around from place to place; probable areas of rain,
snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with
thunder and lightning. Then he jots down his postscript from his
wandering mind, to cover accidents. "But it is possible that the
programme may be wholly changed in the mean time. " Yes, one of the
brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of
it. There is only one thing certain about it: you are certain there is
going to be plenty of it--a perfect grand review; but you never can tell
which end of the procession is going to move first. You fix up for the
drought; you leave your umbrella in the house and sally out, and two to
one you get drowned. You make up your mind that the earthquake is due;
you stand from under, and take hold of something to steady yourself, and
the first thing you know you get struck by lightning. These are great
disappointments; but they can't be helped. The lightning there is
peculiar; it is so convincing, that when it strikes a thing it doesn't
leave enough of that thing behind for you to tell whether--Well, you'd
think it was something valuable, and a Congressman had been there. And
the thunder. When the thunder begins to merely tune up and scrape and
saw, and key up the instruments for the performance, strangers say,
"Why, what awful thunder you have here! " But when the baton is raised
and the real concert begins, you'll find that stranger down in the
cellar with his head in the ash-barrel. Now as to the size of the
weather in New England--lengthways, I mean. It is utterly disproportioned
to the size of that little country. Half the time, when it is packed as
full as it can stick, you will see that New England weather sticking out
beyond the edges and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles
over the neighboring States. She can't hold a tenth part of her weather.
You can see cracks all about where she has strained herself trying to
do it. I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New
England weather, but I will give but a single specimen. I like to hear
rain on a tin roof. So I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye
to that luxury. Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on that tin? No,
sir; skips it every time. Mind, in this speech I have been trying merely
to do honor to the New England weather--no language could do it justice.
But, after all, there is at least one or two things about that weather
(or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not
like to part with. If we hadn't our bewitching autumn foliage, we should
still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for
all its bullying vagaries--the ice-storm: when a leafless tree is clothed
with ice from the bottom to the top--ice that is as bright and clear
as crystal; when every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen
dew-drops, and the whole tree sparkles cold and white, like the Shah
of Persia's diamond plume. Then the wind waves the branches and the sun
comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that
glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored fires, which change
and change again with inconceivable rapidity from blue to red, from red
to green, and green to gold--the tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very
explosion of dazzling jewels; and it stands there the acme, the
climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering,
intoxicating, intolerable magnificence. One cannot make the words too
strong.






THE BABIES

THE BABIES



DELIVERED AT THE BANQUET, IN CHICAGO, GIVEN BY THE ARMY OF THE
TENNESSEE TO THEIR FIRST COMMANDER, GENERAL U. S. GRANT,
NOVEMBER, 1879

The fifteenth regular toast was "The Babies. --As they comfort
us in our sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities. "

I like that. We have not all had the good fortune to be ladies. We have
not all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works
down to the babies, we stand on common ground. It is a shame that for a
thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby, as if
he didn't amount to anything. If you will stop and think a minute--if you
will go back fifty or one hundred years to your early married life and
recontemplate your first baby--you will remember that he amounted to a
good deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when that
little fellow arrived at family headquarters you had to hand in your
resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere
body-servant, and you had to stand around too. He was not a commander
who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else. You
had to execute his order whether it was possible or not. And there was
only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was
the double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and
disrespect, and the bravest of you didn't dare to say a word. You could
face the death-storm at Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow
for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and
twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war were
sounding in your ears you set your faces toward the batteries, and
advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his
war whoop you advanced in the other direction, and mighty glad of the
chance, too. When he called for soothing-syrup, did you venture to throw
out any side-remarks about certain services being unbecoming an officer
and a gentleman? No. You got up and got it. When he ordered his pap
bottle and it was not warm, did you talk back? Not you. You went to work
and warmed it. You even descended so far in your menial office as to
take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was
right--three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the
colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccoughs. I can
taste that stuff yet.