No More Learning

The Bishop has just spoken of a condition of things which none of us
can deny, and which ought not to exist; that is, the lust of gain--a lust
which does not stop short of the penitentiary or the jail to accomplish
its ends. But we may be sure of one thing, and that is that this sort of
thing is not universal. If it were, this country would not be. You may
put this down as a fact: that out of every fifty men, forty-nine are
clean. Then why is it, you may ask, that the forty-nine don't have
things the way they want them? I'll tell you why it is. A good deal
has been said here to-night about what is to be accomplished by
organization. That's just the thing. It's because the fiftieth fellow
and his pals are organized and the other forty-nine are not that the
dirty one rubs it into the clean fellows every time.

You may say organize, organize, organize; but there may be so much
organization that it will interfere with the work to be done. The Bishop
here had an experience of that sort, and told all about it down-town the
other night. He was painting a barn--it was his own barn--and yet he
was informed that his work must stop; he was a non-union painter, and
couldn't continue at that sort of job.

Now, all these conditions of which you complain should be remedied, and
I am here to tell you just how to do it. I've been a statesman without
salary for many years, and I have accomplished great and widespread
good. I don't know that it has benefited anybody very much, even if
it was good; but I do know that it hasn't harmed me very much, and is
hasn't made me any richer.

We hold the balance of power. Put up your best men for office, and we
shall support the better one. With the election of the best man for
Mayor would follow the selection of the best man for Police Commissioner
and Chief of Police.

My first lesson in the craft of statesmanship was taken at an early age.
Fifty-one years ago I was fourteen years old, and we had a society in
the town I lived in, patterned after the Freemasons, or the Ancient
Order of United Farmers, or some such thing--just what it was patterned
after doesn't matter. It had an inside guard and an outside guard, and
a past-grand warden, and a lot of such things, so as to give dignity to
the organization and offices to the members.

Generally speaking it was a pretty good sort of organization, and
some of the very best boys in the village, including--but I mustn't get
personal on an occasion like this--and the society would have got along
pretty well had it not been for the fact that there were a certain
number of the members who could be bought. They got to be an infernal
nuisance. Every time we had an election the candidates had to go
around and see the purchasable members. The price per vote was paid in
doughnuts, and it depended somewhat on the appetites of the individuals
as to the price of the votes.

This thing ran along until some of us, the really very best boys in the
organization, decided that these corrupt practices must stop, and for
the purpose of stopping them we organized a third party. We had a name,
but we were never known by that name. Those who didn't like us called us
the Anti-Doughnut party, but we didn't mind that.

We said: "Call us what you please; the name doesn't matter. We are
organized for a principle. " By-and-by the election came around, and
we made a big mistake. We were triumphantly beaten. That taught us a
lesson. Then and there we decided never again to nominate anybody
for anything. We decided simply to force the other two parties in the
society to nominate their very best men. Although we were organized for
a principle, we didn't care much about that. Principles aren't of much
account anyway, except at election-time. After that you hang them up to
let them season.

The next time we had an election we told both the other parties that
we'd beat any candidates put up by any one of them of whom we didn't
approve. In that election we did business. We got the man we wanted. I
suppose they called us the Anti-Doughnut party because they couldn't buy
us with their doughnuts. They didn't have enough of them. Most reformers
arrive at their price sooner or later, and I suppose we would have had
our price; but our opponents weren't offering anything but doughnuts,
and those we spurned.

Now it seems to me that an Anti-Doughnut party is just what is wanted
in the present emergency. I would have the Anti-Doughnuts felt in every
city and hamlet and school district in this State and in the United
States. I was an Anti-Doughnut in my boyhood, and I'm an Anti-Doughnut
still. The modern designation is Mugwump. There used to be quite a
number of us Mugwumps, but I think I'm the only one left. I had a vote
this fall, and I began to make some inquiries as to what I had better do
with it.

I don't know anything about finance, and I never did, but I know some
pretty shrewd financiers, and they told me that Mr. Bryan wasn't safe on
any financial question. I said to myself, then, that it wouldn't do
for me to vote for Bryan, and I rather thought--I know now--that McKinley
wasn't just right on this Philippine question, and so I just didn't vote
for anybody. I've got that vote yet, and I've kept it clean, ready to
deposit at some other election. It wasn't cast for any wildcat financial
theories, and it wasn't cast to support the man who sends our boys as
volunteers out into the Philippines to get shot down under a polluted
flag.






MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT

ADDRESS AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE ST. NICHOLAS SOCIETY, NEW YORK,
DECEMBER 6, 1900.



Doctor Mackay, in his response to the toast "St. Nicholas,"
referred to Mr. Clemens, saying:--"Mark Twain is as true a
preacher of true righteousness as any bishop, priest, or
minister of any church to-day, because he moves men to forget
their faults by cheerful well-doing instead of making them sour
and morbid by everlastingly bending their attention to the
seamy and sober side of life. "

MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE ST. NICHOLAS SOCIETY,--These are,
indeed, prosperous days for me. Night before last, in a speech, the
Bishop of the Diocese of New York complimented me for my contribution to
theology, and to-night the Reverend Doctor Mackay has elected me to the
ministry. I thanked Bishop Potter then for his compliment, and I thank
Doctor Mackay now for that promotion. I think that both have discerned
in me what I long ago discerned, but what I was afraid the world would
never learn to recognize.

In this absence of nine years I find a great improvement in the city of
New York. I am glad to speak on that as a toast--"The City of New York. "
Some say it has improved because I have been away. Others, and I agree
with them, say it has improved because I have come back. We must judge
of a city, as of a man, by its external appearances and by its inward
character. In externals the foreigner coming to these shores is more
impressed at first by our sky-scrapers. They are new to him. He has
not done anything of the sort since he built the tower of Babel. The
foreigner is shocked by them.

In the daylight they are ugly. They are--well, too chimneyfied and too
snaggy--like a mouth that needs attention from a dentist; like a cemetery
that is all monuments and no gravestones. But at night, seen from the
river where they are columns towering against the sky, all sparkling
with light, they are fairylike; they are beauty more satisfactory to the
soul and more enchanting than anything that man has dreamed of since the
Arabian nights. We can't always have the beautiful aspect of things. Let
us make the most of our sights that are beautiful and let the others go.
When your foreigner makes disagreeable comments on New York by daylight,
float him down the river at night.

What has made these sky-scrapers possible is the elevator. The cigar-box
which the European calls a "lift" needs but to be compared with our
elevators to be appreciated. The lift stops to reflect between floors.
That is all right in a hearse, but not in elevators. The American
elevator acts like the man's patent purge--it worked. As the inventor
said, "This purge doesn't waste any time fooling around; it attends
strictly to business. "

That New-Yorkers have the cleanest, quickest, and most admirable system
of street railways in the world has been forced upon you by the abnormal
appreciation you have of your hackman. We ought always to be grateful to
him for that service. Nobody else would have brought such a system into
existence for us. We ought to build him a monument. We owe him one as
much as we owe one to anybody. Let it be a tall one. Nothing permanent,
of course; build it of plaster, say. Then gaze at it and realize how
grateful we are--for the time being--and then pull it down and throw it on
the ash-heap. That's the way to honor your public heroes.

As to our streets, I find them cleaner than they used to be. I miss
those dear old landmarks, the symmetrical mountain ranges of dust and
dirt that used to be piled up along the streets for the wind and rain
to tear down at their pleasure. Yes, New York is cleaner than Bombay. I
realize that I have been in Bombay, that I now am in New York; that it
is not my duty to flatter Bombay, but rather to flatter New York.

Compared with the wretched attempts of London to light that city, New
York may fairly be said to be a well-lighted city. Why, London's attempt
at good lighting is almost as bad as London's attempt at rapid transit.
There is just one good system of rapid transit in London--the "Tube," and
that, of course, had been put in by Americans. Perhaps, after a while,
those Americans will come back and give New York also a good underground
system. Perhaps they have already begun. I have been so busy since I
came back that I haven't had time as yet to go down cellar.

But it is by the laws of the city, it is by the manners of the city, it
is by the ideals of the city, it is by the customs of the city and by
the municipal government which all these elements correct, support, and
foster, by which the foreigner judges the city. It is by these that he
realizes that New York may, indeed, hold her head high among the cities
of the world. It is by these standards that he knows whether to class
the city higher or lower than the other municipalities of the world.

Gentlemen, you have the best municipal government in the world--the
purest and the most fragrant. The very angels envy you, and wish they
could establish a government like it in heaven. You got it by a noble
fidelity to civic duty. You got it by stern and ever-watchful exertion
of the great powers with which you are charged by the rights which were
handed down to you by your forefathers, by your manly refusal to let
base men invade the high places of your government, and by instant
retaliation when any public officer has insulted you in the city's name
by swerving in the slightest from the upright and full performance of
his duty. It is you who have made this city the envy of the cities of
the world. God will bless you for it--God will bless you for it. Why,
when you approach the final resting-place the angels of heaven will
gather at the gates and cry out:

"Here they come! Show them to the archangel's box, and turn the
lime-light on them! "






CHINA AND THE PHILIPPINES



AT A DINNER GIVEN IN THE WALDORF-ASTORIA HOTEL, DECEMBER, 1900

Winston Spencer Churchill was introduced by Mr. Clemens.

For years I've been a self-appointed missionary to bring about the union
of America and the motherland. They ought to be united. Behold America,
the refuge of the oppressed from everywhere (who can pay fifty dollars'
admission)--any one except a Chinaman--standing up for human rights
everywhere, even helping China let people in free when she wants to
collect fifty dollars upon them. And how unselfishly England has wrought
for the open door for all! And how piously America has wrought for that
open door in all cases where it was not her own!

Yes, as a missionary I've sung my songs of praise. And yet I think that
England sinned when she got herself into a war in South Africa which she
could have avoided, just as we sinned in getting into a similar war in
the Philippines. Mr. Churchill, by his father, is an Englishman; by his
mother he is an American--no doubt a blend that makes the perfect man.
England and America; yes, we are kin. And now that we are also kin in
sin, there is nothing more to be desired. The harmony is complete, the
blend is perfect.






THEORETICAL MORALS



The New Vagabonds Club of London, made up of the leading
younger literary men of the day, gave a dinner in honor of Mr.
and Mrs. Clemens, July 8, 1899.

It has always been difficult--leave that word difficult--not exceedingly
difficult, but just difficult, nothing more than that, not the slightest
shade to add to that--just difficult--to respond properly, in the right
phraseology, when compliments are paid to me; but it is more than
difficult when the compliments are paid to a better than I--my wife.

And while I am not here to testify against myself--I can't be expected
to do so, a prisoner in your own country is not admitted to do so--as to
which member of the family wrote my books, I could say in general that
really I wrote the books myself. My wife puts the facts in, and they
make it respectable. My modesty won't suffer while compliments are being
paid to literature, and through literature to my family. I can't get
enough of them.

I am curiously situated to-night. It so rarely happens that I am
introduced by a humorist; I am generally introduced by a person of
grave walk and carriage. That makes the proper background of gravity
for brightness. I am going to alter to suit, and haply I may say some
humorous things.

When you start with a blaze of sunshine and upburst of humor, when you
begin with that, the proper office of humor is to reflect, to put you
into that pensive mood of deep thought, to make you think of your sins,
if you wish half an hour to fly. Humor makes me reflect now to-night, it
sets the thinking machinery in motion. Always, when I am thinking, there
come suggestions of what I am, and what we all are, and what we are
coming to. A sermon comes from my lips always when I listen to a
humorous speech.

I seize the opportunity to throw away frivolities, to say something to
plant the seed, and make all better than when I came. In Mr. Grossmith's
remarks there was a subtle something suggesting my favorite theory of
the difference between theoretical morals and practical morals. I try to
instil practical morals in the place of theatrical--I mean theoretical;
but as an addendum--an annex--something added to theoretical morals.

When your chairman said it was the first time he had ever taken the
chair, he did not mean that he had not taken lots of other things;
he attended my first lecture and took notes. This indicated the man's
disposition. There was nothing else flying round, so he took notes; he
would have taken anything he could get.

I can bring a moral to bear here which shows the difference between
theoretical morals and practical morals. Theoretical morals are the sort
you get on your mother's knee, in good books, and from the pulpit. You
gather them in your head, and not in your heart; they are theory without
practice. Without the assistance of practice to perfect them, it is
difficult to teach a child to "be honest, don't steal. "

I will teach you how it should be done, lead you into temptation, teach
you how to steal, so that you may recognize when you have stolen and
feel the proper pangs. It is no good going round and bragging you have
never taken the chair.

As by the fires of experience, so by commission of crime, you learn real
morals. Commit all the crimes, familiarize yourself with all sins, take
them in rotation (there are only two or three thousand of them), stick
to it, commit two or three every day, and by-and-by you will be proof
against them. When you are through you will be proof against all sins
and morally perfect. You will be vaccinated against every possible
commission of them. This is the only way.

I will read you a written statement upon the subject that I wrote three
years ago to read to the Sabbath-schools. [Here the lecturer turned his
pockets out, but without success. ] No! I have left it at home. Still, it
was a mere statement of fact, illustrating the value of practical morals
produced by the commission of crime.

It was in my boyhood just a statement of fact, reading is only more
formal, merely facts, merely pathetic facts, which I can state so as to
be understood. It relates to the first time I ever stole a watermelon;
that is, I think it was the first time; anyway, it was right along there
somewhere.

I stole it out of a farmer's wagon while he was waiting on another
customer. "Stole" is a harsh term. I withdrew--I retired that watermelon.
I carried it to a secluded corner of a lumber-yard. I broke it open. It
was green--the greenest watermelon raised in the valley that year.

The minute I saw it was green I was sorry, and began to
reflect--reflection is the beginning of reform. If you don't reflect when
you commit a crime then that crime is of no use; it might just as well
have been committed by some one else: You must reflect or the value is
lost; you are not vaccinated against committing it again.

I began to reflect. I said to myself: "What ought a boy to do who has
stolen a green watermelon? What would George Washington do, the father
of his country, the only American who could not tell a lie? What would
he do? There is only one right, high, noble thing for any boy to do who
has stolen a watermelon of that class: he must make restitution; he must
restore that stolen property to its rightful owner. " I said I would do
it when I made that good resolution. I felt it to be a noble, uplifting
obligation. I rose up spiritually stronger and refreshed. I carried that
watermelon back--what was left of it--and restored it to the farmer, and
made him give me a ripe one in its place.

Now you see that this constant impact of crime upon crime protects
you against further commission of crime. It builds you up. A man can't
become morally perfect by stealing one or a thousand green watermelons,
but every little helps.

I was at a great school yesterday (St. Paul's), where for four hundred
years they have been busy with brains, and building up England by
producing Pepys, Miltons, and Marlboroughs. Six hundred boys left to
nothing in the world but theoretical morality. I wanted to become the
professor of practical morality, but the high master was away, so I
suppose I shall have to go on making my living the same old way--by
adding practical to theoretical morality.

What are the glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome, compared
to the glory and grandeur and majesty of a perfected morality such as
you see before you?

The New Vagabonds are old vagabonds (undergoing the old sort of reform).
You drank my health; I hope I have not been unuseful. Take this system
of morality to your hearts.
Take it home to your neighbors and your
graves, and I hope that it will be a long time before you arrive there.






LAYMAN'S SERMON



The Young Men's Christian Association asked Mr. Clemens to
deliver a lay sermon at the Majestic Theatre, New York, March
4, 1906. More than five thousand young men tried to get into
the theatre, and in a short time traffic was practically
stopped in the adjacent streets. The police reserves had to be
called out to thin the crowd. Doctor Fagnani had said
something before about the police episode, and Mr. Clemens took
it up.

I have been listening to what was said here, and there is in it a lesson
of citizenship. You created the police, and you are responsible for
them. One must pause, therefore, before criticising them too harshly.
They are citizens, just as we are. A little of citizenship ought to
be taught at the mother's knee and in the nursery. Citizenship is what
makes a republic; monarchies can get along without it. What keeps a
republic on its legs is good citizenship.

Organization is necessary in all things. It is even necessary in reform.
I was an organization myself once--for twelve hours. I was in Chicago
a few years ago about to depart for New York. There were with me Mr.
Osgood, a publisher, and a stenographer. I picked out a state-room on
a train, the principal feature of which was that it contained the
privilege of smoking. The train had started but a short time when the
conductor came in and said that there had been a mistake made, and asked
that we vacate the apartment. I refused, but when I went out on the
platform Osgood and the stenographer agreed to accept a section. They
were too modest.

Now, I am not modest. I was born modest, but it didn't last. I asserted
myself; insisted upon my rights, and finally the Pullman Conductor and
the train conductor capitulated, and I was left in possession.

I went into the dining-car the next morning for breakfast. Ordinarily I
only care for coffee and rolls, but this particular morning I espied
an important-looking man on the other side of the car eating broiled
chicken. I asked for broiled chicken, and I was told by the waiter and
later by the dining-car conductor that there was no broiled chicken.
There must have been an argument, for the Pullman conductor came in and
remarked: "If he wants broiled chicken, give it to him. If you
haven't got it on the train, stop somewhere. It will be better for all
concerned! " I got the chicken.

It is from experiences such as these that you get your education of
life, and you string them into jewels or into tinware, as you may
choose. I have received recently several letters asking my counsel
or advice. The principal request is for some incident that may prove
helpful to the young. There were a lot of incidents in my career to help
me along--sometimes they helped me along faster than I wanted to go.

Here is such a request. It is a telegram from Joplin, Missouri, and
it reads: "In what one of your works can we find the definition of a
gentleman? "

I have not answered that telegram, either; I couldn't. It seems to me
that if any man has just merciful and kindly instincts he would be a
gentleman, for he would need nothing else in the world.

I received the other day a letter from my old friend, William Dean
Howells--Howells, the head of American literature. No one is able to
stand with him. He is an old, old friend of mine, and he writes me,
"To-morrow I shall be sixty-nine years old. " Why, I am surprised at
Howells writing that! I have known him longer than that. I'm sorry to
see a man trying to appear so young. Let's see. Howells says now, "I see
you have been burying Patrick. I suppose he was old, too. "

No, he was never old--Patrick. He came to us thirty-six years ago. He was
my coachman on the morning that I drove my young bride to our new home.
He was a young Irishman, slender, tall, lithe, honest, truthful, and
he never changed in all his life. He really was with us but twenty-five
years, for he did not go with us to Europe, but he never regarded that
as separation. As the children grew up he was their guide. He was all
honor, honesty, and affection. He was with us in New Hampshire, with us
last summer, and his hair was just as black, his eyes were just as blue,
his form just as straight, and his heart just as good as on the day we
first met. In all the long years Patrick never made a mistake. He never
needed an order, he never received a command. He knew. I have been asked
for my idea of an ideal gentleman, and I give it to you Patrick McAleer.






UNIVERSITY SETTLEMENT SOCIETY



After the serious addresses were made, Seth Low introduced Mr.
Clemens at the Settlement House, February 2, 1901.

The older we grow the greater becomes our wonder at how much ignorance
one can contain without bursting one's clothes. Ten days ago I did not
know anything about the University Settlement except what I'd read in
the pamphlets sent me. Now, after being here and hearing Mrs. Hewitt
and Mrs. Thomas, it seems to me I know of nothing like it at all. It's a
charity that carries no humiliation with it. Marvellous it is, to think
of schools where you don't have to drive the children in but drive them
out. It was not so in my day.

Down-stairs just now I saw a dancing lesson going on. You must pay a
cent for a lesson. You can't get it for nothing. That's the reason I
never learned to dance.

But it was the pawnbroker's shop you have here that interested me
mightily. I've known something about pawnbrokers' shops in my time,
but here you have a wonderful plan. The ordinary pawnbroker charges
thirty-six per cent. a year for a loan, and I've paid more myself, but
here a man or woman in distress can obtain a loan for one per cent. a
month! It's wonderful!

I've been interested in all I've heard to-day, especially in the
romances recounted by Mrs. Thomas, which reminds me that I have a
romance of my own in my autobiography, which I am building for the
instruction of the world.

In San Francisco, many years ago, when I was a newspaper reporter
(perhaps I should say I had been and was willing to be), a pawnbroker
was taking care of what property I had. There was a friend of mine, a
poet, out of a job, and he was having a hard time of it, too. There was
passage in it, but I guess I've got to keep that for the autobiography.

Well, my friend the poet thought his life was a failure, and I told
him I thought it was, and then he said he thought he ought to commit
suicide, and I said "all right," which was disinterested advice to a
friend in trouble; but, like all such advice, there was just a little
bit of self-interest back of it, for if I could get a "scoop" on the
other newspapers I could get a job.

The poet could be spared, and so, largely for his own good and partly
for mine, I kept the thing in his mind, which was necessary, as would-be
suicides are very changeable and hard to hold to their purpose. He had a
preference for a pistol, which was an extravagance, for we hadn't enough
between us to hire a pistol. A fork would have been easier.

And so he concluded to drown himself, and I said it was an excellent
idea--the only trouble being that he was so good a swimmer. So we went
down to the beach. I went along to see that the thing was done right.
Then something most romantic happened. There came in on the sea
something that had been on its way for three years. It rolled in across
the broad Pacific with a message that was full of meaning to that poor
poet and cast itself at his feet. It was a life-preserver! This was a
complication. And then I had an idea--he never had any, especially
when he was going to write poetry; I suggested that we pawn the
life-preserver and get a revolver.

The pawnbroker gave us an old derringer with a bullet as big as a
hickory nut. When he heard that it was only a poet that was going to
kill himself he did not quibble. Well, we succeeded in sending a bullet
right through his head. It was a terrible moment when he placed that
pistol against his forehead and stood for an instant. I said, "Oh, pull
the trigger! " and he did, and cleaned out all the gray matter in his
brains. It carried the poetic faculty away, and now he's a useful member
of society.

Now, therefore, I realize that there's no more beneficent institution
than this penny fund of yours, and I want all the poets to know this. I
did think about writing you a check, but now I think I'll send you a few
copies of what one of your little members called 'Strawberry Finn'.






PUBLIC EDUCATION ASSOCIATION



ADDRESS AT A MEETING OF THE BERKELEY LYCEUM, NEW YORK,
NOVEMBER 23, 1900

I don't suppose that I am called here as an expert on education, for
that would show a lack of foresight on your part and a deliberate
intention to remind me of my shortcomings.

As I sat here looking around for an idea it struck me that I was called
for two reasons. One was to do good to me, a poor unfortunate traveller
on the world's wide ocean, by giving me a knowledge of the nature and
scope of your society and letting me know that others beside myself have
been of some use in the world. The other reason that I can see is
that you have called me to show by way of contrast what education can
accomplish if administered in the right sort of doses.

Your worthy president said that the school pictures, which have received
the admiration of the world at the Paris Exposition, have been sent to
Russia, and this was a compliment from that Government--which is very
surprising to me. Why, it is only an hour since I read a cablegram
in the newspapers beginning "Russia Proposes to Retrench. " I was not
expecting such a thunderbolt, and I thought what a happy thing it
will be for Russians when the retrenchment will bring home the thirty
thousand Russian troops now in Manchuria, to live in peaceful pursuits.
I thought this was what Germany should do also without delay, and that
France and all the other nations in China should follow suit.

Why should not China be free from the foreigners, who are only making
trouble on her soil? If they would only all go home, what a pleasant
place China would be for the Chinese! We do not allow Chinamen to come
here, and I say in all seriousness that it would be a graceful thing to
let China decide who shall go there.

China never wanted foreigners any more than foreigners wanted Chinamen,
and on this question I am with the Boxers every time. The Boxer is a
patriot. He loves his country better than he does the countries of other
people. I wish him success. The Boxer believes in driving us out of
his country. I am a Boxer too, for I believe in driving him out of our
country.

When I read the Russian despatch further my dream of world peace
vanished. It said that the vast expense of maintaining the army had
made it necessary to retrench, and so the Government had decided that
to support the army it would be necessary to withdraw the appropriation
from the public schools. This is a monstrous idea to us.

We believe that out of the public school grows the greatness of a
nation.

It is curious to reflect how history repeats itself the world over. Why,
I remember the same thing was done when I was a boy on the Mississippi
River. There was a proposition in a township there to discontinue public
schools because they were too expensive. An old farmer spoke up and said
if they stopped the schools they would not save anything, because every
time a school was closed a jail had to be built.

It's like feeding a dog on his own tail. He'll never get fat. I believe
it is better to support schools than jails.

The work of your association is better and shows more wisdom than the
Czar of Russia and all his people. This is not much of a compliment, but
it's the best I've got in stock.






EDUCATION AND CITIZENSHIP



On the evening of May 14, 1908, the alumni of the College of
the City of New York celebrated the opening of the new college
buildings at a banquet in the Waldorf Astoria. Mr. Clemens
followed Mayor McClellan.

I agreed when the Mayor said that there was not a man within hearing who
did not agree that citizenship should be placed above everything else,
even learning.

Have you ever thought about this? Is there a college in the whole
country where there is a chair of good citizenship? There is a kind
of bad citizenship which is taught in the schools, but no real good
citizenship taught. There are some which teach insane citizenship,
bastard citizenship, but that is all. Patriotism! Yes; but patriotism
is usually the refuge of the scoundrel. He is the man who talks the
loudest.

You can begin that chair of citizenship in the College of the City of
New York. You can place it above mathematics and literature, and that is
where it belongs.

We used to trust in God. I think it was in 1863 that some genius
suggested that it be put upon the gold and silver coins which circulated
among the rich. They didn't put it on the nickels and coppers because
they didn't think the poor folks had any trust in God.

Good citizenship would teach accuracy of thinking and accuracy of
statement. Now, that motto on the coin is an overstatement. Those
Congressmen had no right to commit this whole country to a theological
doctrine. But since they did, Congress ought to state what our creed
should be.

There was never a nation in the world that put its whole trust in
God. It is a statement made on insufficient evidence. Leaving out the
gamblers, the burglars, and the plumbers, perhaps we do put our trust in
God after a fashion. But, after all, it is an overstatement.

If the cholera or black plague should come to these shores, perhaps
the bulk of the nation would pray to be delivered from it, but the rest
would put their trust in the Health Board of the City of New York.

I read in the papers within the last day or two of a poor young girl who
they said was a leper. Did the people in that populous section of the
country where she was--did they put their trust in God? The girl was
afflicted with the leprosy, a disease which cannot be communicated from
one person to another.

Yet, instead of putting their trust in God, they harried that poor
creature, shelterless and friendless, from place to place, exactly as
they did in the Middle Ages, when they made lepers wear bells, so that
people could be warned of their approach and avoid them. Perhaps those
people in the Middle Ages thought they were putting their trust in God.

The President ordered the removal of that motto from the coin, and I
thought that it was well. I thought that overstatement should not stay
there. But I think it would better read, "Within certain judicious
limitations we trust in God," and if there isn't enough room on the coin
for this, why, enlarge the coin.

Now I want to tell a story about jumping at conclusions. It was told
to me by Bram Stoker, and it concerns a christening. There was a little
clergyman who was prone to jump at conclusions sometimes. One day he
was invited to officiate at a christening. He went. There sat
the relatives--intelligent-looking relatives they were. The little
clergyman's instinct came to him to make a great speech. He was given to
flights of oratory that way--a very dangerous thing, for often the wings
which take one into clouds of oratorical enthusiasm are wax and melt up
there, and down you come.

But the little clergyman couldn't resist. He took the child in his arms,
and, holding it, looked at it a moment. It wasn't much of a child.
It was little, like a sweet-potato. Then the little clergyman waited
impressively, and then: "I see in your countenances," he said,
"disappointment of him. I see you are disappointed with this baby. Why?
Because he is so little. My friends, if you had but the power of looking
into the future you might see that great things may come of little
things. There is the great ocean, holding the navies of the world, which
comes from little drops of water no larger than a woman's tears. There
are the great constellations in the sky, made up of little bits of
stars. Oh, if you could consider his future you might see that he might
become the greatest poet of the universe, the greatest warrior the world
has ever known, greater than Caesar, than Hannibal, than--er--er" (turning
to the father)--"what's his name? "

The father hesitated, then whispered back: "His name? Well, his name is
Mary Ann. "






COURAGE



At a beefsteak dinner, given by artists, caricaturists, and
humorists of New York City, April 18, 1908, Mr. Clemens, Mr. H.
H. Rogers, and Mr. Patrick McCarren were the guests of honor.