No More Learning

They
were a mighty hard lot--you know it. I grant you, without the slightest
unwillingness, that they were a deal more gentle and merciful and just
than were the people of Europe of that day; I grant you that they are
better than their predecessors. But what of that? --that is nothing.
People always progress. You are better than your fathers and
grandfathers were (this is the first time I have ever aimed a
measureless slander at the departed, for I consider such things
improper). Yes, those among you who have not been in the penitentiary,
if such there be, are better than your fathers and grandfathers were;
but is that any sufficient reason for getting up annual dinners and
celebrating you? No, by no means--by no means. Well, I repeat, those
Pilgrims were a hard lot. They took good care of themselves, but they
abolished everybody else's ancestors. I am a border-ruffian from the
State of Missouri. I am a Connecticut Yankee by adoption. In me, you
have Missouri morals, Connecticut culture; this, gentlemen, is the
combination which makes the perfect man. But where are my ancestors?
Whom shall I celebrate? Where shall I find the raw material?

My first American ancestor, gentlemen, was an Indian--an early Indian.
Your ancestors skinned him alive, and I am an orphan. Not one drop of
my blood flows in that Indian's veins today. I stand here, lone and
forlorn, without an ancestor. They skinned him! I do not object to that,
if they needed his fur; but alive, gentlemen--alive! They skinned him
alive--and before company! That is what rankles. Think how he must have
felt; for he was a sensitive person and easily embarrassed. If he had
been a bird, it would have been all right, and no violence done to his
feelings, because he would have been considered "dressed. " But he
was not a bird, gentlemen, he was a man, and probably one of the most
undressed men that ever was. I ask you to put yourselves in his place.
I ask it as a favor; I ask it as a tardy act of justice; I ask it in the
interest of fidelity to the traditions of your ancestors; I ask it
that the world may contemplate, with vision unobstructed by disguising
swallow-tails and white cravats, the spectacle which the true New
England Society ought to present. Cease to come to these annual orgies
in this hollow modern mockery--the surplusage of raiment. Come in
character; come in the summer grace, come in the unadorned simplicity,
come in the free and joyous costume which your sainted ancestors
provided for mine.

Later ancestors of mine were the Quakers William Robinson, Marmaduke
Stevenson, et al. Your tribe chased them out of the country for their
religion's sake; promised them death if they came back; for your
ancestors had forsaken the homes they loved, and braved the perils of
the sea, the implacable climate, and the savage wilderness, to acquire
that highest and most precious of boons, freedom for every man on
this broad continent to worship according to the dictates of his own
conscience--and they were not going to allow a lot of pestiferous
Quakers to interfere with it. Your ancestors broke forever the chains
of political slavery, and gave the vote to every man in this wide land,
excluding none! --none except those who did not belong to the orthodox
church. Your ancestors--yes, they were a hard lot; but, nevertheless,
they gave us religious liberty to worship as they required us to
worship, and political liberty to vote as the church required; and so
I the bereft one, I the forlorn one, am here to do my best to help you
celebrate them right.

The Quaker woman Elizabeth Hooton was an ancestress of mine. Your people
were pretty severe with her you will confess that. But, poor thing! I
believe they changed her opinions before she died, and took her into
their fold; and so we have every reason to presume that when she died
she went to the same place which your ancestors went to. It is a great
pity, for she was a good woman. Roger Williams was an ancestor of mine.
I don't really remember what your people did with him. But they banished
him to Rhode Island, anyway. And then, I believe, recognizing that this
was really carrying harshness to an unjustifiable extreme, they took
pity on him and burned him. They were a hard lot! All those Salem
witches were ancestors of mine! Your people made it tropical for them.
Yes, they did; by pressure and the gallows they made such a clean deal
with them that there hasn't been a witch and hardly a halter in our
family from that day to this, and that is one hundred and eighty-nine
years. The first slave brought into New England out of Africa by your
progenitors was an ancestor of mine--for I am of a mixed breed, an
infinitely shaded and exquisite Mongrel. I'm not one of your sham
meerschaums that you can color in a week. No, my complexion is the
patient art of eight generations. Well, in my own time, I had acquired
a lot of my kin--by purchase, and swapping around, and one way and
another--and was getting along very well. Then, with the inborn
perversity of your lineage, you got up a war, and took them all away
from me. And so, again am I bereft, again am I forlorn; no drop of my
blood flows in the veins of any living being who is marketable.

O my friends, hear me and reform! I seek your good, not mine. You have
heard the speeches. Disband these New England societies--nurseries of
a system of steadily augmenting laudation and hosannaing, which; if
persisted in uncurbed, may some day in the remote future beguile you
into prevaricating and bragging. Oh, stop, stop, while you are still
temperate in your appreciation of your ancestors! Hear me, I beseech
you; get up an auction and sell Plymouth Rock! The Pilgrims were a
simple and ignorant race. They never had seen any good rocks before,
or at least any that were not watched, and so they were excusable for
hopping ashore in frantic delight and clapping an iron fence around this
one. But you, gentlemen, are educated; you are enlightened; you know
that in the rich land of your nativity, opulent New England, overflowing
with rocks, this one isn't worth, at the outside, more than thirty-five
cents. Therefore, sell it, before it is injured by exposure, or at least
throw it open to the patent-medicine advertisements, and let it earn its
taxes:

Yes, hear your true friend--your only true friend--list to his voice.
Disband these societies, hotbeds of vice, of moral decay--perpetuators
of ancestral superstition. Here on this board I see water, I see milk, I
see the wild and deadly lemonade. These are but steps upon the downward
path. Next we shall see tea, then chocolate, then coffee--hotel coffee.
A few more years--all too few, I fear--mark my words, we shall have cider!
Gentlemen, pause ere it be too late. You are on the broad road which
leads to dissipation, physical ruin, moral decay, gory crime and the
gallows! I beseech you, I implore you, in the name of your anxious
friends, in the name of your suffering families, in the name of your
impending widows and orphans, stop ere it be too late. Disband these New
England societies, renounce these soul-blistering saturnalia, cease from
varnishing the rusty reputations of your long-vanished ancestors--the
super-high-moral old iron-clads of Cape Cod, the pious buccaneers of
Plymouth Rock--go home, and try to learn to behave!

However, chaff and nonsense aside, I think I honor and appreciate your
Pilgrim stock as much as you do yourselves, perhaps; and I endorse and
adopt a sentiment uttered by a grandfather of mine once--a man of sturdy
opinions, of sincere make of mind, and not given to flattery. He said:
"People may talk as they like about that Pilgrim stock, but, after all's
said and done, it would be pretty hard to improve on those people; and,
as for me, I don't mind coming out flatfooted and saying there ain't any
way to improve on them--except having them born in Missouri! "






COMPLIMENTS AND DEGREES



DELIVERED AT THE LOTOS CLUB, JANUARY 11, 1908

In introducing Mr. Clemens, Frank R. Lawrence, the President
of the Lotos Club, recalled the fact that the first club dinner
in the present club-house, some fourteen years ago, was in
honor of Mark Twain.

I wish to begin this time at the beginning, lest I forget it altogether;
that is to say, I wish to thank you for this welcome that you are
giving, and the welcome which you gave me seven years ago, and which I
forgot to thank you for at that time. I also wish to thank you for the
welcome you gave me fourteen years ago, which I also forgot to thank you
for at the time.

I hope you will continue this custom to give me a dinner every seven
years before I join the hosts in the other world--I do not know which
world.

Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Porter have paid me many compliments. It is very
difficult to take compliments. I do not care whether you deserve the
compliments or not, it is just as difficult to take them. The other
night I was at the Engineers' Club, and enjoyed the sufferings of
Mr. Carnegie. They were complimenting him there; there it was all
compliments, and none of them deserved. They say that you cannot live by
bread alone, but I can live on compliments.

I do not make any pretence that I dislike compliments. The stronger the
better, and I can manage to digest them. I think I have lost so much by
not making a collection of compliments, to put them away and take them
out again once in a while. When in England I said that I would start to
collect compliments, and I began there and I have brought some of them
along.

The first one of these lies--I wrote them down and preserved them--I think
they are mighty good and extremely just. It is one of Hamilton Mabie's
compliments. He said that La Salle was the first one to make a voyage
of the Mississippi, but Mark Twain was the first to chart, light, and
navigate it for the whole world.

If that had been published at the time that I issued that book [Life on
the Mississippi], it would have been money in my pocket. I tell you, it
is a talent by itself to pay compliments gracefully and have them ring
true. It's an art by itself.

Here is another compliment by Albert Bigelow Paine, my biographer. He
is writing four octavo volumes about me, and he has been at my elbow two
and one-half years.

I just suppose that he does not know me, but says he knows me. He says
"Mark Twain is not merely a great writer, a great philosopher, a great
man; he is the supreme expression of the human being, with his strength
and his weakness. " What a talent for compression! It takes a genius in
compression to compact as many facts as that.

W. D. Howells spoke of me as first of Hartford, and ultimately of the
solar system, not to say of the universe:

You know how modest Howells is. If it can be proved that my fame reaches
to Neptune and Saturn; that will satisfy even me. You know how modest
and retiring Howells seems to be, but deep down he is as vain as I am.

Mr. Howells had been granted a degree at Oxford, whose gown was red. He
had been invited to an exercise at Columbia, and upon inquiry had been
told that it was usual to wear the black gown: Later he had found that
three other men wore bright gowns, and he had lamented that he had been
one of the black mass, and not a red torch.

Edison wrote: "The average American loves his family. If he has any love
left over for some other person, he generally selects Mark Twain. "

Now here's the compliment of a little Montana girl which came to me
indirectly. She was in a room in which there was a large photograph of
me. After gazing at it steadily for a time, she said:

"We've got a John the Baptist like that. " 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.