No More Learning

It was Doctor Depew's business to get up
there and apologise for the Dutch, and Mr. Choate had to get up later
and explain the crimes of the Puritans, and grand, beautiful times we
used to have.

It is curious that after that long lapse of time I meet the Whitefriars
again, some looking as young and fresh as in the old days, others
showing a certain amount of wear and tear, and here, after all this
time, I find one of the masters of oratory and the others named in the
list.

And here we three meet again as exiles on one pretext or another,
and you will notice that while we are absent there is a pleasing
tranquillity in America--a building up of public confidence. We are doing
the best we can for our country. I think we have spent our lives in
serving our country, and we never serve it to greater advantage than
when we get out of it.

But impromptu speaking--that is what I was trying to learn. That is a
difficult thing. I used to do it in this way. I used to begin about a
week ahead, and write out my impromptu speech and get it by heart. Then
I brought it to the New England dinner printed on a piece of paper in my
pocket, so that I could pass it to the reporters all cut and dried,
and in order to do an impromptu speech as it should be done you have to
indicate the places for pauses and hesitations. I put them all in it.
And then you want the applause in the right places.

When I got to the place where it should come in, if it did not come in
I did not care, but I had it marked in the paper. And these masters of
mind used to wonder why it was my speech came out in the morning in the
first person, while theirs went through the butchery of synopsis.

I do that kind of speech (I mean an offhand speech), and do it well,
and make no mistake in such a way to deceive the audience completely and
make that audience believe it is an impromptu speech--that is art.

I was frightened out of it at last by an experience of Doctor Hayes. He
was a sort of Nansen of that day. He had been to the North Pole, and it
made him celebrated. He had even seen the polar bear climb the pole.

He had made one of those magnificent voyages such as Nansen made, and in
those days when a man did anything which greatly distinguished him for
the moment he had to come on to the lecture platform and tell all about
it.

Doctor Hayes was a great, magnificent creature like Nansen, superbly
built. He was to appear in Boston. He wrote his lecture out, and it was
his purpose to read it from manuscript; but in an evil hour he concluded
that it would be a good thing to preface it with something rather
handsome, poetical, and beautiful that he could get off by heart and
deliver as if it were the thought of the moment.

He had not had my experience, and could not do that. He came on the
platform, held his manuscript down, and began with a beautiful piece of
oratory. He spoke something like this:

"When a lonely human being, a pigmy in the midst of the architecture
of nature, stands solitary on those icy waters and looks abroad to the
horizon and sees mighty castles and temples of eternal ice raising up
their pinnacles tipped by the pencil of the departing sun--"

Here a man came across the platform and touched him on the shoulder, and
said: "One minute. " And then to the audience:

"Is Mrs. John Smith in the house? Her husband has slipped on the ice and
broken his leg. "

And you could see the Mrs. John Smiths get up everywhere and drift out
of the house, and it made great gaps everywhere. Then Doctor Hayes began
again: "When a lonely man, a pigmy in the architecture--" The janitor
came in again and shouted: "It is not Mrs. John Smith! It is Mrs. John
Jones! "

Then all the Mrs. Jones got up and left. Once more the speaker started,
and was in the midst of the sentence when he was interrupted again,
and the result was that the lecture was not delivered. But the lecturer
interviewed the janitor afterward in a private room, and of the
fragments of the janitor they took "twelve basketsful. "

Now, I don't want to sit down just in this way. I have been talking with
so much levity that I have said no serious thing, and you are really
no better or wiser, although Robert Buchanan has suggested that I am
a person who deals in wisdom. I have said nothing which would make you
better than when you came here.

I should be sorry to sit down without having said one serious word which
you can carry home and relate to your children and the old people who
are not able to get away.

And this is just a little maxim which has saved me from many a
difficulty and many a disaster, and in times of tribulation and
uncertainty has come to my rescue, as it shall to yours if you observe
it as I do day and night.

I always use it in an emergency, and you can take it home as a legacy
from me, and it is "When in doubt, tell the truth. "






THE ASCOT GOLD CUP



The news of Mr. Clemens's arrival in England in June, 1907, was
announced in the papers with big headlines. Immediately
following the announcement was the news--also with big
headlines--that the Ascot Gold Cup had been stolen the same
day. The combination, MARK TWAIN ARRIVES-ASCOT CUP STOLEN,
amused the public. The Lord Mayor of London gave a banquet at
the Mansion House in honor of Mr. Clemens.

I do assure you that I am not so dishonest as I look. I have been so
busy trying to rehabilitate my honor about that Ascot Cup that I have
had no time to prepare a speech.

I was not so honest in former days as I am now, but I have always
been reasonably honest. Well, you know how a man is influenced by his
surroundings. Once upon a time I went to a public meeting where the
oratory of a charitable worker so worked on my feelings that, in common
with others, I would have dropped something substantial in the hat--if it
had come round at that moment.

The speaker had the power of putting those vivid pictures before one. We
were all affected. That was the moment for the hat. I would have put
two hundred dollars in. Before he had finished I could have put in
four hundred dollars. I felt I could have filled up a blank check--with
somebody else's name--and dropped it in.

Well, now, another speaker got up, and in fifteen minutes damped my
spirit; and during the speech of the third speaker all my enthusiasm
went away. When at last the hat came round I dropped in ten cents--and
took out twenty-five.

I came over here to get the honorary degree from Oxford, and I would
have encompassed the seven seas for an honor like that--the greatest
honor that has ever fallen to my share. I am grateful to Oxford for
conferring that honor upon me, and I am sure my country appreciates it,
because first and foremost it is an honor to my country.

And now I am going home again across the sea. I am in spirit young but
in the flesh old, so that it is unlikely that when I go away I shall
ever see England again. But I shall go with the recollection of the
generous and kindly welcome I have had.

I suppose I must say "Good-bye. " I say it not with my lips only, but
from the heart.






THE SAVAGE CLUB DINNER



A portrait of Mr. Clemens, signed by all the members of the
club attending the dinner, was presented to him, July 6, 1907,
and in submitting the toast "The Health of Mark Twain" Mr. J.
Scott Stokes recalled the fact that he had read parts of Doctor
Clemens's works to Harold Frederic during Frederic's last
illness.

MR. CHAIRMAN AND FELLOW-SAVAGES,--I am very glad indeed to have that
portrait. I think it is the best one that I have ever had, and there
have been opportunities before to get a good photograph. I have sat to
photographers twenty-two times to-day. Those sittings added to those
that have preceded them since I have been in Europe--if we average at
that rate--must have numbered one hundred to two hundred sittings. Out
of all those there ought to be some good photographs. This is the best I
have had, and I am glad to have your honored names on it. I did not know
Harold Frederic personally, but I have heard a great deal about him, and
nothing that was not pleasant and nothing except such things as lead
a man to honor another man and to love him. I consider that it is a
misfortune of mine that I have never had the luck to meet him, and if
any book of mine read to him in his last hours made those hours easier
for him and more comfortable, I am very glad and proud of that. I call
to mind such a case many years ago of an English authoress, well known
in her day, who wrote such beautiful child tales, touching and lovely in
every possible way. In a little biographical sketch of her I found that
her last hours were spent partly in reading a book of mine, until she
was no longer able to read. That has always remained in my mind, and
I have always cherished it as one of the good things of my life. I had
read what she had written, and had loved her for what she had done.

Stanley apparently carried a book of mine feloniously away to Africa,
and I have not a doubt that it had a noble and uplifting influence there
in the wilds of Africa--because on his previous journeys he never carried
anything to read except Shakespeare and the Bible. I did not know of
that circumstance. I did not know that he had carried a book of mine.
I only noticed that when he came back he was a reformed man. I knew
Stanley very well in those old days. Stanley was the first man who ever
reported a lecture of mine, and that was in St. Louis. When I was down
there the next time to give the same lecture I was told to give them
something fresh, as they had read that in the papers. I met Stanley here
when he came back from that first expedition of his which closed with
the finding of Livingstone. You remember how he would break out at the
meetings of the British Association, and find fault with what people
said, because Stanley had notions of his own, and could not contain
them. They had to come out or break him up--and so he would go round and
address geographical societies. He was always on the warpath in
those days, and people always had to have Stanley contradicting their
geography for them and improving it. But he always came back and sat
drinking beer with me in the hotel up to two in the morning, and he was
then one of the most civilized human beings that ever was.

I saw in a newspaper this evening a reference to an interview which
appeared in one of the papers the other day, in which the interviewer
said that I characterized Mr. Birrell's speech the other day at the
Pilgrims' Club as "bully. " Now, if you will excuse me, I never use slang
to an interviewer or anybody else. That distresses me. Whatever I said
about Mr. Birrell's speech was said in English, as good English as
anybody uses. If I could not describe Mr. Birrell's delightful speech
without using slang I would not describe it at all. I would close my
mouth and keep it closed, much as it would discomfort me.

Now that comes of interviewing a man in the first person, which is an
altogether wrong way to interview him. It is entirely wrong because none
of you, I, or anybody else, could interview a man--could listen to a man
talking any length of time and then go off and reproduce that talk in
the first person. It can't be done. What results is merely that the
interviewer gives the substance of what is said and puts it in his own
language and puts it in your mouth. It will always be either better
language than you use or worse, and in my case it is always worse.
I have a great respect for the English language. I am one of its
supporters, its promoters, its elevators. I don't degrade it. A slip of
the tongue would be the most that you would get from me. I have always
tried hard and faithfully to improve my English and never to degrade it.
I always try to use the best English to describe what I think and what I
feel, or what I don't feel and what I don't think.

I am not one of those who in expressing opinions confine themselves to
facts. I don't know anything that mars good literature so completely as
too much truth. Facts contain a deal of poetry, but you can't use too
many of them without damaging your literature. I love all literature,
and as long as I am a doctor of literature--I have suggested to you for
twenty years I have been diligently trying to improve my own literature,
and now, by virtue of the University of Oxford, I mean to doctor
everybody else's.

Now I think I ought to apologize for my clothes. At home I venture
things that I am not permitted by my family to venture in foreign parts.
I was instructed before I left home and ordered to refrain from white
clothes in England. I meant to keep that command fair and clean, and I
would have done it if I had been in the habit of obeying instructions,
but I can't invent a new process in life right away. I have not had
white clothes on since I crossed the ocean until now.

In these three or four weeks I have grown so tired of gray and black
that you have earned my gratitude in permitting me to come as I have. I
wear white clothes in the depth of winter in my home, but I don't go out
in the streets in them. I don't go out to attract too much attention.
I like to attract some, and always I would like to be dressed so that I
may be more conspicuous than anybody else.

If I had been an ancient Briton, I would not have contented myself with
blue paint, but I would have bankrupted the rainbow. I so enjoy gay
clothes in which women clothe themselves that it always grieves me when
I go to the opera to see that, while women look like a flower-bed, the
men are a few gray stumps among them in their black evening dress. These
are two or three reasons why I wish to wear white clothes: When I find
myself in assemblies like this, with everybody in black clothes, I know
I possess something that is superior to everybody else's. Clothes are
never clean. You don't know whether they are clean or not, because you
can't see.

Here or anywhere you must scour your head every two or three days or
it is full of grit. Your clothes must collect just as much dirt as your
hair. If you wear white clothes you are clean, and your cleaning bill
gets so heavy that you have to take care. I am proud to say that I can
wear a white suit of clothes without a blemish for three days. If you
need any further instruction in the matter of clothes I shall be glad to
give it to you. I hope I have convinced some of you that it is just as
well to wear white clothes as any other kind. I do not want to boast. I
only want to make you understand that you are not clean.

As to age, the fact that I am nearly seventy-two years old does not
clearly indicate how old I am, because part of every day--it is with
me as with you, you try to describe your age, and you cannot do it.
Sometimes you are only fifteen; sometimes you are twenty-five. It is
very seldom in a day that I am seventy-two years old. I am older now
sometimes than I was when I used to rob orchards; a thing which I would
not do to-day--if the orchards were watched. I am so glad to be here
to-night. I am so glad to renew with the Savages that now ancient time
when I first sat with a company of this club in London in 1872. That is
a long time ago. But I did stay with the Savages a night in London long
ago, and as I had come into a very strange land, and was with friends,
as I could see, that has always remained in my mind as a peculiarly
blessed evening, since it brought me into contact with men of my own
kind and my own feelings.

I am glad to be here, and to see you all again, because it is very
likely that I shall not see you again. It is easier than I thought to
come across the Atlantic. I have been received, as you know, in the most
delightfully generous way in England ever since I came here. It keeps
me choked up all the time. Everybody is so generous, and they do seem
to give you such a hearty welcome. Nobody in the world can appreciate it
higher than I do. It did not wait till I got to London, but when I came
ashore at Tilbury the stevedores on the dock raised the first welcome--a
good and hearty welcome from the men who do the heavy labor in the
world, and save you and me having to do it. They are the men who with
their hands build empires and make them prosper. It is because of them
that the others are wealthy and can live in luxury. They received me
with a "Hurrah! " that went to my heart. They are the men that build
civilization, and without them no civilization can be built. So I came
first to the authors and creators of civilization, and I blessedly end
this happy meeting with the Savages who destroy it.






GENERAL MILES AND THE DOG



Mr. Clemens was the guest of honor at a dinner given by the
Pleiades Club at the Hotel Brevoort, December 22, 1907. The
toastmaster introduced the guest of the evening with a high
tribute to his place in American literature, saying that he was
dear to the hearts of all Americans.

It is hard work to make a speech when you have listened to compliments
from the powers in authority. A compliment is a hard text to preach to.
When the chairman introduces me as a person of merit, and when he says
pleasant things about me, I always feel like answering simply that what
he says is true; that it is all right; that, as far as I am concerned,
the things he said can stand as they are. But you always have to say
something, and that is what frightens me.

I remember out in Sydney once having to respond to some complimentary
toast, and my one desire was to turn in my tracks like any other
worm--and run, for it. I was remembering that occasion at a later date
when I had to introduce a speaker. Hoping, then, to spur his speech by
putting him, in joke, on the defensive, I accused him in my introduction
of everything I thought it impossible for him to have committed. When I
finished there was an awful calm. I had been telling his life history by
mistake.

One must keep up one's character. Earn a character first if you can,
and if you can't, then assume one. From the code of morals I have been
following and revising and revising for seventy-two years I remember
one detail. All my life I have been honest--comparatively honest. I could
never use money I had not made honestly--I could only lend it.

Last spring I met General Miles again, and he commented on the fact that
we had known each other thirty years. He said it was strange that we had
not met years before, when we had both been in Washington. At that point
I changed the subject, and I changed it with art. But the facts are
these:

I was then under contract for my Innocents Abroad, but did not have a
cent to live on while I wrote it. So I went to Washington to do a little
journalism. There I met an equally poor friend, William Davidson, who
had not a single vice, unless you call it a vice in a Scot to love
Scotch. Together we devised the first and original newspaper syndicate,
selling two letters a week to twelve newspapers and getting $1 a letter.
That $24 a week would have been enough for us--if we had not had to
support the jug.

But there was a day when we felt that we must have $3 right away--$3
at once. That was how I met the General. It doesn't matter now what
we wanted so much money at one time for, but that Scot and I did
occasionally want it. The Scot sent me out one day to get it. He had a
great belief in Providence, that Scottish friend of mine. He said: "The
Lord will provide.
"

I had given up trying to find the money lying about, and was in a hotel
lobby in despair, when I saw a beautiful unfriended dog. The dog saw
me, too, and at once we became acquainted. Then General Miles came in,
admired the dog, and asked me to price it. I priced it at $3. He offered
me an opportunity to reconsider the value of the beautiful animal, but I
refused to take more than Providence knew I needed. The General carried
the dog to his room.

Then came in a sweet little middle-aged man, who at once began looking
around the lobby.

"Did you lose a dog? " I asked. He said he had.

"I think I could find it," I volunteered, "for a small sum. "

"'How much? '" he asked. And I told him $3.

He urged me to accept more, but I did not wish to outdo Providence. Then
I went to the General's room and asked for the dog back. He was very
angry, and wanted to know why I had sold him a dog that did not belong
to me.

"That's a singular question to ask me, sir," I replied. "Didn't you ask
me to sell him? You started it. " And he let me have him. I gave him back
his $3 and returned the dog, collect, to its owner. That second $3 I
carried home to the Scot, and we enjoyed it, but the first $3, the money
I got from the General, I would have had to lend.

The General seemed not to remember my part in that adventure, and I
never had the heart to tell him about it.






WHEN IN DOUBT, TELL THE TRUTH



Mark Twain's speech at the dinner of the "Freundschaft
Society," March 9, 1906, had as a basis the words of
introduction used by Toastmaster Frank, who, referring to
Pudd'nhead Wilson, used the phrase, "When in doubt, tell the
truth. "

MR. CHAIRMAN, Mr. PUTZEL, AND GENTLEMEN OF THE FREUNDSCHAFT,--That maxim
I did invent, but never expected it to be applied to me. I did say,
"When you are in doubt," but when I am in doubt myself I use more
sagacity.

Mr. Grout suggested that if I have anything to say against Mr. Putzel,
or any criticism of his career or his character, I am the last person to
come out on account of that maxim and tell the truth. That is altogether
a mistake.

I do think it is right for other people to be virtuous so that they can
be happy hereafter, but if I knew every impropriety that even Mr. Putzel
has committed in his life, I would not mention one of them. My judgment
has been maturing for seventy years, and I have got to that point where
I know better than that.

Mr. Putzel stands related to me in a very tender way (through the tax
office), and it does not behoove me to say anything which could by any
possibility militate against that condition of things.

Now, that word--taxes, taxes, taxes! I have heard it to-night. I have
heard it all night. I wish somebody would change that subject; that is a
very sore subject to me.

I was so relieved when judge Leventritt did find something that was not
taxable--when he said that the commissioner could not tax your patience.
And that comforted me. We've got so much taxation. I don't know of
a single foreign product that enters this country untaxed except the
answer to prayer.

On an occasion like this the proprieties require that you merely pay
compliments to the guest of the occasion, and I am merely here to pay
compliments to the guest of the occasion, not to criticise him in any
way, and I can say only complimentary things to him.

When I went down to the tax office some time ago, for the first time
in New York, I saw Mr. Putzel sitting in the "Seat of Perjury. " I
recognized him right away. I warmed to him on the spot. I didn't
know that I had ever seen him before, but just as soon as I saw him I
recognized him. I had met him twenty-five years before, and at that time
had achieved a knowledge of his abilities and something more than that.

I thought: "Now, this is the man whom I saw twenty-five years ago. "
On that occasion I not only went free at his hands, but carried off
something more than that. I hoped it would happen again.

It was twenty-five years ago when I saw a young clerk in Putnam's
bookstore. I went in there and asked for George Haven Putnam, and handed
him my card, and then the young man said Mr. Putnam was busy and I
couldn't see him. Well, I had merely called in a social way, and so it
didn't matter.

I was going out when I saw a great big, fat, interesting-looking book
lying there, and I took it up. It was an account of the invasion
of England in the fourteenth century by the Preaching Friar, and it
interested me.

I asked him the price of it, and he said four dollars.

"Well," I said, "what discount do you allow to publishers? "

He said: "Forty percent. off. "

I said: "All right, I am a publisher. "

He put down the figure, forty per cent. off, on a card.

Then I said: "What discount do you allow to authors? "

He said: "Forty per cent. off. "

"Well," I said, "set me down as an author. "

"Now," said I, "what discount do you allow to the clergy? "

He said: "Forty per cent. off. "

I said to him that I was only on the road, and that I was studying for
the ministry. I asked him wouldn't he knock off twenty per cent. for
that. He set down the figure, and he never smiled once.

I was working off these humorous brilliancies on him and getting no
return--not a scintillation in his eye, not a spark of recognition of
what I was doing there. I was almost in despair.

I thought I might try him once more, so I said "Now, I am also a member
of the human race. Will you let me have the ten per cent. off for that? "
He set it down, and never smiled.

Well, I gave it up. I said: "There is my card with my address on it,
but I have not any money with me. Will you please send the bill to
Hartford? " I took up the book and was going away.

He said: "Wait a minute. There is forty cents coming to you. "

When I met him in the tax office I thought maybe I could make something
again, but I could not. But I had not any idea I could when I came, and
as it turned out I did get off entirely free.

I put up my hand and made a statement. It gave me a good deal of pain
to do that. I was not used to it. I was born and reared in the higher
circles of Missouri, and there we don't do such things--didn't in my
time, but we have got that little matter settled--got a sort of tax
levied on me.

Then he touched me. Yes, he touched me this time, because he
cried--cried! He was moved to tears to see that I, a virtuous person only
a year before, after immersion for one year--during one year in the New
York morals--had no more conscience than a millionaire.






THE DAY WE CELEBRATE



ADDRESS AT THE FOURTH-OF-JULY DINNER OF THE AMERICAN SOCIETY,
LONDON, 1899.

I noticed in Ambassador Choate's speech that he said: "You may be
Americans or Englishmen, but you cannot be both at the same time. " You
responded by applause.

Consider the effect of a short residence here. I find the Ambassador
rises first to speak to a toast, followed by a Senator, and I come
third. What a subtle tribute that to monarchial influence of the country
when you place rank above respectability!

I was born modest, and if I had not been things like this would force it
upon me. I understand it quite well. I am here to see that between them
they do justice to the day we celebrate, and in case they do not I must
do it myself. But I notice they have considered this day merely from one
side--its sentimental, patriotic, poetic side. But it has another side.
It has a commercial, a business side that needs reforming. It has a
historical side.

I do not say "an" historical side, because I am speaking the American
language. I do not see why our cousins should continue to say "an"
hospital, "an" historical fact, "an" horse. It seems to me the Congress
of Women, now in session, should look to it. I think "an" is having a
little too much to do with it. It comes of habit, which accounts for
many things.

Yesterday, for example, I was at a luncheon party. At the end of the
party a great dignitary of the English Established Church went away half
an hour before anybody else and carried off my hat. Now, that was an
innocent act on his part. He went out first, and of course had the
choice of hats. As a rule I try to get out first myself. But I hold that
it was an innocent, unconscious act, due, perhaps, to heredity. He
was thinking about ecclesiastical matters, and when a man is in that
condition of mind he will take anybody's hat. The result was that the
whole afternoon I was under the influence of his clerical hat and could
not tell a lie. Of course, he was hard at it.

It is a compliment to both of us. His hat fitted me exactly; my hat
fitted him exactly. So I judge I was born to rise to high dignity in the
Church some how or other, but I do not know what he was born for. That
is an illustration of the influence of habit, and it is perceptible here
when they say "an" hospital, "an" European, "an" historical.

The business aspects of the Fourth of July is not perfect as it stands.
See what it costs us every year with loss of life, the crippling of
thousands with its fireworks, and the burning down of property. It is
not only sacred to patriotism and universal freedom, but to the surgeon,
the undertaker, the insurance offices--and they are working it for all it
is worth.

I am pleased to see that we have a cessation of war for the time. This
coming from me, a soldier, you will appreciate. I was a soldier in the
Southern war for two weeks, and when gentlemen get up to speak of the
great deeds our army and navy have recently done, why, it goes all
through me and fires up the old war spirit. I had in my first engagement
three horses shot under me. The next ones went over my head, the next
hit me in the back. Then I retired to meet an engagement.

I thank you, gentlemen, for making even a slight reference to the war
profession, in which I distinguished myself, short as my career was.






INDEPENDENCE DAY



The American Society in London gave a banquet, July 4, 1907, at
the Hotel Cecil. Ambassador Choate called on Mr. Clemens to
respond to the toast "The Day We Celebrate. "

MR. CHAIRMAN, MY LORD, AND GENTLEMEN,--Once more it happens, as it has
happened so often since I arrived in England a week or two ago,
that instead of celebrating the Fourth of July properly as has been
indicated, I have to first take care of my personal character. Sir
Mortimer Durand still remains unconvinced. Well, I tried to convince
these people from the beginning that I did not take the Ascot Cup; and
as I have failed to convince anybody that I did not take the cup, I
might as well confess I did take it and be done with it. I don't see why
this uncharitable feeling should follow me everywhere, and why I should
have that crime thrown up to me on all occasions. The tears that I have
wept over it ought to have created a different feeling than this--and,
besides, I don't think it is very right or fair that, considering
England has been trying to take a cup of ours for forty years--I don't
see why they should take so much trouble when I tried to go into the
business myself.

Sir Mortimer Durand, too, has had trouble from going to a dinner here,
and he has told you what he suffered in consequence. But what did he
suffer? He only missed his train, and one night of discomfort, and
he remembers it to this day. Oh! if you could only think what I have
suffered from a similar circumstance. Two or three years ago, in New
York, with that Society there which is made up of people from all
British Colonies, and from Great Britain generally, who were educated in
British colleges and British schools, I was there to respond to a toast
of some kind or other, and I did then what I have been in the habit of
doing, from a selfish motive, for a long time, and that is, I got myself
placed No, 3 in the list of speakers--then you get home early.

I had to go five miles up-river, and had to catch a particular train or
not get there. But see the magnanimity which is born in me, which I have
cultivated all my life. A very famous and very great British clergyman
came to me presently, and he said: "I am away down in the list; I have
got to catch a certain train this Saturday night; if I don't catch that
train I shall be carried beyond midnight and break the Sabbath. Won't
you change places with me? " I said: "Certainly I will. " I did it at
once. Now, see what happened.

Talk about Sir Mortimer Durand's sufferings for a single night! I have
suffered ever since because I saved that gentleman from breaking the
Sabbath-yes, saved him. I took his place, but I lost my train, and it
was I who broke the Sabbath. Up to that time I never had broken the
Sabbath in my life, and from that day to this I never have kept it.

Oh! I am learning much here to-night. I find I didn't know anything
about the American Society--that is, I didn't know its chief virtue.
I didn't know its chief virtue until his Excellency our Ambassador
revealed it--I may say, exposed it. I was intending to go home on the
13th of this month, but I look upon that in a different light now. I am
going to stay here until the American Society pays my passage.

Our Ambassador has spoken of our Fourth of July and the noise it makes.
We have got a double Fourth of July--a daylight Fourth and a midnight
Fourth. During the day in America, as our Ambassador has indicated, we
keep the Fourth of July properly in a reverent spirit. We devote it to
teaching our children patriotic things--reverence for the Declaration of
Independence. We honor the day all through the daylight hours, and
when night comes we dishonor it. Presently--before long--they are getting
nearly ready to begin now--on the Atlantic coast, when night shuts down,
that pandemonium will begin, and there will be noise, and noise, and
noise--all night long--and there will be more than noise there will be
people crippled, there will be people killed, there will be people who
will lose their eyes, and all through that permission which we give
to irresponsible boys to play with firearms and fire-crackers, and all
sorts of dangerous things: We turn that Fourth of July, alas! over
to rowdies to drink and get drunk and make the night hideous, and we
cripple and kill more people than you would imagine.

We probably began to celebrate our Fourth-of-July night in that way one
hundred and twenty-five years ago, and on every Fourth-of-July night
since these horrors have grown and grown, until now, in our five
thousand towns of America, somebody gets killed or crippled on every
Fourth-of-July night, besides those cases of sick persons whom we never
hear of, who die as the result of the noise or the shock. They cripple
and kill more people on the Fourth of July in America than they kill and
cripple in our wars nowadays, and there are no pensions for these folk.
And, too, we burn houses. Really we destroy more property on every
Fourth-of-July night than the whole of the United States was worth one
hundred and twenty-five years ago. Really our Fourth of July is our
day of mourning, our day of sorrow. Fifty thousand people who have lost
friends, or who have had friends crippled, receive that Fourth of July,
when it comes, as a day of mourning for the losses they have sustained
in their families.

I have suffered in that way myself. I have had relatives killed in that
way. One was in Chicago years ago--an uncle of mine, just as good an
uncle as I have ever had, and I had lots of them--yes, uncles to burn,
uncles to spare. This poor uncle, full of patriotism, opened his mouth
to hurrah, and a rocket went down his throat. Before that man could ask
for a drink of water to quench that thing, it blew up and scattered him
all over the forty-five States, and--really, now, this is true--I know
about it myself--twenty-four hours after that it was raining buttons,
recognizable as his, on the Atlantic seaboard. A person cannot have a
disaster like that and be entirely cheerful the rest of his life. I had
another uncle, on an entirely different Fourth of July, who was blown up
that way, and really it trimmed him as it would a tree. He had hardly a
limb left on him anywhere. All we have left now is an expurgated edition
of that uncle. But never mind about these things; they are merely
passing matters. Don't let me make you sad.

Sir Mortimer Durand said that you, the English people, gave up your
colonies over there--got tired of them--and did it with reluctance. Now I
wish you just to consider that he was right about that, and that he had
his reasons for saying that England did not look upon our Revolution as
a foreign war, but as a civil war fought by Englishmen.

Our Fourth of July which we honor so much, and which we love so much,
and which we take so much pride in, is an English institution, not an
American one, and it comes of a great ancestry.