No More Learning

One of the young ladies presented Mr. Clemens,
and thanked him for his amiability in coming to make them an
address. She closed with the expression of the great joy it
gave her fellow-collegians, "because we all love you. "

If any one here loves me, she has my sincere thanks. Nay, if any one
here is so good as to love me--why, I'll be a brother to her. She shall
have my sincere, warm, unsullied affection. When I was coming up in the
car with the very kind young lady who was delegated to show me the way,
she asked me what I was going to talk about. And I said I wasn't sure. I
said I had some illustrations, and I was going to bring them in. I
said I was certain to give those illustrations, but that I hadn't the
faintest notion what they were going to illustrate.

Now, I've been thinking it over in this forest glade [indicating the
woods of Arcady on the scene setting], and I've decided to work them in
with something about morals and the caprices of memory. That seems to
me to be a pretty good subject. You see, everybody has a memory and it's
pretty sure to have caprices. And, of course, everybody has morals.

It's my opinion that every one I know has morals, though I wouldn't like
to ask. I know I have. But I'd rather teach them than practice them any
day. "Give them to others"--that's my motto. Then you never have any
use for them when you're left without. Now, speaking of the caprices of
memory in general, and of mine in particular, it's strange to think
of all the tricks this little mental process plays on us. Here
we're endowed with a faculty of mind that ought to be more supremely
serviceable to us than them all. And what happens? This memory of ours
stores up a perfect record of the most useless facts and anecdotes and
experiences. And all the things that we ought to know--that we need
to know--that we'd profit by knowing--it casts aside with the careless
indifference of a girl refusing her true lover. It's terrible to think
of this phenomenon. I tremble in all my members when I consider all
the really valuable things that I've forgotten in seventy years--when I
meditate upon the caprices of my memory.

There's a bird out in California that is one perfect symbol of the
human memory. I've forgotten the bird's name (just because it would be
valuable for me to know it--to recall it to your own minds, perhaps).

But this fool of a creature goes around collecting the most ridiculous
things you can imagine and storing them up. He never selects a thing
that could ever prove of the slightest help to him; but he goes
about gathering iron forks, and spoons, and tin cans, and broken
mouse-traps--all sorts of rubbish that is difficult for him to carry and
yet be any use when he gets it. Why, that bird will go by a gold watch
to bring back one of those patent cake-pans.

Now, my mind is just like that, and my mind isn't very different from
yours--and so our minds are just like that bird. We pass by what would be
of inestimable value to us, and pack our memories with the most
trivial odds and ends that never by any chance, under any circumstances
whatsoever, could be of the slightest use to any one.

Now, things that I have remembered are constantly popping into my head.
And I am repeatedly startled by the vividness with which they recur
to me after the lapse of years and their utter uselessness in being
remembered at all.

I was thinking over some on my way up here. They were the illustrations
I spoke about to the young lady on the way up. And I've come to the
conclusion, curious though it is, that I can use every one of these
freaks of memory to teach you all a lesson. I'm convinced that each one
has its moral. And I think it's my duty to hand the moral on to you.

Now, I recall that when I was a boy I was a good boy--I was a very good
boy. Why, I was the best boy in my school. I was the best boy in that
little Mississippi town where I lived. The population was only about
twenty million. You may not believe it, but I was the best boy in that
State--and in the United States, for that matter.

But I don't know why I never heard any one say that but myself. I always
recognized it. But even those nearest and dearest to me couldn't seem to
see it. My mother, especially, seemed to think there was something wrong
with that estimate. And she never got over that prejudice.

Now, when my mother got to be eighty-five years old her memory failed
her. She forgot little threads that hold life's patches of meaning
together. She was living out West then, and I went on to visit her.

I hadn't seen my mother in a year or so. And when I got there she knew
my face; knew I was married; knew I had a family, and that I was living
with them. But she couldn't, for the life of her, tell my name or who I
was. So I told her I was her boy.

"But you don't live with me," she said.

"No," said I, "I'm living in Rochester. "

"What are you doing there? "

"Going to school. "

"Large school? "

"Very large. "

"All boys? "

"All boys. "

"And how do you stand? " said my mother.

"I'm the best boy in that school," I answered.

"Well," said my mother, with a return of her old fire, "I'd like to know
what the other boys are like. "

Now, one point in this story is the fact that my mother's mind went back
to my school days, and remembered my little youthful self-prejudice when
she'd forgotten everything else about me.

The other point is the moral. There's one there that you will find if
you search for it.

Now, here's something else I remember. It's about the first time I ever
stole a watermelon. "Stole" is a strong word. Stole? Stole? No, I don't
mean that. It was the first time I ever withdrew a watermelon. It was
the first time I ever extracted a watermelon. That is exactly the word I
want--"extracted. " It is definite. It is precise. It perfectly conveys my
idea. Its use in dentistry connotes the delicate shade of meaning I am
looking for. You know we never extract our own teeth.

And it was not my watermelon that I extracted. I extracted that
watermelon from a farmer's wagon while he was inside negotiating with
another customer. I carried that watermelon to one of the secluded
recesses of the lumber-yard, and there I broke it open.

It was a green watermelon.

Well, do you know when I saw that I began to feel sorry--sorry--sorry. It
seemed to me that I had done wrong. I reflected deeply. I reflected that
I was young--I think I was just eleven. But I knew that though immature
I did not lack moral advancement. I knew what a boy ought to do who had
extracted a watermelon--like that.

I considered George Washington, and what action he would have taken
under similar circumstances. Then I knew there was just one thing to
make me feel right inside, and that was--Restitution.

So I said to myself: "I will do that. I will take that green watermelon
back where I got it from. " And the minute I had said it I felt
that great moral uplift that comes to you when you've made a noble
resolution.

So I gathered up the biggest fragments, and I carried them back to the
farmer's wagon, and I restored the watermelon--what was left of it. And I
made him give me a good one in place of it, too.

And I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself going around working
off his worthless, old, green watermelons on trusting purchasers who had
to rely on him. How could they tell from the outside whether the melons
were good or not? That was his business. And if he didn't reform, I told
him I'd see that he didn't get any more of my trade--nor anybody else's I
knew, if I could help it.

You know that man was as contrite as a revivalist's last convert. He
said he was all broken up to think I'd gotten a green watermelon.
He promised that he would never carry another green watermelon if he
starved for it. And he drove off--a better man.

Now, do you see what I did for that man? He was on a downward path, and
I rescued him. But all I got out of it was a watermelon.

Yet I'd rather have that memory--just that memory of the good I did for
that depraved farmer--than all the material gain you can think of. Look
at the lesson he got! I never got anything like that from it. But
I ought to be satisfied: I was only eleven years old, but I secured
everlasting benefit to other people.

The moral in this is perfectly clear, and I think there's one in the
next memory I'm going to tell you about.

To go back to my childhood, there's another little incident that comes
to me from which you can draw even another moral. It's about one of the
times I went fishing. You see, in our house there was a sort of family
prejudice against going fishing if you hadn't permission. But it would
frequently be bad judgment to ask. So I went fishing secretly, as it
were--way up the Mississippi. It was an exquisitely happy trip, I recall,
with a very pleasant sensation.

Well, while I was away there was a tragedy in our town. A stranger,
stopping over on his way East from California; was stabbed to death in
an unseemly brawl.

Now, my father was justice of the peace, and because he was justice
of the peace he was coroner; and since he was coroner he was also
constable; and being constable he was sheriff; and out of consideration
for his holding the office of sheriff he was likewise county clerk and a
dozen other officials I don't think of just this minute.

I thought he had power of life or death, only he didn't use it over
other boys. He was sort of an austere man. Somehow I didn't like being
round him when I'd done anything he disapproved of. So that's the reason
I wasn't often around.

Well, when this gentleman got knifed they communicated with the proper
authority, the coroner, and they laid the corpse out in the coroner's
office--our front sitting-room--in preparation for the inquest the next
morning.

About 9 or 10 o'clock I got back from fishing. It was a little too late
for me to be received by my folks, so I took my shoes off and slipped
noiselessly up the back way to the sitting-room. I was very tired, and I
didn't wish to disturb my people. So I groped my way to the sofa and lay
down.

Now, I didn't know anything of what had happened during my absence.
But I was sort of nervous on my own account-afraid of being caught, and
rather dubious about the morning affair. And I had been lying there
a few moments when my eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and I
became aware of something on the other side of the room.

It was something foreign to the apartment. It had an uncanny appearance.
And I sat up looking very hard, and wondering what in heaven this long,
formless, vicious-looking thing might be.

First I thought I'd go and see. Then I thought, "Never mind that. "

Mind you, I had no cowardly sensations whatever, but it didn't seem
exactly prudent to investigate. But I somehow couldn't keep my eyes off
the thing. And the more I looked at it the more disagreeably it grew on
me. But I was resolved to play the man. So I decided to turn over and
count a hundred, and let the patch of moonlight creep up and show me
what the dickens it was.

I turned over and tried to count, but I couldn't keep my mind on it. I
kept thinking of that grewsome mass. I was losing count all the time,
and going back and beginning over again. Oh no; I wasn't frightened--just
annoyed. But by the time I'd gotten to the century mark I turned
cautiously over and opened my eyes with great fortitude.

The moonlight revealed to me a marble-white human hand. Well, maybe I
wasn't embarrassed! But then that changed to a creepy feeling again,
and I thought I'd try the counting again. I don't know how many hours or
weeks it was that I lay there counting hard. But the moonlight crept up
that white arm, and it showed me a lead face and a terrible wound over
the heart.

I could scarcely say that I was terror-stricken or anything like that.
But somehow his eyes interested me so that I went right out of the
window. I didn't need the sash. But it seemed easier to take it than
leave it behind.

Now, let that teach you a lesson--I don't know just what it is. But at
seventy years old I find that memory of peculiar value to me. I have
been unconsciously guided by it all these years. Things that seemed
pigeon-holed and remote are a perpetual influence. Yes, you're taught in
so many ways. And you're so felicitously taught when you don't know it.

Here's something else that taught me a good deal.

When I was seventeen I was very bashful, and a sixteen-year-old girl
came to stay a week with us. She was a peach, and I was seized with a
happiness not of this world.

One evening my mother suggested that, to entertain her, I take her
to the theatre. I didn't really like to, because I was seventeen and
sensitive about appearing in the streets with a girl. I couldn't see my
way to enjoying my delight in public. But we went.

I didn't feel very happy. I couldn't seem to keep my mind on the play.
I became conscious, after a while, that that was due less to my lovely
company than my boots. They were sweet to look upon, as smooth as skin,
but fitted ten time as close. I got oblivious to the play and the girl
and the other people and everything but my boots until--I hitched one
partly off. The sensation was sensuously perfect: I couldn't help it.
I had to get the other off, partly. Then I was obliged to get them off
altogether, except that I kept my feet in the legs so they couldn't get
away.

From that time I enjoyed the play. But the first thing I knew the
curtain came down, like that, without my notice, and--I hadn't any boots
on. What's more, they wouldn't go on. I tugged strenuously. And the
people in our row got up and fussed and said things until the peach and
I simply had to move on.

We moved--the girl on one arm and the boots under the other.

We walked home that way, sixteen blocks, with a retinue a mile long:
Every time we passed a lamp-post, death gripped me at the throat. But we
got home--and I had on white socks.

If I live to be nine hundred and ninety-nine years old I don't suppose
I could ever forget that walk. I remember, it about as keenly as the
chagrin I suffered on another occasion.

At one time in our domestic history we had a colored butler who had a
failing. He could never remember to ask people who came to the door
to state their business. So I used to suffer a good many calls
unnecessarily.

One morning when I was especially busy he brought me a card engraved
with a name I did not know. So I said, "What does he wish to see
me for?
" and Sylvester said, "Ah couldn't ask him, sah; he, wuz a
genlinun. " "Return instantly," I thundered, "and inquire his mission.
Ask him what's his game. " Well, Sylvester returned with the announcement
that he had lightning-rods to sell. "Indeed," said I, "things are coming
to a fine pass when lightning-rod agents send up engraved cards. " "He
has pictures," added Sylvester. "Pictures, indeed! He maybe peddling
etchings. Has he a Russia leather case? " But Sylvester was too
frightened to remember. I said; "I am going down to make it hot for that
upstart! "

I went down the stairs, working up my temper all the way. When I got to
the parlor I was in a fine frenzy concealed beneath a veneer of frigid
courtesy. And when I looked in the door, sure enough he had a Russia
leather case in his hand. But I didn't happen to notice that it was our
Russia leather case.

And if you'd believe me, that man was sitting with a whole gallery of
etchings spread out before him. But I didn't happen to notice that
they were our etchings, spread out by some member of my family for some
unguessed purpose.

Very curtly I asked the gentleman his business. With a surprised, timid
manner he faltered that he had met my wife and daughter at Onteora, and
they had asked him to call. Fine lie, I thought, and I froze him.

He seemed to be kind of non-plussed, and sat there fingering the
etchings in the case until I told him he needn't bother, because we had
those. That pleased him so much that he leaned over, in an embarrassed
way, to pick up another from the floor. But I stopped him. I
said, "We've got that, too. " He seemed pitifully amazed, but I was
congratulating myself on my great success.

Finally the gentleman asked where Mr. Winton lived; he'd met him in the
mountains, too. So I said I'd show him gladly. And I did on the spot.
And when he was gone I felt queer, because there were all his etchings
spread out on the floor.

Well, my wife came in and asked me who had been in. I showed her the
card, and told her all exultantly. To my dismay she nearly fainted. She
told me he had been a most kind friend to them in the country, and had
forgotten to tell me that he was expected our way. And she pushed me out
of the door, and commanded me to get over to the Wintons in a hurry and
get him back.

I came into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Winton was sitting up very
stiff in a chair, beating me at my own game. Well, I began to put
another light on things. Before many seconds Mrs. Winton saw it was
time to change her temperature. In five minutes I had asked the man to
luncheon, and she to dinner, and so on.

We made that fellow change his trip and stay a week, and we gave him the
time of his life. Why, I don't believe we let him get sober the whole
time.

I trust that you will carry away some good thought from these lessons I
have given you, and that the memory of them will inspire you to higher
things, and elevate you to plans far above the old--and--and--

And I tell you one thing, young ladies: I've had a better time with you
to-day than with that peach fifty-three years ago.






QUEEN VICTORIA



ADDRESS TO THE BRITISH SCHOOLS AND UNIVERSITIES CLUB, AT
DELMONICO'S, MONDAY, MAY 25, 1908, IN HONOR OF QUEEN VICTORIA'S
BIRTHDAY

Mr. Clemens told the story of his duel with a rival editor: how
he practised firing at a barn door and failed to hit it, but a
friend of his took off the head of a little bird at thirty-five
yards and attributed the shot to Mark twain. The duel did not
take place. Mr. Clemens continued as follows:

It also happened that I was the means of stopping duelling in Nevada,
for a law was passed sending all duellists to jail for two years, and
the Governor, hearing of my marksmanship, said that if he got me I
should go to prison for the full term. That's why I left Nevada, and I
have not been there since.

You do me a high honor, indeed, in selecting me to speak of my country
in this commemoration of the birthday of that noble lady whose life was
consecrated to the virtues and the humanities and to the promotion of
lofty ideals, and was a model upon which many a humbler life was formed
and made beautiful while she lived, and upon which many such lives will
still be formed in the generations that are to come--a life which finds
its just image in the star which falls out of its place in the sky and
out of existence, but whose light still streams with unfaded lustre
across the abysses of space long after its fires have been extinguished
at their source.

As a woman the Queen was all that the most exacting standards could
require. As a far-reaching and effective beneficent moral force she had
no peer in her time among either, monarchs or commoners. As a monarch
she was without reproach in her great office. We may not venture,
perhaps, to say so sweeping a thing as this in cold blood about any
monarch that preceded her upon either her own throne or upon any other.
It is a colossal eulogy, but it is justified.

In those qualities of the heart which beget affection in all sorts and
conditions of men she was rich, surprisingly rich, and for this she will
still be remembered and revered in the far-off ages when the political
glories of her reign shall have faded from vital history and fallen to
a place in that scrap-heap of unverifiable odds and ends which we call
tradition. Which is to say, in briefer phrase, that her name will live
always. And with it her character--a fame rare in the history of thrones,
dominions, principalities, and powers, since it will not rest upon
harvested selfish and sordid ambitions, but upon love, earned and freely
vouchsafed. She mended broken hearts where she could, but she broke
none.

What she did for us in America in our time of storm and stress we shall
not forget, and whenever we call it to mind we shall always remember
the wise and righteous mind that guided her in it and sustained and
supported her--Prince Albert's. We need not talk any idle talk here
to-night about either possible or impossible war between the two
countries; there will be no war while we remain sane and the son of
Victoria and Albert sits upon the throne. In conclusion, I believe I may
justly claim to utter the voice of my country in saying that we hold him
in deep honor, and also in cordially wishing him a long life and a happy
reign.






JOAN OF ARC



ADDRESS AT THE DINNER OF THE SOCIETY OF ILLUSTRATORS, GIVEN AT
THE ALDINE ASSOCIATION CLUB, DECEMBER 22, 1905

Just before Mr. Clemens made his speech, a young woman attired
as Joan of Arc, with a page bearing her flag of battle,
courtesied reverently and tendered Mr. Clemens a laurel wreath
on a satin pillow. He tried to speak, but his voice failed
from excess of emotion. "I thank you! " he finally exclaimed,
and, pulling himself together, he began his speech.

Now there is an illustration [pointing to the retreating Joan of
Arc]. That is exactly what I wanted--precisely what I wanted--when I was
describing to myself Joan of Arc, after studying her history and her
character for twelve years diligently.

That was the product--not the conventional Joan of Arc. Wherever you find
the conventional Joan of Arc in history she is an offence to anybody who
knows the story of that wonderful girl.

Why, she was--she was almost supreme in several details. She had a
marvellous intellect; she had a great heart, had a noble spirit, was
absolutely pure in her character, her feeling, her language, her words,
her everything--she was only eighteen years old.

Now put that heart into such a breast--eighteen years old--and give it
that masterly intellect which showed in the face, and furnish it
with that almost god-like spirit, and what are you going to have? The
conventional Joan of Arc? Not by any means. That is impossible. I cannot
comprehend any such thing as that.

You must have a creature like that young and fair and beautiful girl we
just saw. And her spirit must look out of the eyes. The figure should
be--the figure should be in harmony with all that, but, oh, what we get
in the conventional picture, and it is always the conventional picture!

I hope you will allow me to say that your guild, when you take the
conventional, you have got it at second-hand. Certainly, if you had
studied and studied, then you might have something else as a result, but
when you have the common convention you stick to that.

You cannot prevail upon the artist to do it; he always gives you a Joan
of Arc--that lovely creature that started a great career at thirteen, but
whose greatness arrived when she was eighteen; and merely because
she was a girl he can not see the divinity in her, and so he paints a
peasant, a coarse and lubberly figure--the figure of a cotton-bale, and
he clothes that in the coarsest raiment of the peasant region just like
a fish woman, her hair cropped short like a Russian peasant, and that
face of hers, which should be beautiful and which should radiate all the
glories which are in the spirit and in her heart that expression in that
face is always just the fixed expression of a ham.

But now Mr. Beard has intimated a moment ago, and so has Sir
Purdon-Clarke also, that the artist, the illustrator, does not often
get the idea of the man whose book he is illustrating. Here is a very
remarkable instance of the other thing in Mr. Beard, who illustrated a
book of mine. You may never have heard of it. I will tell you about it
now--A Yankee in King Arthur's Court.

Now, Beard got everything that I put into that book and a little more
besides. Those pictures of Beard's in that book--oh, from the first
page to the last is one vast sardonic laugh at the trivialities, the
servilities of our poor human race, and also at the professions and
the insolence of priest-craft and king-craft--those creatures that make
slaves of themselves and have not the manliness to shake it off. Beard
put it all in that book. I meant it to be there. I put a lot of it there
and Beard put the rest.

That publisher of mine in Hartford had an eye for the pennies, and he
saved them. He did not waste any on the illustrations. He had a very
good artist--Williams--who had never taken a lesson in drawing. Everything
he did was original. The publisher hired the cheapest wood-engraver he
could find, and in my early books you can see a trace of that. You can
see that if Williams had had a chance he would have made some very good
pictures. He had a good heart and good intentions.

I had a character in the first book he illustrated--The Innocents Abroad.
That was a boy seventeen or eighteen years old--Jack Van Nostrand--a New
York boy, who, to my mind, was a very remarkable creature. He and I
tried to get Williams to understand that boy, and make a picture of Jack
that would be worthy of Jack.

Jack was a most singular combination. He was born and reared in New York
here. He was as delicate in his feelings, as clean and pure and refined
in his feelings as any lovely girl that ever was, but whenever he
expressed a feeling he did it in Bowery slang, and it was a most curious
combination--that delicacy of his and that apparent coarseness. There
was no coarseness inside of Jack at all, and Jack, in the course of
seventeen or eighteen years, had acquired a capital of ignorance that
was marvellous--ignorance of various things, not of all things. For
instance, he did not know anything about the Bible. He had never been
in Sunday-school. Jack got more out of the Holy Land than anybody else,
because the others knew what they were expecting, but it was a land of
surprises to him.

I said in the book that we found him watching a turtle on a log, stoning
that turtle, and he was stoning that turtle because he had read that
"The song of the turtle was heard in the land," and this turtle wouldn't
sing. It sounded absurd, but it was charged on Jack as a fact, and as
he went along through that country he had a proper foil in an old
rebel colonel, who was superintendent and head engineer in a large
Sunday-school in Wheeling, West Virginia. That man was full of
enthusiasm wherever he went, and would stand and deliver himself of
speeches, and Jack would listen to those speeches of the colonel and
wonder.

Jack had made a trip as a child almost across this continent in the
first overland stage-coach. That man's name who ran that line of
stages--well, I declare that name is gone. Well, names will go.

Halliday--ah, that's the name--Ben Halliday, your uncle [turning to
Mr. Carnegie]. That was the fellow--Ben Halliday--and Jack was full of
admiration at the prodigious speed that that line of stages made--and it
was good speed--one hundred and twenty-five miles a day, going day and
night, and it was the event of Jack's life, and there at the Fords of
the Jordan the colonel was inspired to a speech (he was always making a
speech), so he called us up to him. He called up five sinners and three
saints. It has been only lately that Mr. Carnegie beatified me. And he
said: "Here are the Fords of the Jordan--a monumental place. At this very
point, when Moses brought the children of Israel through--he brought
the children of Israel from Egypt through the desert you see there--he
guarded them through that desert patiently, patiently during forty
years, and brought them to this spot safe and sound. There you see--there
is the scene of what Moses did. "

And Jack said: "Moses who? "

"Oh," he says, "Jack, you ought not to ask that! Moses, the great
law-giver! Moses, the great patriot! Moses, the great warrior! Moses,
the great guide, who, as I tell you, brought these people through these
three hundred miles of sand in forty years, and landed them safe and
sound. "

Jack said: "There's nothin' in that three hundred miles in forty years.
Ben Halliday would have snaked 'em through in thirty--six hours. "

Well, I was speaking of Jack's innocence, and it was beautiful. Jack was
not ignorant on all subjects. That boy was a deep student in the history
of Anglo-Saxon liberty, and he was a patriot all the way through to
the marrow. There was a subject that interested him all the time.
Other subjects were of no concern to Jack, but that quaint, inscrutable
innocence of his I could not get Williams to put into the picture.

Yes, Williams wanted to do it. He said: "I will make him as innocent
as a virgin. " He thought a moment, and then said, "I will make him as
innocent as an unborn virgin;" which covered the ground.

I was reminded of Jack because I came across a letter to-day which is
over thirty years old that Jack wrote. Jack was doomed to consumption.
He was very long and slim, poor creature; and in a year or two after
he got back from that excursion, to the Holy Land he went on a ride on
horseback through Colorado, and he did not last but a year or two.

He wrote this letter, not to me, but to a friend of mine; and he said:
"I have ridden horseback"----this was three years after--"I have ridden
horseback four hundred miles through a desert country where you
never see anything but cattle now and then, and now and then a cattle
station--ten miles apart, twenty miles apart. Now you tell Clemens that
in all that stretch of four hundred miles I have seen only two books--the
Bible and 'Innocents Abroad'. Tell Clemens the Bible was in a very good
condition. "

I say that he had studied, and he had, the real Saxon liberty, the
acquirement of our liberty, and Jack used to repeat some verses--I don't
know where they came from, but I thought of them to-day when I saw that
letter--that that boy could have been talking of himself in those quoted
lines from that unknown poet:



"For he had sat at Sidney's feet
And walked with him in plain apart,
And through the centuries heard the beat
Of Freedom's march through Cromwell's heart. "

And he was that kind of a boy. He should have lived, and yet he should
not have lived, because he died at that early age--he couldn't have been
more than twenty--he had seen all there was to see in the world that was
worth the trouble of living in it; he had seen all of this world that is
valuable; he had seen all of this world that was illusion, and illusion,
is the only valuable thing in it. He had arrived at that point where
presently the illusions would cease and he would have entered upon the
realities of life, and God help the man that has arrived at that point.






ACCIDENT INSURANCE--ETC.



DELIVERED IN HARTFORD, AT A DINNER TO CORNELIUS WALFORD,
OF LONDON

GENTLEMEN,--I am glad, indeed, to assist in welcoming the distinguished
guest of this occasion to a city whose fame as an insurance centre has
extended to all lands, and given us the name of being a quadruple band
of brothers working sweetly hand in hand--the Colt's arms company making
the destruction of our race easy and convenient, our life-insurance
citizens paying for the victims when they pass away, Mr. Batterson
perpetuating their memory with his stately monuments, and our
fire-insurance comrades taking care of their hereafter. I am glad to
assist in welcoming our guest--first, because he is an Englishman, and I
owe a heavy debt of hospitality to certain of his fellow-countrymen;
and secondly, because he is in sympathy with insurance, and has been
the means of making many other men cast their sympathies in the same
direction.

Certainly there is no nobler field for human effort than the insurance
line of business--especially accident insurance. Ever since I have been a
director in an accident-insurance company I have felt that I am a better
man. Life has seemed more precious. Accidents have assumed a kindlier
aspect. Distressing special providences have lost half their horror. I
look upon a cripple now with affectionate interest--as an advertisement.
I do not seem to care for poetry any more. I do not care for
politics--even agriculture does not excite me. But to me now there is a
charm about a railway collision that is unspeakable.

There is nothing more beneficent than accident insurance. I have seen
an entire family lifted out of poverty and into affluence by the simple
boon of a broken leg. I have had people come to me on crutches, with
tears in their eyes, to bless this beneficent institution. In all my
experience of life, I have seen nothing so seraphic as the look that
comes into a freshly mutilated man's face when he feels in his vest
pocket with his remaining hand and finds his accident ticket all right.
And I have seen nothing so sad as the look that came into another
splintered customer's face when he found he couldn't collect on a wooden
leg.

I will remark here, by way of advertisement, that that noble charity
which we have named the HARTFORD ACCIDENT INSURANCE COMPANY is an
institution, which is peculiarly to be depended upon. A man is bound to
prosper who gives it his custom. No man can take out a policy in it and
not get crippled before the year is out. Now there was one indigent
man who had been disappointed so often with other companies that he had
grown disheartened, his appetite left him, he ceased to smile--said life
was but a weariness. Three weeks ago I got him to insure with us, and
now he is the brightest, happiest spirit in this land--has a good steady
income and a stylish suit of new bandages every day, and travels around
on a shutter.

I will say in conclusion, that my share of the welcome to our guest is
none the less hearty because I talk so much nonsense, and I know that I
can say the same far the rest of the speakers.

(The speaker was a director of the company named. )






OSTEOPATHY



On February 27, 1901, Mr. Clemens appeared before the Assembly
Committee in Albany, New York, in favor of the Seymour bill
legalizing the practice of osteopathy.

MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN,--Dr. Van Fleet is the gentleman who gave
me the character. I have heard my character discussed a thousand times
before you were born, sir, and shown the iniquities in it, and you did
not get more than half of them.

I was touched and distressed when they brought that part of a child in
here, and proved that you cannot take a child to pieces in that way.
What remarkable names those diseases have! It makes me envious of the
man that has them all. I have had many diseases, and am thankful for all
I have had.

One of the gentlemen spoke of the knowledge of something else found in
Sweden, a treatment which I took. It is, I suppose, a kindred thing.
There is apparently no great difference between them. I was a year and
a half in London and Sweden, in the hands of that grand old man, Mr.
Kildren.

I cannot call him a doctor, for he has not the authority to give a
certificate if a patient should die, but fortunately they don't.

The State stands as a mighty Gibraltar clothed with power. It stands
between me and my body, and tells me what kind of a doctor I must
employ. When my soul is sick unlimited spiritual liberty is given me by
the State. Now then, it doesn't seem logical that the State shall depart
from this great policy, the health of the soul, and change about and
take the other position in the matter of smaller consequence--the health
of the body.

The Bell bill limitations would drive the osteopaths out of the State.