No More Learning

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

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

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

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

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






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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






GERMAN FOR THE HUNGARIANS



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






A NEW GERMAN WORD



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

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


Personaleinkommensteuerschatzungskommissionsmitgliedsreisekostenrechnungs
erganzungsrevisionsfund

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






UNCONSCIOUS PLAGIARISM



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

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

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

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






THE WEATHER



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

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



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

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






THE BABIES

THE BABIES



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

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

I like that. We have not all had the good fortune to be ladies. We have
not all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works
down to the babies, we stand on common ground. It is a shame that for a
thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby, as if
he didn't amount to anything. If you will stop and think a minute--if you
will go back fifty or one hundred years to your early married life and
recontemplate your first baby--you will remember that he amounted to a
good deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when that
little fellow arrived at family headquarters you had to hand in your
resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere
body-servant, and you had to stand around too. He was not a commander
who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else. You
had to execute his order whether it was possible or not. And there was
only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was
the double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and
disrespect, and the bravest of you didn't dare to say a word. You could
face the death-storm at Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow
for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and
twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war were
sounding in your ears you set your faces toward the batteries, and
advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his
war whoop you advanced in the other direction, and mighty glad of the
chance, too. When he called for soothing-syrup, did you venture to throw
out any side-remarks about certain services being unbecoming an officer
and a gentleman? No. You got up and got it. When he ordered his pap
bottle and it was not warm, did you talk back? Not you. You went to work
and warmed it. You even descended so far in your menial office as to
take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was
right--three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the
colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccoughs. I can
taste that stuff yet. And how many things you learned as you went along!
Sentimental young folks still take stock in that beautiful old saying
that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels are
whispering to him. Very pretty, but too thin--simply wind on the stomach,
my friends.
If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual hour, two
o'clock in the morning, didn't you rise up promptly and remark, with a
mental addition which would not improve a Sunday-school book much, that
that was the very thing you were about to propose yourself? Oh! you were
under good discipline, and as you went fluttering up and down the room
in your undress uniform, you not only prattled undignified baby-talk,
but even tuned up your martial voices and tried to sing! --Rock a-by
Baby in the Tree-top, for instance. What a spectacle for an Army of the
Tennessee! And what an affliction for the neighbors, too; for it is not
everybody within a mile around that likes military music at three in
the morning. And, when you had been keeping this sort of thing up two or
three hours, and your little velvet head intimated that nothing suited
him like exercise and noise, what did you do? You simply went on until
you dropped in the last ditch. The idea that a baby doesn't amount to
anything! Why, one baby is just a house and a front yard full by itself.
One baby can furnish more business than you and your whole Interior
Department can attend to. He is enterprising, irrepressible, brimful of
lawless activities. Do what you please, you can't make him stay on the
reservation. Sufficient unto the day is one baby. As long as you are
in your right mind don't you ever pray for twins. Twins amount to a
permanent riot. And there ain't any real difference between triplets and
an insurrection.

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognize the importance
of the babies. Think what is in store for the present crop! Fifty years
from now we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still
survive (and let us hope it may), will be floating over a Republic
numbering 200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of our
increase. Our present schooner of State will have grown into a political
leviathan--a Great Eastern. The cradled babies of to-day will be on deck.
Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract on
their hands. Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in
the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred
things, if we could know which ones they are. In one of these cradles
the unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething--think
of it! and putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but
perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too. In another the future
renowned astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a
languid interest poor little chap! --and wondering what has become of that
other one they call the wet-nurse. In another the future great historian
is lying--and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly mission
is ended. In another the future President is busying himself with no
profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his
hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some
60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion to
grapple with that same old problem a second time. And in still one
more cradle, some where under the flag, the future illustrious
commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with
his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole
strategic mind at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his
big toe into his mouth--an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the
illustrious guest of this evening turned his entire attention to some
fifty-six years ago; and if the child is but a prophecy of the man,
there are mighty few who will doubt that he succeeded.






OUR CHILDREN AND GREAT DISCOVERIES



DELIVERED AT THE AUTHORS' CLUB, NEW YORK

Our children--yours--and--mine. They seem like little things to talk
about--our children, but little things often make up the sum of human
life--that's a good sentence. I repeat it, little things often produce
great things. Now, to illustrate, take Sir Isaac Newton--I presume some
of you have heard of Mr. Newton. Well, once when Sir Isaac Newton--a mere
lad--got over into the man's apple orchard--I don't know what he was doing
there--I didn't come all the way from Hartford to q-u-e-s-t-i-o-n Mr.
Newton's honesty--but when he was there--in the main orchard--he saw
an apple fall and he was a-t-t-racted toward it, and that led to the
discovery--not of Mr. Newton but of the great law of attraction and
gravitation.

And there was once another great discoverer--I've forgotten his name, and
I don't remember what he discovered, but I know it was something very
important, and I hope you will all tell your children about it when you
get home. Well, when the great discoverer was once loafn' around down in
Virginia, and a-puttin' in his time flirting with Pocahontas--oh! Captain
John Smith, that was the man's name--and while he and Poca were sitting
in Mr. Powhatan's garden, he accidentally put his arm around her and
picked something--a simple weed, which proved to be tobacco--and now we
find it in every Christian family, shedding its civilizing influence
broadcast throughout the whole religious community.

Now there was another great man, I can't think of his name either, who
used to loaf around and watch the great chandelier in the cathedral at
Pisa. , which set him to thinking about the great law of gunpowder, and
eventually led to the discovery of the cotton-gin.

Now, I don't say this as an inducement for our young men to loaf around
like Mr. Newton and Mr. Galileo and Captain Smith, but they were once
little babies two days old, and they show what little things have
sometimes accomplished.






EDUCATING THEATRE-GOERS



The children of the Educational Alliance gave a performance of
"The Prince and the Pauper" on the afternoon of April 14, 1907,
in the theatre of the Alliance Building in East Broadway. The
audience was composed of nearly one thousand children of the
neighborhood. Mr. Clemens, Mr. Howells, and Mr. Daniel Frohman
were among the invited guests.

I have not enjoyed a play so much, so heartily, and so thoroughly since
I played Miles Hendon twenty-two years ago. I used to play in this piece
("The Prince and the Pauper") with my children, who, twenty-two years
ago, were little youngsters. One of my daughters was the Prince, and a
neighbor's daughter was the Pauper, and the children of other neighbors
played other parts. But we never gave such a performance as we have seen
here to-day. It would have been beyond us.

My late wife was the dramatist and stage-manager. Our coachman was the
stage-manager, second in command. We used to play it in this simple way,
and the one who used to bring in the crown on a cushion--he was a little
fellow then--is now a clergyman way up high--six or seven feet high--and
growing higher all the time. We played it well, but not as well as you
see it here, for you see it done by practically trained professionals.

I was especially interested in the scene which we have just had, for
Miles Hendon was my part. I did it as well as a person could who never
remembered his part. The children all knew their parts. They did not
mind if I did not know mine. I could thread a needle nearly as well as
the player did whom you saw to-day. The words of my part I could supply
on the spot. The words of the song that Miles Hendon sang here I did not
catch. But I was great in that song.



[Then Mr. Clemens hummed a bit of doggerel that the reporter
made out as this:

"There was a woman in her town,
She loved her husband well,
But another man just twice as well. "

"How is that? " demanded Mr. Clemens. Then resuming]

It was so fresh and enjoyable to make up a new set of words each time
that I played the part.

If I had a thousand citizens in front of me, I would like to give them
information, but you children already know all that I have found out
about the Educational Alliance. It's like a man living within thirty
miles of Vesuvius and never knowing about a volcano. It's like living
for a lifetime in Buffalo, eighteen miles from Niagara, and never going
to see the Falls. So I had lived in New York and knew nothing about the
Educational Alliance.

This theatre is a part of the work, and furnishes pure and clean plays.
This theatre is an influence. Everything in the world is accomplished by
influences which train and educate. When you get to be seventy-one and a
half, as I am, you may think that your education is over, but it isn't.

If we had forty theatres of this kind in this city of four millions,
how they would educate and elevate! We should have a body of educated
theatre-goers.

It would make better citizens, honest citizens. One of the best gifts a
millionaire could make would be a theatre here and a theatre there. It
would make of you a real Republic, and bring about an educational level.






THE EDUCATIONAL THEATRE



On November 19, 1907, Mr. Clemens entertained a party of six or
seven hundred of his friends, inviting them to witness the
representation of "The Prince and the Pauper," played by boys
and girls of the East Side at the Children's Educational
Theatre, New York.

Just a word or two to let you know how deeply I appreciate the honor
which the children who are the actors and frequenters of this cozy
playhouse have conferred upon me. They have asked me to be their
ambassador to invite the hearts and brains of New York to come down here
and see the work they are doing. I consider it a grand distinction to be
chosen as their intermediary. Between the children and myself there is
an indissoluble bond of friendship.

I am proud of this theatre and this performance--proud, because I am
naturally vain--vain of myself and proud of the children.

I wish we could reach more children at one time. I am glad to see that
the children of the East Side have turned their backs on the Bowery
theatres to come to see the pure entertainments presented here.

This Children's Theatre is a great educational institution. I hope the
time will come when it will be part of every public school in the land.
I may be pardoned in being vain. I was born vain, I guess. [At this
point the stage-manager's whistle interrupted Mr. Clemens. ] That settles
it; there's my cue to stop. I was to talk until the whistle blew, but it
blew before I got started. It takes me longer to get started than most
people. I guess I was born at slow speed. My time is up, and if you'll
keep quiet for two minutes I'll tell you something about Miss Herts, the
woman who conceived this splendid idea. She is the originator and the
creator of this theatre. Educationally, this institution coins the gold
of young hearts into external good.



[On April 23, 1908, he spoke again at the same place]

I will be strictly honest with you; I am only fit to be honorary
president. It is not to be expected that I should be useful as a real
president. But when it comes to things ornamental I, of course, have no
objection. There is, of course, no competition. I take it as a very real
compliment because there are thousands of children who have had a part
in this request. It is promotion in truth.

It is a thing worth doing that is done here. You have seen the children
play. You saw how little Sally reformed her burglar. She could reform
any burglar. She could reform me. This is the only school in which
can be taught the highest and most difficult lessons--morals. In other
schools the way of teaching morals is revolting. Here the children who
come in thousands live through each part.

They are terribly anxious for the villain to get his bullet, and that
I take to be a humane and proper sentiment. They spend freely the ten
cents that is not saved without a struggle. It comes out of the candy
money, and the money that goes for chewing-gum and other necessaries of
life. They make the sacrifice freely. This is the only school which they
are sorry to leave.






POETS AS POLICEMEN



Mr. Clemens was one of the speakers at the Lotos Club dinner to
Governor Odell, March 24, 1900. The police problem was
referred to at length.

Let us abolish policemen who carry clubs and revolvers, and put in a
squad of poets armed to the teeth with poems on Spring and Love. I
would be very glad to serve as commissioner, not because I think I am
especially qualified, but because I am too tired to work and would like
to take a rest.

Howells would go well as my deputy. He is tired too, and needs a rest
badly.

I would start in at once to elevate, purify, and depopulate the
red-light district. I would assign the most soulful poets to that
district, all heavily armed with their poems. Take Chauncey Depew as a
sample. I would station them on the corners after they had rounded up
all the depraved people of the district so they could not escape, and
then have them read from their poems to the poor unfortunates. The
plan would be very effective in causing an emigration of the depraved
element.






PUDD'NHEAD WILSON DRAMATIZED



When Mr. Clemens arrived from Europe in 1895 one of the first
things he did was to see the dramatization of Pudd'nhead
Wilson. The audience becoming aware of the fact that Mr.
Clemens was in the house called upon him for a speech.

Never in my life have I been able to make a speech without preparation,
and I assure you that this position in which I find myself is one
totally unexpected.

I have been hemmed in all day by William Dean Howells and other
frivolous persons, and I have been talking about everything in the world
except that of which speeches are constructed. Then, too, seven days
on the water is not conducive to speech-making. I will only say that I
congratulate Mr. Mayhew; he has certainly made a delightful play out of
my rubbish. His is a charming gift. Confidentially I have always had
an idea that I was well equipped to write plays, but I have never
encountered a manager who has agreed with me.






DALY THEATRE



ADDRESS AT A DINNER AFTER THE ONE HUNDREDTH PERFORMANCE OF
"THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. "

Mr. Clemens made the following speech, which he incorporated
afterward in Following the Equator.

I am glad to be here. This is the hardest theatre in New York to get
into, even at the front door. I never got in without hard work. I am
glad we have got so far in at last. Two or three years ago I had an
appointment to meet Mr. Daly on the stage of this theatre at eight
o'clock in the evening. Well, I got on a train at Hartford to come to
New York and keep the appointment. All I had to do was to come to the
back door of the theatre on Sixth Avenue. I did not believe that; I did
not believe it could be on Sixth Avenue, but that is what Daly's note
said--come to that door, walk right in, and keep the appointment. It
looked very easy. It looked easy enough, but I had not much confidence
in the Sixth Avenue door.

Well, I was kind of bored on the train, and I bought some newspapers--New
Haven newspapers--and there was not much news in them, so I read the
advertisements. There was one advertisement of a bench-show. I had
heard of bench-shows, and I often wondered what there was about them
to interest people. I had seen bench-shows--lectured to bench-shows, in
fact--but I didn't want to advertise them or to brag about them. Well, I
read on a little, and learned that a bench-show was not a bench-show--but
dogs, not benches at all--only dogs. I began to be interested, and as
there was nothing else to do I read every bit of the advertisement, and
learned that the biggest thing in this show was a St. Bernard dog that
weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds. Before I got to New York I
was so interested in the bench-shows that I made up my mind to go to one
the first chance I got. Down on Sixth Avenue, near where that back door
might be, I began to take things leisurely. I did not like to be in too
much of a hurry. There was not anything in sight that looked like a back
door. The nearest approach to it was a cigar store. So I went in and
bought a cigar, not too expensive, but it cost enough to pay for any
information I might get and leave the dealer a fair profit. Well, I did
not like to be too abrupt, to make the man think me crazy, by asking him
if that was the way to Daly's Theatre, so I started gradually to lead up
to the subject, asking him first if that was the way to Castle Garden.
When I got to the real question, and he said he would show me the way, I
was astonished. He sent me through a long hallway, and I found myself
in a back yard. Then I went through a long passageway and into a little
room, and there before my eyes was a big St. Bernard dog lying on a
bench. There was another door beyond and I went there, and was met by a
big, fierce man with a fur cap on and coat off, who remarked, "Phwat do
yez want? " I told him I wanted to see Mr. Daly. "Yez can't see Mr. Daly
this time of night," he responded. I urged that I had an appointment
with Mr. Daly, and gave him my card, which did not seem to impress
him much. "Yez can't get in and yez can't shmoke here. Throw away that
cigar. If yez want to see Mr. Daly, yez 'll have to be after going to
the front door and buy a ticket, and then if yez have luck and he's
around that way yez may see him. " I was getting discouraged, but I had
one resource left that had been of good service in similar emergencies.
Firmly but kindly I told him my name was Mark Twain, and I awaited
results. There was none. He was not fazed a bit.